Dame Care by Hermann Sudermann

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Paul sent a shy glance at this man.

The court adjourned.

The five minutes were an eternity. Paul was allowed to sit down in the
witness-box. His father continued staring at him with fury in his eyes, but
he made no sign that he wished to speak to him.

Elsbeth was brought back into the court, pale as death, and Paul stepped
forward again.

"I warn you again," the president began, "to be in all things strictly
truthful, for you know that each word of your statement is uttered under
oath."

"I know it," said Paul.

"But you have the right, as you know, to refuse any statement if you
fear that the same would bring down any punishment upon yourself or your
family. Will and can you make use of this right now, as you did before?"

"No."

He spoke in a firm, clear voice, for he had the certainty that Elsbeth's
honor would be irremediably lost if he were silent now.

"But if my oath is perjury?" he heard his conscience whisper immediately
after; but it was too late.

"Oh! what did you want to do in the garden?" the president asked.

"I wanted--to make amends for the sin committed against Douglas in my
father's house."

A murmur of disappointment and unbelief went through the court.

"And for that reason you roamed about in the strange garden?"

"I had a longing to meet somebody, of whom I might have asked pardon."

"And for that you chose the night?"

"I could not sleep."

"And you were driven there by your restlessness?"

"Yes."

"Did you meet anybody in the garden?"

"No."

"Have you been there on any former occasion at the same hour?"

A long pause, then another "no" came from his mouth, this time softly
and hesitatingly, as if wrung from his conscience.

The constraint which weighed on every one began to lessen, the president
turned over his papers, and Elsbeth gazed across at him with big
lustreless eyes.

"Where were you when you first saw the glow of the flames?"

"About twenty steps away from the manor-house of Helenenthal."

"And what did you do then?"

"I was much frightened, and hastened back immediately to my father's
farm."

"In what manner did you leave the garden?"

"I climbed over the garden fence."

"So you did NOT open the door which leads from the garden to the yard?"

"No."

"And didn't you pass the front of the house?"

"No."

A new tumult arose in court. The little man with the bunch of keys rose
and said,

"I must ask the president to question Miss Douglas again--regarding what
she says she heard that night."

"If you please, Miss Douglas," said the president.

With a long look at Paul she rose. They now stood close together in the
wide, crowded court, as if they belonged to each other.

"Where did the steps vanish to which you heard when the glow of the fire
woke you?"

"Towards the yard," she replied, softly--hardly audible.

"And did you distinctly hear the handle of the garden gate rattle?"

"Yes."

"Consider well if you may not have been mistaken."

"I was not mistaken," she answered, softly but firmly.

"Thank you. You may sit down."

She went back to her seat with uncertain steps. Since that fatal "no"
her eye was riveted on Paul. She seemed to have forgotten by that time
all around her.

"When you got over the garden fence, which way did you take?" the
president continued, turning to Paul.

"Across the heath."

"Did you pass the wood?"

"No; I ran two or three hundred steps away from it."

"Did you meet any one on your way?"

"I saw a shadow which moved towards the wood, and at my approach
disappeared suddenly."

A prolonged stir went through the court; the accused man turned pale,
and his eyes assumed a fixed look. The chief-justice did not take his
eyes off him.

A few more unimportant questions, and then Paul was allowed to sit down.

His mother and sisters were called, but what they could tell was of no
importance. The sisters looked round inquisitively, almost boldly. His
mother wept when she had to speak about the moment of her waking.

Paul felt proud and happy that Elsbeth had not been compromised by him. He
looked down smiling, and rejoiced at his courage. But when the witnesses
were called for their oaths, and he had to lift up his hand, he felt as if
a load of a hundred pounds were hanging on it, and as if a low, sad voice
whispered in his ear, "Do not swear."

And he swore.

When he sat down, the voice said again, "Have you, perhaps, committed
perjury?" Instinctively he raised his head. Then he fancied that a gray
shadow flitted past him and touched his forehead lightly.

He knitted his brows defiantly. "And supposing I should have sworn falsely,
was it not for her?"

For a moment his soul was filled with wild joy at this thought, but in
the next already a dull weight lay on his breast, stifling his breath and
binding him hand and foot, so that he felt as if henceforth he would never
be able to move any more.

He heard the monotonous voice of the counsel, who began his speech. But he
did not heed it. Once he started, when the counsel for the defence pointed
towards him with his bunch of keys, and cried out in his shrill, querulous
voice: "And this witness, gentlemen of the jury, who roams about
mysteriously at night in strange gardens, and finds out all sorts of
psychological and artificial subterfuges to hide the tender motive of his
nightly excursions, can you put any reliance upon him when he says he
suddenly saw a shadow appear and disappear? Shadows which, to put it
mildly, can only originate in his overheated brain? What did he want in
the garden, gentlemen of the jury? I leave it to your penetration, to your
experience of life, to answer this question; and as for the witness, it is
his lookout to accommodate his oath to his conscience."

Then he collapsed completely.

The jury returned a verdict of "Guilty." Michel Raudszus was sentenced to
five years penal servitude.

At the same moment, when the president pronounced the sentence of the law,
a mocking laugh resounded through the court. It proceeded from Meyerhofer.
He had got up in his chair and stretched out his maimed hand towards
Douglas, as if he wanted to fly at his throat.

As he was carried out of court, he continually cried out,

"They hang the insignificant incendiaries, but the powerful ones are
allowed to go scot-free."

The uncanny laughter of the helpless man resounded through the wide
passages.

CHAPTER XVI.

Winter came and went.... The heath was covered with snow and became green
again.... The ranunculus lifted up their golden heads.... The juniper sent
forth its tender shoots, and the warble of the lark sounded from out the
blue sky.

Only to the dismal Howdahs spring would not come. Paul had, indeed, made
it possible to procure corn for sowing, and a wooden building already stood
erected on the place of ruin, but the hope for better times had still not
come. Dull and joylessly he did his duty, and deeper and deeper the lines
became traced upon his forehead. He brooded over things by himself more
than ever, and the fear that he had committed perjury weighed heavily upon
him.

Months elapsed before it was clear to him that his grievance was nothing
but idle trifling which originated in his over-anxious stickling at words.
He reflected thoroughly on the question which the president had addressed
to him, and came to the conclusion that he could not have answered
otherwise. It was, indeed, the first time that he had penetrated into his
neighbor's garden; what had once taken place on a blissful moonlight night
had happened on this side of the fence. What was that to the gentlemen of
the law-courts?

"No; I am not a perjurer," he said to himself; "I am only a coward, a
simpleton, who is afraid of the mere shadow of a deed. Ought I not proudly
and joyfully to have sworn a false oath for Elsbeth's sake? Then I should
be somebody; then I should have done something, while now I live on, torpid
and discouraged, a farm laborer-nothing more."

And in the brain of this "pattern boy" arose the fervent wish to be a great
criminal, just because he felt compelled to prove his own individuality.
The hours which he had passed on the roof and in the witness-box now seemed
to him the ideal of all earthly bliss, and the harder he worked the idler
and more useless he fancied himself.

His father was still kept to his chair, which to all appearances he would
never again be able to leave, for his broken leg had healed badly. Idle
and grumbling he sat in his corner, turning over an old almanac without
interest, and abusing every one who came near him.

Only for Paul he cherished a sort of involuntary respect; he grumbled to
himself as often as he saw him, but did not dare to contradict him openly.

And his mother?

She had grown a little more weary, a little quieter, otherwise there was
hardly any change perceptible in her; but those who observed more
attentively could hear a rustle in the air, as though a vulture were
hovering over the Howdahs and drawing its circles ever closer and
closer, and preparing to pounce down one day on its prey.

She herself heard the rustle very well; she knew, too, what it signified;
but she remained silent, as she had been silent all her life.

And happiness had not come yet.

At the beginning of April she took to her bed. "General weakness," the
doctor said, and recommended a visit to a place where there were iron
baths. She smiled, and begged him not to speak of a watering-place to any
one, for she knew that Paul would work himself to death to make this course
of treatment possible for her.

Such a course would not really help her. She knew very well what she
needed; sunshine! Dame Care had shrouded her too closely with her sombre
veil to allow a single ray of sun to penetrate into her soul.

It was now left to the twins to take care of the household. And the work
was briskly done indeed; even Paul had to confess that. When they had
broken anything, they laughed; when a walk was refused them, they cried;
but the crying soon changed again to laughter, and the table was never so
promptly served, the milk-pails had never been so bright.

His mother often observed that from her window, and thought, "It is a good
thing that I should go away; I am no longer of any use in the world."

About Whitsuntide her sleep began to fail; then fever set in.

"Oh, how expensive quinine is!" sighed Paul, when the servant rode off to
the chemist's; and he looked appealingly at "Black Susy," but she did not
move. Often the work in the fields had to come to a stand-still, in order
that they might earn a few groschen for the household by cutting peat.

His mother began to suffer from palpitations, and desired most earnestly
that somebody would sit up with her at night. But the twins, tired out with
their day's work, would fall asleep in the evening by the bedside of the
invalid, and often sank down right across her bed, so that the feeble woman
often had to bear upon her own body the weight of the two healthy girls.

Paul sent his sisters to rest, and took upon himself the office of
watching.

"Go to sleep, my son," said his mother; "you need rest more than any of
them."

But he remained; and in the May nights, when outside in the garden the
flowers were whispering and the perfume of the lilac penetrated through
every crack, the two would often sit hand in hand for hours looking at
each other, as though they had wondrous things to impart. So it had always
been between mother and son. The wealth of their love sought for
expression in words, but care had robbed them of speech.

In the morning, when the sun rose, he dipped his head into icy cold water
and went to work.

His presence brought peace to his mother, in so far that she could sleep at
times when he was by. Then he used to go on tip-toe to his room and fetch
down his books on physics, in which the construction of steam-engines was
so learnedly and unintelligibly set forth. His head, tired with watching
and unaccustomed to any mental work, with difficulty grasped the sense of
the mysterious words; but he had time, and indefatigably he worked on, page
by page, as a peasant ploughs a stony field.

If his mother opened her eyes, she would ask,

"How are you getting on, my son?"

And then he had to explain it to her, and she pretended to understand
something about it.

But if she asked, "Why are you doing this?" he would put on a knowing look,
and reply, "I am learning to make gold."

"My poor boy," she would answer, stroking his hand.

One night, immediately after the Whitsuntide holidays, she again could not
sleep.

"Read me something from those learned books," she said; "they bore one so
nicely. Perhaps they will send me to sleep."

And he did as she asked him; but when he had been reading almost an
hour, he saw that she was gazing at him with big, feverish eyes, and was
further than ever from sleep.

"So with that you want to make gold?" she asked.

"Yes, mother," he answered, confusedly, for the return of fever made him
anxious.

"How will you do it?"

"You will see in good time," he answered, as usual.

But this time she would not be put off. "Tell me, my boy," she pleaded,
"tell me now.... Who knows what may happen?... I should like at least to
have that little bit of comfort before I fall asleep forever."

"Mother!" he cried, terrified.

"Be still, my boy," she said; "what does it matter? But tell me, tell me!"
she pleaded with growing anxiety, as if in the next moment it might already
be too late.

With bated breath and confused words he spoke of the plans which he had in
his head: how he wanted to reawaken "Black Susy" to life, so that the moor
could be utilized to its innermost depths; but in the middle of his speech,
anxiety overcame him; he fell sobbing on his knees before the bed with his
face on her breast.

She bade him look up, and said: "It was not right of me to make you
anxious. If God so wills it, all may turn out differently yet. What you
tell me has given me great joy. I know that if you take anything in
hand, you do not soon let it drop. I only wish I could live to see it."

So, gently, imperceptibly, she restored his courage; as to herself, she had
nothing left to hope for.

Another night when, overtired, he had fallen asleep in his chair, she
called his name.

"What do you want, mother?" he asked, starting up.

"Nothing," she said. "Forgive me, I ought to have let you sleep. But who
knows how long we shall still be able to talk together? I should like to
make the most of the time."

This time he was too much overcome with sleep to understand the meaning of
her words. He sat down closer to her and took her hand, but his eyes closed
again directly.

She thought he was awake and began to speak.

"I was once a very merry young creature, not very different from your
sisters.... My heart was nearly ready to burst with joy, and my eyes
always gazed into the distance, as if from there something unspeakably
beautiful would come--a prince, or something of that sort. Once, too, I
began to love--with that other kind of love, that great heavenly love
which comes upon one like fate. But he would not have me; he was fair and
slender and had a blemish on his chin. I always longed to kiss the spot,
but could never do it. He saw my love well enough, and, one day, when he
was especially daring, he took me in his arms and fondled me, and then let
me go again. But I was happy; it made me glad that he had once held me in
his arms."

She stopped, her eyes sparkled, a rosy, almost maidenly blush tinted her
cheeks; she had grown wonderfully young again. Then she saw that he had
fallen asleep, and sadly relapsed into silence.

When he awoke, Paul said, "It seems to me, mother, that you were telling me
something."

"You must have been dreaming," she said, smiling; but her thoughts
meanwhile had been wandering back through her whole life, seeking in every
corner of her memory for the remnants of joy which lay concealed there.

"I don't really know," she said, "why I have been so sad all my life. When
I come to think of it, a great misfortune has never really happened to ne.
Of course it was not nice when we had to leave Helenenthal, and when I saw
the room lit up blood-red by the burning barn, it gave me a bad enough
fright, but, on the whole, life has treated me tolerably well. I have
reared all you children, I have not lost one by death-we have always had
food and drink, too. Father has sometimes grumbled, it is true, but that is
always the case in married life; you will find it so yourself some day. You
children have always loved me. You boys have grown up able men, and the
girls will be able women, if God wills it, and you keep your eye upon them.
What more do I want?"

And so this poor woman, who was gradually being harassed to death, worried
herself to discover _what_ was harassing her to death. Slowly Dame Care
lifted the veil from her head that Death might breathe in her face.

And one evening she died.... Her eyes closed; she scarcely knew how
herself. The doctor who was called in spoke of weakness, anæmia. It is only
sentimental people who say in such cases, "She died of a broken heart."

The twins knelt at her bedside, crying bitterly; their father, who had been
carried in in his chair, sobbed aloud, and tried to bring her back forcibly
to life.... Paul stood at the head of the bed biting his lips.

"I was right, after all," he thought; "she died before luck came. She has
had to get up hungry from the table of life, just as I said."

He wondered that the pain he felt was not so great as he had fancied it
would be. Only the confused thoughts about all sorts of stupid things
flitting through his head like bats at dusk showed him the state of his
mind.

It struck midnight; then his father said, "We will go to rest, children;
let him sleep who can!... Hard days lie before us."

He embraced the twins, shook hands with Paul, and had himself carried to
his room.

"How good father is to-day!" thought Paul; "he was never like that while
she was alive." His sisters clung to his neck, sobbing, and implored him
to watch near them, they were so afraid.

Paul spoke to them consolingly, took them to their room, and promised to
come and look after them within an hour.

When at the end of this time he stepped to their bedside with a candle in
his hand he found them fast asleep. They lay locked in a close embrace, and
on their rosy cheeks the tears were still wet.

Then he went to his father's door to listen, and when there, too, he heard
no sound, he crept on tiptoe to the room where the dead slept. For the last
time he would watch by her side.

His sisters, on going away, had spread a white handkerchief over her face;
he took it off, folded his hands, and watched how the flickering light
played on her waxen features. She was little changed; only the blue veins
in her temples were more prominent, and her eyelashes threw deeper shadows
on the haggard cheeks.

He lit the night-light, which during her illness had been burning at her
bedside every night, seated himself on the chair in which he always used to
sit, and thought he would say a quiet prayer for the dead.

But suddenly it flashed through his mind that he had forgotten to send to
the joiner to come early and take the measure.

It was to be a simple pine-wood coffin, painted black, and round it a
garland of heather, for she had loved the delicate, unpretending little
plant above all others.

"What will the coffin cost?" he went on thinking, and was suddenly struck
with terror, for he had nothing to bury the dead with. He began to count
and calculate, but could come to no conclusion.

"It is the first time that she wants anything for herself," he said,
softly, and thought of the faded dress which she had worn from year's end
to year's end.

He added up all that he could get together in a hurry from outstanding
debts, but the sum was not sufficient by half to cover the expenses of the
funeral.

The three cart-loads of peat, too, which he could send into town to-morrow
and the day after, would make but little difference.

Then he took a piece of paper and began to calculate the expenses:

A coffin ....... 15 thalers.
The place in the church-yard 10 thalers.
For the verger ..... 5 thalers.
Linen for the shroud ... 2 thalers.

Then the expenses of the funeral, which his father undoubtedly would wish
to have conducted as grandly as possible:

10 bottles of port-wine .. 10 thalers.
1 box of cigars ..... 2 thalers.
2 small casks of beer ... 2 thalers.

Ingredients for the cake: the flour they had in the house, but sugar,
raisins, almonds, rose-water, etc., had to be purchased. How much would
these amount to? He calculated busily, but his additions would not agree.
"Mother will know very well," he thought, and was just about to ask her
advice when he saw that she was dead.

He was horrified. Only now, when his imagination had brought her back to
life again, he understood that he had lost her. He wanted to cry out, but
mastered himself, for he had to go on with his calculations.

"Forgive me, darling mother," he said, stroking her cold cheeks with his
right hand. "I cannot yet mourn for you; I must first lay you under the
earth."

* * * * *

The funeral was to take place three days later.

As Paul had foreseen, his father could not be prevented from arranging a
great festivity. He had sent invitations to all his friends in town, on
beautiful glazed paper with a black edge as wide as your finger. Therein he
had given expression to his grief in well-chosen, elegant phrases, and had
nowhere forgotten to provide his signature with an elaborate flourish.

In the evening, just when the remains were being laid in the coffin, his
two brothers arrived. They had not been at home for many years, and Paul
almost failed to recognize them. Gottfried, the tutor, a dignified man with
a severe expression of countenance and somewhat portly appearance, had on
his arm a young lady veiled in black--his betrothed, who with a wondering
glance took stock of the low, miserable rooms, and endeavored to show a
face at once friendly and full of grief as the situation demanded. Max, the
merchant, came behind them. He looked rather dissolute; his smart-looking
mustache gave him an air ill-befitting the feelings of a newly-orphaned
son, and his mourning was more evident in discomfort than in grief.

Both brothers solemnly embraced their father, and the young lady visitor
bent down and kissed first his hand and then his forehead. Then they
greeted the twins, who in their black dresses were looking fresher and
sweeter than ever. They had overlooked Paul, who stood at the door and
fingered his cap in confusion.

At last Gottfried asked, "Where is our brother?"

Then he stepped shyly forward and stretched out his hand.

Three pairs of eyes rested on him searchingly.

"If I were but once outside!" he thought, and as soon as he could get away
he went out to work in the stables.

Gottfried followed him thither. Paul was alarmed when he saw him come, for
he did not know what he should talk about to this aristocratic man.

"Dear brother," the latter said, "I have a favor to ask you. Could you not
provide a brighter room for my betrothed? She feels herself rather crowded
in the girls' room."

"I will give her my attic," said Paul.

"You would oblige me if you would do that."

Then he addressed a few more questions to him about their mother's illness,
about the cattle, and about the mortgage which lay on the estate.

"You poor creatures," he said; "you have evidently had many a care. But
did you endeavor to make the last days of our sainted mother as easy as
possible?"

Paul assured him he had done all that was in his power.

"I am glad of that," his brother replied, in a severe tone; "it would have
been a sad neglect of your duty if you had not done so. And now come,
let us go together to visit the remains of our sainted mother, that she,
looking down from heaven, may see us all united."

He took Paul's hand and drew him into the room in which his mother rested
peacefully among flowers and burning candles, and where the others were
already assembled.

Paul remained standing at the door timidly. He would have given much to be
alone with his dead mother for one moment, but as that was impossible he
softly crept out and looked through the window from outside, as if he were
one of the lookers-on from the village who were standing there.

A little later Max came to him and led him confidentially aside. "I have a
favor to ask you, dear boy," he said; "my throat is quite parched with the
dust of the journey and with crying. Could you procure me a drop of beer?"

Paul answered that there were two full casks, but that they were only to be
tapped next morning for the funeral.

"Just give me the tap," Max answered; "I am an expert. The beer in the
casks will be just as fresh to-morrow as it is to-day."

And when Paul had done his bidding, he turned his back on him and went
away.

At eleven o'clock the candles round the coffin were blown out--every one
retired to rest.

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