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Updated: June 9, 2025
He had previously indulged in a mild flirtation with a pretty little pianist and composer, Leopoldine Blahetka, but in her case he seems less to have loved than to have graciously permitted himself to be loved. When he fell under the witchery of Gladkovska, however, he was genuinely pierced to the heart, and his letters are as full of vague morose yearning as his Préludes.
They talked of the new place as they passed on. Isak noticed that Brede's cart was still left out in the open. The child was growing sleepy now, and Isak took her gently in his arms and carried her. They walked and walked. Leopoldine was soon fast asleep, and Inger said: "We'll wrap her up in the rug, and she can lie down in the cart and sleep as long as she likes."
Then she would suddenly make an irreflected movement to rise, and rush to look out at the ocean, to see whether it were true. But she would fall back. Alas! where was this Leopoldine now? Where could she be? Out afar, at that awful distance of Iceland, forsaken, crushed, and lost.
'Twas Leopoldine was the one for getting fancies in her head, which was natural enough, she being a girl, and the only daughter. That summer, if you please, she had discovered that she could not eat her porridge at supper without treacle simply couldn't. And she was no great use at any kind of work either.
"'Twill shake her all to pieces," said Isak, and carries her on. They cross the moors and get into the woods again. "Ptro!" says Inger, and the horse stops. She takes the child from Isak, gets him to shift the chest and the sewing-machine, making a place for Leopoldine in the bottom of the cart. "Shaken? not a bit of it!"
She had taken loom and wheel into use again, but the sewing machine was more to her taste; and when the pressing-iron came up from the blacksmith's, she was ready to set up as a fully-trained dressmaker. She had a profession now. She began by making a couple of little frocks for Leopoldine.
The union of the Archduchess Leopoldine, daughter to the emperor Francis, with Dom Pedro, the emperor of the Brazils, had, since 1817, attracted public attention to South America.
An hour later the sun goes down, and it grows colder. Inger gets down to walk. Together they tuck the rug closer about Leopoldine, and smile to see how soundly she can sleep. Man and wife talk together again on their way. A pleasure it is to hear Inger's voice; none could speak clearer than Inger now. "Wasn't it four cows we had?" she asks. "'Tis more than that," says he proudly. "We've eight."
Then she would suddenly make an instinctive movement to rise, and rush to look out at the ocean, to see whether it were true. But she would fall back. Alas! where was this Léopoldine now? Where could she be? Out afar, at that awful distance of Iceland, forsaken, crushed, and lost.
The blue ribbon was not new; it had been cut from a cap little Leopoldine had grown out of; it was faded here and there, and, to tell the truth, a little dirty Inger wore it now as a piece of modest finery on holy days.
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