Strife and Peace | Page 8

Susanna," said the lady, interrupting her, and
with indifference. But there was something so sorrowful in this
indifference, that Susanna, who had again approached her, could not
contain herself; she quickly threw herself before her mistress, clasped
her knees, and said:
"Ah, if I could only do something to please my lady; if I could only do
something."
But Susanna's warm glance, beaming with devotion, met one so dark,
that she involuntarily started back.
"Susanna," said Mrs. Astrid, as with gloomy seriousness she laid her
hand upon her shoulder and gently put her back, "gratify me in one
thing, attach not thyself to me. It will not lead to good. I have no
attachment to give--my heart is dead! Go, my child," continued she
more kindly, "go, and do not trouble thyself about me. My wish, the
only good thing for me, is to be alone."
Susanna went now, her heart filled with the most painful feelings. "Not
trouble myself about her!" said she to herself, as she wiped away a tear;
"not trouble myself about her, as if that were so easy."
After Susanna was gone, Mrs. Astrid threw a melancholy glance upon
the papers which lay before her. She seized the pen, and laid it down
again. She seemed to shudder at the thought of using it; at length she
overcame herself, and wrote the following letter:
"You wish that I should write to you. I write for that reason; but
what--what shall I say to you? My thanks for your letter, my paternal
friend, the teacher of my youth; thanks that you wish to strengthen and
elevate my soul. But I am old, bowed down, wearied, embittered--there
dwells no strength, no living word more in my breast. My friend, it is
too late--too late!

"You would raise my glance to heaven; but what is the glory of the sun
to the eye that--sees no longer? What is the power of music to the deaf
ear? What is all that is beautiful, all that is good in the world, to the
heart that is dead, that is turned to stone in a long, severe captivity? Oh,
my friend, I am unworthy of your consolation, of your refreshing words.
My soul raises itself against them, and throws them from herself as
'words, words, words,' which have sounded beautifully and grandly for
thousands of years, whilst thousands of souls are inconsolably
speechless.
"Hope? I have hoped so long. I have already said to myself so long, 'a
better day comes! The path of duty conducts to the home of peace and
light, be the way ever so full of thorns. Go only steadfastly forward,
weary pilgrim, go, go, and thou wilt come to the holy land!' And I have
gone--I have gone on through the long, weary day, for above thirty
years; but the way stretches itself out farther and farther--my hopes
have withered, have died away, the one after the other;--I see now no
goal, none, but the grave! Love, love! Ah, if you knew what an
inexpressibly bitter feeling this word awakens in me! Have I not loved,
loved intensely? And what fruit has my love borne? It has broken my
heart, and has brought unhappiness to those whom I loved. It is in vain
that you would combat a belief which has taken deep root in me. I
believe that there are human beings who are born and pre-ordained to
misfortune, and who communicate misfortune to all who approach
them, and I believe that I belong to these. Let me, therefore, fly from
my kind, fly from every feeling which binds me to them. Why should I
occasion more mischief than I have already done?
"Why do you desire me to write? I wish not to pour my bitterness into
the heart of another; I wish to grieve no one, and--what have I now
done?
"There is a silent combat which goes through the world, which is
fought out in the reserved human heart, and at times--fearfully! It is the
combat with evil and bitter thoughts. They are such thoughts as
sometimes take expression, expression written in fire and blood. Then
are they read before the judgment-seat and condemned. In many human

hearts, however, they rage silently for long years; then are undermined
by degrees, health, temper, love, faith, faith in life and faith in--a good
God. With this sinks everything.
"Could I believe that my devoted, true pilgrimage by the side of a
husband whom I once so tenderly loved, and for whose sake I dragged
on life in the fortress of which he was the commander, in comparison
of which the life of the condemned criminal is joy; whom I followed
faithfully, though I no longer loved him, because it was needful to him;
because, without me,