Strife and Peace | Page 8

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, he would have been given over to dark spirits--followed, because right and duty demanded it; because I had promised it before God--Oh! could I believe that this fidelity had operated beneficially--that my endeavours had borne any fruit--I should not then, as now, ask 'why was I born? why have I lived?' But nothing, nothing!
"Could I think that on the other side of the grave I should meet the gentle loving look of my only sister--would I gladly die. But what should I reply to her, if she asked after her child of sorrow? How would she look upon the unfaithful protectress?
"Oh,