This morning I at last realized what I have been endeavoring to banish from my mind—that the day of our departure from dear Chappaqua is at hand. This fact was brought home to me in a very practical manner by the arrival of our immense French trunks from the side-hill house, where they have been stored this summer, and the necessity of packing them, coupled with an intimation from mamma that it would be as well to put my books and music in the bottom, and my dresses in the top of my trunk. I am somewhat of a novice in packing, for during the preparations for our eight ocean voyages that duty never once fell to my lot; however I flatter myself that such very elementary instructions were not necessary.
Quite tenderly I took down from the shelves the books that I had brought from New York for summer reading, for mingled with every page was some pleasant association. One chapter in Kohlrausch's "Germany" seemed still to retain the faint perfume of the pale primroses that I gathered in the meadow that day to mark my stopping-place, and my little volume of Voltaire's "Charles Douze" recalled an interesting argument upon the relative claims to greatness of that hero, and my hero par excellence, the first Napoleon.
My ponderous volumes of Plato brought before my mind Arthur's reading, and the life with which he invested the words of these old-time philosophers that had so keen an interest for him; while Madame de Staël's "Allemagne," and my little copy of Ehlert's "Letters on Music" were associated with almost every hour of the day. They had lain upon my writing-table the entire summer, and it was my habit whenever I laid down my pen for a moment to take up one book or the other, and glance at a page of Ehlert's criticisms upon opera, symphony, or song, or Madame de Staël's profound essays upon art, morals, and politics.
This long summer has been one of great sweetness and content to us all. A tinge of sadness has, it is true, been mingled with our daily life, but we have felt the spiritual presence of our loved ones always near us, urging and encouraging us to persevere and fit ourselves to join them hereafter. With this feeling we have worked constantly and closely, and our record of improvement has been somewhat satisfactory—to ourselves at least. We have gone through the weighty volumes that we had given ourselves as summer tasks; we have written and practised; and, although Minna constantly exclaims upon our close attention to study, a desire for improvement has extended (unconsciously to ourselves) from the parlor to the kitchen. Going down there one night to give some orders for the next day, I was amused by overhearing Lina say, "It is time to go to school now." Immediately Minna's bright-colored knitting was laid aside, and the two women drew up to the table with their books. After studying their English lesson, they recited it to each other, followed by a brief reciprocal lesson of Swedish and German.
Bernard also had his book, and was studying with great apparent industry, although in what foreign tongue he was accomplishing himself I do not know. Perhaps he was trying to master the intricacies of the German language, that he might offer himself to Minna through the medium of her own tongue. I was amused to see that he occupied what might be called the neutral ground, at a table lighted by a flickering candle, and at an equal distance from his sweetheart and his foe; for since Bernard has commenced to take moonlight strolls with Minna, Lina has taken deadly umbrage, which she manifests by giving him candle-ends, cutting off his supply of coffee, and reducing his comforts generally.
At first I felt quite sorry for Lina, so completely excluded as she was at one time from the society of the other two, especially as she was much older than Minna, and not at all prepossessing in appearance; but since I have learned that she has in the village four Swedish admirers who make her weekly visits, I have ceased to waste any sympathy upon her. We were quite amazed one Sunday afternoon to see four stalwart blond men wending their way kitchen-wards, and inquiring in broken English for "Swedish girl;" for of all places our quiet little Chappaqua is the last one where we would have thought of seeing any of Lina's compatriots. These men, it seems, are employed in repairing the railroad track; and learning that they had a countrywoman in the village, called to make her acquaintance; so Lina can now triumph over Minna. I have heard from Minna that each one of the four men has already offered himself to Lina, and that she refused them, remarking, however, that she knew a girl in New York who would like to marry one of them. The men thanked her, but thought the distance rather too great to go for a wife.
Despite their little difference over Bernard, the two women have lived together quite amicably this summer; and it has been a great relief to dear Ida, while so gracefully presiding as mistress of the house, to feel that harmony reigned in the kitchen.
October 5.
Our last day in dear Chappaqua; we go down to the city to-morrow morning. How dread is the thought of leaving the poetic quiet of our country home, to return to the confusion and excitement of city life; that city, too, that will be fraught with such sad memories for us during the last days of October and November.
How quickly it has gone, this long, sweet summer. I cannot realize that near five months have passed since that bright May morning that we arrived here, and found dear Chappaqua in all her tender spring freshness. Imperceptibly the days have flown; the delicate hues of leafy May have deepened and gone; the summer is over, and autumn with her glowing tints has stolen upon us. Now in vain do we hunt for daisies to pull apart petal by petal with the old French rhyme that every schoolgirl knows,
"Il m'aime un peu--beaucoup,
Passionément,--pas du tout!"