Chapter IX: Part IV (5)

'I wonder what his uncle and aunt will say of my little Victor, now that he is nicely dressed, and not so sleepy and cross as he was last night, after that long fatiguing journey!' said Adelgunda to Annette, with a mother's pride in her pretty boy, and while they were both engaged in arranging his curly hair, and putting on his handsome new green dress.

Adelgunda's husband had risen early and gone out to stroll round the old castle, and the former young lady of the mansion, who had now become a wife and mother, took up her little son in her arms to go down to her sister-in-law, who had already sent to inquire how she had slept, and to let her know that breakfast was ready.

Humming an air, Adelgunda proceeded with her light burden through the dear old well-remembered passages where her very footsteps echoed, until she came close to the door which opened into the picture-gallery; she then stopped, seized suddenly with a strong impulse to enter it, while a strange, sad foreboding of evil filled her heart. Influenced, as it were, by an invincible power over which she had no control, she laid her hand upon the lock, turned it, and stood, she scarcely knew how, in presence of the mute family, who seemed gazing on her from both sides. Adelgunda's heart beat quickly; recollections from her childhood and her youthful days began to rush back on her. These aristocratic feelings, which had so long slumbered, began to start up in her mind, and she dared not look towards the terrible lady at the extreme end, for fear of meeting her angry, implacable glance.

'That is a pretty lady! And there is another nice lady! What a grand gentleman! and see, yonder is a fine gentleman, too!'

Such were little Victor's exclamations, as Adelgunda went slowly with him past all these well-known portraits of uncles and aunts, grandmothers, great-grandmothers, and other members of the family, all long since asleep in their graves.

'But, oh, mother, look!' cried Victor, as he first caught sight of the largest; 'see how horrible that one up yonder looks! See, mother, how that tall woman there on the wall frowns down at us!' And Victor knit his little brows, and drew in his small mouth, to make his face look very terrible in return.

'Oh, do not speak so--do not speak so!' exclaimed his mother, trying in vain to hush the child. 'On the contrary,' she added, in a faltering voice, 'she is an excellent lady, and very kind to all good, well-behaved children. We will go up yonder, and beg her pardon and her blessing.'

'No, no!' screamed Victor, kicking his little legs with all his might; 'I won't have anything to do with her: she looks as cross as if she would bite me.'

'Again his mother entreated Victor to be a reasonable, good boy, and by that time they stood under the great lady's picture. A tremor crept over Adelgunda as she encountered that austere, repulsive look, and involuntarily she dropped her eyes beneath it. But reason soon triumphed; she approached closer to the portrait, and said to her little son, whom she still held in her arms, 'Now we shall say good morning to that lady;' and she curtseyed herself, and bent with her hand the obstinate little head; 'and we shall beg her to look kindly and gently down upon us, for your dear, good papa's sake, and we will kiss her hand.' And Adelgunda kissed the hand in the picture that was hanging down; but when she attempted to raise the child's face up towards the hand, the little fellow, in whose infantine breast was aroused a portion of his father's bold spirit, and perhaps impetuous temper, and who, though somewhat frightened, felt his courage rising, and was, withal, extremely angry, struggled furiously, clenched his little fist, and instead of kissing the great lady's drooping hand, thumped it with all his might--and at that moment he was strong enough.

II.

Adelgunda's brother and sister-in-law waited in vain for her appearance at the breakfast-table. She came not! But at length the startling intelligence was brought to them that a strange, frightful noise had been heard in the picture-gallery. No one knew what was the cause of it, for no one had dared to venture in to see what had happened, but now every one rushed in. A cloud of dust, a heap of mortar and wood was before them; and a sight so dreadful, so shocking, so appalling, met their eyes, that every heart was like to break.

But only one heart _did_ break, for notwithstanding his strength of mind--his unconquerable spirit--his undeniable fortitude, the bereaved husband and father almost sank beneath the frightful calamity that had suddenly deprived him of the wife he adored, and the child on whom all his hopes were centred. Yet he was the first--the only one who had sufficient energy, and presence of mind to drag the lifeless remains of his wife and son from under the destroying weight of the heavy portrait.

It was a frightful event, and made a great sensation. A rotten rope, and the mouldering state of the wall which should have upheld the enormously heavy wooden frame, had done all the evil.

The naval officer passed over distant seas to many a foreign land--the world was all before him, but he never forgot what he had lost.

The picture of the awful ancestress met with little injury in its fall; but several years elapsed before it was hung up again in its former place. It was, however, at length restored to its old position, but fastened with new rope, and everything necessary to make it more secure. The dreadful occurrence was beginning to be forgotten, and the brotherly affection which had somewhat cooled, seemed to have displayed itself sufficiently in having banished the lofty dame for some years to a lumber-room. She could not always be left there! So at length she hung in her old place again, as stern, as frowning as formerly. And the count, who had now become an old man, generally when he alluded to the terrible event, reasonably ascribed it to natural causes. But, once upon a time, when he observed his youngest daughter, a girl not much more than sixteen years of age, casting _furtive_ and _rather friendly_ glances at a young man, the son of a country parson, who, on account of his handsome person and pleasant manners, was often received at the baronial castle,--when he saw this, by means of some sidelong looks with the corner of his eye, which were not perceived by the young couple, then he took his daughter by the hand, led her silently and solemnly into the picture-gallery, walked with her up to the replaced portrait of their great ancestress, and said with the gravity of an anxious father, and the dignity of an aristocratic nobleman,--

'Beware, my daughter! Remember the fate of your aunt!'

These words were all he uttered.

* * *

'And this happened in the nineteenth century, and here in our father-land? 'Such an inquiry will assuredly be made by one or other of our readers. But we will not answer it ourselves; we shall only advise the inquirer to address himself to the descendants of _one of the most ancient families in Scania_, and ask _them_ whether it be true or not.

THE MAN FROM PARADISE.[10]

A Comic Tale.

FROM THE DANISH OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

There was a widow, once upon a time--
Yet stop--with _truth_ we must commence our rhyme--
She _had_ been such, but now another spouse
Had sought her love, and won the widow's vows.

One evening she was quite alone at home
(For the best husbands sometimes like to roam);
She sat, her cheek reposing on her hand,
The tea-things spread upon the table, and
The kettle singing by, or on the fire--
A sort of a monotonous steam lyre:
Her thoughts from this low world of fogs had flown
Up to the husband she first called her own;
She could not _quite_ the dear, kind soul forget--
And ah! the other one was absent yet.
'But thou art happy now,' she cried--'in case
In Abraham's bosom thou hast found a place:
Thou pitiest us, in these rooms close and old,
Where one so often gets a cough or cold.'

Then into a brown study she did fall,
When suddenly some sounds her thoughts recall;
She hears a gentle knocking at the door;
She starts--looks at the roof, then at the floor--
Then peers into each corner, as she cries,
'Well--who is there?' To be right brave she tries,
But truth to tell, she almost shook with fear
To see some ghost, or corpse-like form appear.
Another knock--then in the doorway stood
No spectre, but a youth of flesh and blood
'Twas an apprentice who had run away
From work, and chose from town to town to stray:
The rogue lived by his wits as best he might,
For nought he scrupled at--except to fight.

The quondam widow very soon perceived
The intruder was not what she had believed--
That he was mortal, not a form of air.
She questioned whence he came, and also where
He might be bound. 'I'm on my way,' said he,
'To Paris, madam, _via_ Germany.'
With joyous heart she listened to his tale,
And then she placed before him meat and ale,
Kindly inviting him to eat and drink;
While she exclaimed, 'How very strange to think
That you to Paradise are journeying on!--
Why, that's the land where my first husband's gone!
Please give my love to him, our daughter's, too,
And--_his successor's compliments_, will you?'

Quickly the knave observed that the good dame
In her geography was rather lame--
That _Paradise_ with _Paris_ she confounded.
And though one moment he looked up astounded,
The next into her droll conceit he fell,
Saying, 'Oh, yes! I know the good man well.'
'What! have you really been already there?'
She cried. 'Then say, how does the dear one fare?'
'Ah! very badly. 'Tis a tale of woe!
I was up there about a month ago.
A sort of a dog's life the poor thing led,
Early he had to rise--get late to bed;
Worked hard, and scarce a stitch of clothing had.
His shroud and grave-clothes from the first were bad;
They very soon wore out, and now he goes
Without a coat, and with bare legs and toes.'
These words went like a dagger to her heart;
She shuddered--groaned--then, with a sudden start,
She rose, and soon an ample bundle made
Of linen, coats, warm woollen socks; and said,
Whilst with big tear-drops both her eyes looked dim.
'This package, sir, I pray you take to him.
Tell the poor fellow I shall send him more
By the first opportunity--a store
I'll surely send. Oh dear! oh dear! 'tis sad
His fate in yonder place should be so bad!'

The rogue had stuffed quite to his heart's content,
So, taking up the bundle, off he went;
But first he thanked her for the food, and vowed
The clothes she sent should soon replace the shroud.
Long, long she sits, her eyes still full of tears;
The absent husband now at length appears
('Tis to the _second_ one that I allude--
The _first_, as has been shown, was gone for good).

'Well, I have curious tidings for your ear--
A man from Paradise has just been here;
He knew poor _Thi--is_ there.' (Such was the name
Of him who was first husband to the dame.)
And thereupon, with a most serious face,
She told him all that had just taken place.
The husband, when he heard her, smelled a rat,
But only saying he would have a chat
Himself with the great traveller, he sent
For his best horse, and after him he went.

'Twas a sweet night, the moon was shining clearly--
Just such a night as poets love most dearly;
The nightingales were pouring forth their notes,
The owls were exercising, too, their throats;
But, what was better still, he found the track
The thief had ta'en, and hoped to bring him back.
Thieves, by the way, like the moon's silver rays
Far better than the sun's meridian blaze.
And now, how fared it with the thief himself,
Thus making off with his ill-gotten pelf?

He spied a man, who like old Nick was riding,
And felt that he was in for a good hiding;
Therefore into a neighbouring ditch he flung
The burden that across his back had slung,
Then casting himself down upon a bank,
Quite in a lounging attitude he sank,
And gazing on the clear calm skies above,
He sang some ditty about ladies' love.
Up comes the rider at a rapid trot--
The pace had made him and his steed both hot--
And asked abruptly, reining in his grey,
If he had seen a rascal pass that way,
Who on his shoulders a large bundle bore--
A horrid thief he was, the horseman swore.
'Why, yes,' was the reply. 'I have just seen
A fellow with long legs pass by--I ween
It is the same you seek; for he looked round
Soon as your horse's footfall on the ground
Was heard--and then, as quickly as he could,
He fled to hide himself in yonder wood.
If you make haste, you there will catch him soon.'
The horseman thanked him much and craved a boon--
It was to hold his steed, while in pursuit
He went himself into the wood on foot.
'Twas granted, and the husband rushed among
The bushes tall--while the thief laughing sprung
Upon the horse; he took the bundle too,
And fast away he rode, or rather flew.

Angry, fatigued, and scratched till he was sore,
The husband came, his bootless errand o'er.
Fancy what was his grief, his rage, to find
The horse he thought he left so safe behind,
Gone too! he cried, 'Hey! hey!' its name he called,
But all in vain he shouted and he bawled--
The clever thief the faster rode away.
There was no creature near on whom to lay
The blame; so the poor foolish dupe abused
The moon, for having thus her light misused.
Home on his weary legs he had to trudge;
His steed to the vile thief did he not grudge!

'Well, did you find him?' asked his smiling wife.
He answered, in a tone subdued, 'My life,
I did. I found him, and--and--for _your_ sake,
Our best, our swiftest horse I let him take,
That he with greater speed might find his way.'
The dame smiled on him, and in accents gay
Exclaimed, 'O best of husbands! who could find
Your equal--one so thoughtful, wise, and kind!'

MORAL.

The moral of this story shows,
Though knaves on women oft impose,
That men are sometimes quite as _green_,
But hold their tongues themselves to screen.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: A Danish title, signifying councillor of justice.]

[Footnote 2: Danish mile, equal to about 4 3/4 English miles.]

[Footnote 3: Fourteen and a quarter English miles.]

[Footnote 4: 'To give a basket,' in Danish, signifies a refusal.]

[Footnote 5: A Danish title.]

[Footnote 6: 'Aprilsnarrene.' A Danish vaudeville.]

[Footnote 7: The ceremony of Confirmation is deemed of the highest importance in Denmark, and is never neglected in any rank of life, from the prince to the peasant.]

[Footnote 8: For these, and 'Octavianus,' see Ludwig Tieck's works. They have been translated into Danish by Adam Oehlenschlaeger.]

[Footnote 9: A town of Sicily, in the Val di Mazzara, on the site of the ancient Agrigenum, the magnificent ruins of which are still to be seen.]

[Footnote 10: Manden Fra Paradiis. En komisk Fortaelling.]

END OF VOL. I.

LONDON. PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET,
AND CHARING CROSS.