Dame Care by Hermann Sudermann

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He wanted neither to hear nor to see anything more.

But a dull feeling of curiosity made him look up after a while, and as
he raised his eyes he saw the flames arch over the house like a crimson,
white-edged canopy, for the storm was blowing that way.

Then he knew all was lost.

He folded his hands. He felt as if he ought to pray.

"Mother! mother!" he cried, his eyes full of tears, stretching out his arms
to the sky.

Then, suddenly, a strange change came over him. He felt quite happy and
free, the heavy load which had weighed on his mind all these years had
vanished, and, with a deep breath, he drew his hands along his shoulders
and arms, as though he longed to rid himself of the sinking fetters.

"There," he cried, like one from whose heart a burden is taken, "now I have
nothing more, now I need care no longer. I am free, free as the birds in
the air."

He hit his forehead with his fists, he cried, he laughed. He felt as if an
undeserved, unheard of happiness had descended upon him from heaven.

"Mother! mother!" he shouted, wild with joy. "Now I know how your fairy
tale ends. I am released! I am released!"

At this moment the frightened lowing of the cattle fell upon his ear, and
brought him back to his senses. "No, you poor animals shall not perish on
my account," he cried, springing up, "I would rather die myself."

He hurried to the back door of the house, where the servants were eagerly
carrying out the furniture.

"Look at master!" they exclaimed, weeping, and drew each other's attention
to his bare feet.

"Leave that alone!" he cried. "Save the animals!"

An axe lay on the path. With it he broke open the back door of the stables,
which led into the fields, for the yard was already a sea of flames.

As in a dream he sees how the garden and field are filling with people. The
village fire engine comes rattling along, the road to Helenenthal, too,
becomes alive.

Three, four times he rushes into the flames, the servants behind him, then
he sinks down, fainting with pain, in the middle of the burning stables.

A shriek, a piercing shriek from a woman, causes him to open his eyes once
more.

Then it seemed to him as if he saw Elsbeth's face vanishing in mist over
his head, then it was night again round him....

CHAPTER XXI

At the first streak of dawn a sad procession went across the autumnal
heath, on the way to Helenenthal. Two miserable wagons crept slowly, one
behind the other. In them was found room for all that remained of the
Haidehof.

In the first wagon, wrapped in blankets among the straw, lay the master,
terribly burned, unconscious ... The pale, trembling woman who anxiously
bent over him was the playfellow of his youth.

In this state she fetched him home at last. "We will take him to one of his
sisters," Mr. Douglas had said but she had laid her hands on Paul's breast,
from which the singed rags hung down, as if she wanted to take possession
of him for evermore, and had answered:

"No, father, he is coming with us."

"But your wedding, child--the guests?"

"What is the wedding to me?" she replied, and the gay bridegroom stood by
stupefied.

In the second cart lay the few pieces of furniture which had been saved:
an old chest of drawers, a few drawers with linen and books and ribbons,
earthen ware dishes, a milk pail, and his father's long pipe.

But where was the latter?

The only one who might have given an explanation lay there unconscious,
perhaps already struggling with death.

Had he taken to flight? Had he perished in the flames? The maids had found
his bedroom empty, and no trace of himself.

"I suspect no good of him," said old Douglas, "he was always inclined to
madness, and if we find his bones to morrow beneath the ruins I shall
be quite convinced that he set fire to the barn himself, and then threw
himself into the flames."

However, just as they were coming through the gates of Helenenthal they
heard a dog howling piteously near the barn, and saw a strange cur with
his fore paws on a dark mass lying there, and from time to time pulling at
something that looked like the end of a garment.

Douglas, surprised, ordered the cart to stop, and walked up to it. There he
found the person they were seeking--a corpse. His features were horribly
distorted, and his arms still half uplifted, as if he had been suddenly
turned to stone. Near him lay a broken pot, and a matchbox was shimming in
a pool of petroleum, which as flowing down the wheel ruts as in a gutter.

Then the gray giant folded his hands and murmured a prayer When he came
back to the cart he trembled all over, and his eyes were full of tears.

"Elsbeth, look here," he said, "there lies the body of old Meyerhofer. He
wanted to set fire to our property, and God has struck him dead."

"God does not set barns on fire," said Elsbeth, and looked back at the
burning farm, from which a dark-blue smoke was rising in the chilly morning
air.

"But is it not through God's providence that we were saved?"

"If any one saved us, this one did," said Elsbeth.

"What? would he have sacrificed everything, would he have become an
incendiary--only--to--"

"Ask him," she said, hoarsely, and in the growing anxiety of her heart she
folded her hands on her breast and groaned aloud.

"Heaven grant that he may ever be able to answer again," murmured Douglas.
Then he ordered the servants to bring the old man's body into the house. He
had already sent for a doctor; he himself would drive to the sisters and
give them the news.

The guests, horror-stricken, came rushing out to the cart, which stopped
before the flower-decked veranda.

"Elsbeth, how ill you look! Elsbeth, spare yourself," cried out her aunts,
and tried to take possession of her.

"Go away!" she said, and repulsed the caressing hands with a movement of
horror.

Then the gay bridegroom, who during this night had played such a lamentable
part, came to her and tried to persuade her to leave the helpless body.
But she looked at him with an absent, wandering glance, as if she did not
remember ever to have seen him before. Depressed and discouraged, he left
her alone.

The aunts, wringing their hands, hurried to old Douglas, who was walking
up and down before the stables awaiting a conveyance. His powerful chest
heaved, his white, bushy brows were knitted, and his eyes shot lightning.
A storm seemed to be passing over his soul.

"Have pity," cried the women; "make Elsbeth rest; she must recover herself;
she looks as if she were going mad."

"If it is as she says," he muttered to himself, "if he has sacrificed all
his belongings.... Plague you, leave me in peace!" he cried to the women
who surrounded him.

"But think of Elsbeth," they called out. "At twelve o'clock the vicar
comes, and what will she look like?"

"That's her lookout!" he shouted. "Let her be, she knows quite well what
she is doing."

At the same moment that Paul was lifted from the cart a troop of servants
came from the gate carrying his father's corpse.

One after the other the two bodies were carried into the White House, and
the dog went whining and sniffing after them. It was a sad procession.

Elsbeth had Paul carried into her own bedroom, locked the door, and seated
herself near the bed.

Vainly the aunts implored to be let in.

At eleven o'clock the doctor came, and declared himself willing to stay
with his patient till next morning. He had evidently come prepared for
it, for he was an old friend of the house and one of the wedding guests.
Meanwhile they were to telegraph for a nurse.

"May I not stay with him?" asked Elsbeth.

"If you can," he answered, astonished.

"I can," she answered, with a mysterious smile.

The aunts knocked again. "Spare yourself, child," they cried through the
chink of the door; "you must dress--you must go to the register-office. The
vicar has come."

"He can go away again," she answered.

There was a murmur outside; the bridegroom, too, was giving his advice.

"What will you do, my child?" said the old doctor, and looked searchingly
into her eyes. Then she sank, weeping, on her knees by the bed, seized
Paul's powerless hand and pressed it to her eyes and mouth.

"Is that your firm resolution?" the old man asked. She nodded assent.

"And if he dies?"

"He will not die," she said; "he must not die."

The doctor smiled, sadly; "Very good," he said, then, "stay with him a
while, and renew the compresses every two minutes. I will insure quiet
meanwhile."

Soon the carriages were heard coming to the door and leaving the yard. An
hour later the doctor re-entered the sick-room. "The house will soon be
empty," he said; "the ceremony is put off."

"Put off?" she asked, anxiously.

The old man looked at her and shook his head. The human heart showed itself
to him every day in new complications.

* * * * *

For weeks the patient lingered between life and death. The nervous fever
which had set in seemed to take away all hope.

Elsbeth scarcely left his bedside. She did not eat, she did not sleep; her
whole life seemed to be engrossed by the care of her beloved one.

Her old father let her alone. "She must cure him," he said, "so that I can
question him."

The gay cousin began to feel that his position was not an enviable one,
and, after he had allowed his uncle to pay all his debts, left Helenenthal.

Old Meyerhofer's body had been fetched by the twins the day after the
fire. His mysterious death made a great sensation; the newspapers in the
capital spoke of it, and what he had not attained through his whole life--
to be celebrated as a hero--was granted to him in death.

But all this time the law was hanging over Paul's head awaiting his
recovery.

CHAPTER XXII.

The lawyer for the defence had ended. A murmur went through the wide court
of the assizes, the galleries of which were crammed with spectators.

If the accused did not spoil the effect of the brilliant speech by an
imprudent word he was saved.

The president's answer resounded unheard.

And now the eye-glasses and opera-glasses began to click. All eyes were
directed to the pale, simply-clad man who was sitting in the same dock
where, eight years ago, the vicious servant had sat.

The president asked whether the accused had anything more to add to
strengthen the proof of his innocence.

"Silence! silence!" was murmured through the court.

But Paul rose and spoke--first, low and hesitatingly, then every moment
with greater firmness.

"I am heartily sorry that the trouble my defender has taken to save me
should have been useless; but I am not as innocent of the deed as he
represents."

The judges looked at each other. "What is he at? He is going to speak
against himself."

He said: "Anxiety made me nearly unconscious. I then acted in a kind of
madness which at that moment rendered me incapable of calculation."

"He is cutting his own throat!" said the audience.

"I have all my life been shy and oppressed, and have felt as if I could
look nobody in the face, though I had nothing to conceal; but if this time
I behave in a cowardly manner, I believe I should be less able to do so
than ever--and this time I should have good reason enough for it. My
defender has also represented my former life as a pattern of all virtues.
But this was not so, either. I lacked dignity and self-possession; I passed
over too much as regards both other people and myself, and that has always
rankled in my mind, though I was never clear about it. Too much has weighed
upon me to enable me ever to breathe freely as a man should if he does not
want to grow dull and care-laden. This deed has made me free, and has given
me that which I lacked so long; it has been a great happiness to me; and
should I be so ungrateful as to deny it to-day? No; I will not do that. Let
them imprison me as long as they like. I shall abide my time and begin a
new life.

"And so I must say I have set fire to my belongings in full consciousness;
I was never more in my senses than at the moment when I poured the
petroleum over my sheaves; and if to-day I were to be in the same
position, God knows I should do the same again. Why should I not? What I
destroyed was the work of my own hands--I had created it after long years
of hard toil, and could do with it what I liked. I well know that the law
is of a different opinion, and therefore I shall quietly go to prison for
my time. But who else suffered by the injury except myself? My sisters
were well provided for, and my father--" he stopped a moment, and his
voice shook as he continued--"yes, would it not have been better if my old
father had passed the last years of his life in peace and tranquillity
with one of his daughters than where I am now going?

"Fate would not have it so. A stroke killed him, and my brothers say that I
was his murderer. But my brothers have no right at all to judge about
that; they neither know me nor my father. All their lives they have been
concerned with themselves only, and have let _me_ alone care for my father,
mother, and sisters, house, and farm, and I was only good enough when they
wanted something. They turn away from me to-day, but they can never be more
estranged from me in the future than they have always been in the past.

"My sisters"--he turned towards the witness-box, where Greta and Kate sat
crying with covered faces, and his voice grew softer as if from suppressed
tears--"my sisters won't have anything to do with me any more, but I
gladly forgive them; they are women, and made of more delicate metal;
also, there are two men standing behind them who find it very easy to be
indignant at my monstrous deed. They have all abandoned me now--no, not
all"--a bright look crossed his face--"but that need not be mentioned
here. But one thing I will say, even though I be considered a murderer--I
do not repent that my father died through my deed; I loved him more when I
killed him than if I had let him live. He was old and weak, and what
awaited him was shame and dishonor--he lived such a quiet life, and would
have miserably dwindled away here; surely it was better death should come
to him like lightning that kills people in the middle of their happiness.
That is my opinion. I have settled it with my conscience, and have no need
to render account to any one but to God and to myself. Now you may condemn
me."

"Bravo!" cried a thundering voice in the court from the witness-box.

It was Douglas.

His gigantic figure stood erect, his eyes sparkled beneath his bushy brows,
and when the president called him to order he sat down defiantly and said
to his neighbor, "I can be proud of him--eh?"

CHAPTER XXIII.

Two years later, on a bright morning in June, the red-painted gate of the
prison opened and let out a prisoner, who, with a laugh on his face, was
blinking his eyes in the bright sun, as if trying to learn to bear the
light again. He swung the bundle which he carried to and fro, and looked
carelessly to the right and the left, like one who was not decided which
direction to follow, but for whom, on the whole, it was unimportant whither
he strayed.

When he passed the front of the prison building he saw a carriage standing
there which appeared known to him, for he stopped and seemed to be
reflecting. Then he turned to the coachman, who, in his tasselled fur-cap,
nodded haughtily from the box.

"Is anybody from Helenenthal here?" he asked.

"Yes; master and the young lady. They have come to fetch Mr. Meyerhofer."

And directly after was heard from the steps, "Hey, holloa! there he is
already--Elsbeth, see! there he is already."

Paul jumped up the steps, and the two men lay in each other's arms.

Then the heavy folding doors were opened softly and timidly, and let out a
slender female figure, clad in black, who, with a melancholy smile, leaned
against the wall and quietly waited until the men unclasped each other.

"There, you have him, Elsbeth!" shouted the old man.

Hand in hand they stood opposite each other and looked in one another's
eyes; then she leaned her head on his breast and whispered, "Thank God that
I am with you again!"

"And in order that you may have each other all to yourselves, children,"
said the old man, "you two shall drive home, and I will meanwhile drink a
bottle of claret to the health of my successor. I am well off, for I retire
from business this day."

"Mr. Douglas!" exclaimed Paul, terrified.

"_Father_, I am called--do you understand? Let me be fetched towards
evening. You are now master at home. Good-bye."

With that he strode down the steps.

"Come," said Paul, gently, with downcast eyes. Elsbeth went after him with
a shy smile, for now when they were alone neither dared to approach the
other.

And then they drove silently out onto the sunny, flowery heath.... Wild
pinks, bluebells, and ground-ivy wove themselves into a many-colored
carpet, and the white meadowsweet lifted its waving blossoms, as if snow-
flakes had been strewn on the flowers. The leaves of the weeping-willow
rustled softly, and like a net of sparkling ribbons the little streams
flowed along beneath their branches. The warm air trembled, and yellow
butterflies fluttered up and down in couples.

Paul leaned back in the cushions, and gazed with half-shut eyes at this
profusion of charming sights.

"Are you happy?" asked Elsbeth, leaning towards him.

"I don't know," he answered; "it is too much for me."

She smiled; she well understood him.

"See there, our home!" she said, pointing to the White House, which stood
out clear in the distance. He pressed her hand, but his voice failed him.

At the edge of the wood the carriage had to stop. Both got out and
proceeded on foot.

Then he saw that she carried a little white parcel under her arm, which he
had not seen before.

"What is that?" he asked.

"You will soon see," she answered, while a serious smile crossed her face.

"A surprise?"

"A remembrance."

When they entered the wood he perceived something black between the red
stems which was hung with garlands.

"What does that mean?" he asked, stretching out his hand.

"Don't you recognize your friend again?" she replied. "She wanted to be the
first to greet you."

"Black Susy," he shouted, and began to run.

"Take me with you," she gasped, laughing. "You forget that henceforth there
are two of us."

He seized her hand, and so they stepped before the faithful monster that
was keeping watch on the road.

"Dear creature," he said, and stroked the sooty boiler, and as they went on
he looked back at her every three steps as if he could not part with her.

"I have watched over her well," said Elsbeth; "she generally stands
underneath my window, for we have purchased the whole of your father's
inheritance that nothing should be lost to you."

When they approached the opposite edge of the wood, he said, pointing to
two trees which stood twenty steps away from the road.

"Here is the place where I found you lying in your hammock."

"Yes," she said, "it was there, too, that I found out for the first time
that I should never be able to do without you."

"And there is the juniper-tree," he continued, when they stepped out into
the fields, "where we--" and then he suddenly cried aloud, and stretched
out both his hands into space.

"What is the matter?" she exclaimed, anxiously, looking up at him. He had
turned deathly pale and his lips quivered.

"It is gone," he stammered.

"What?"

"It--it--my--my own."

Where once the buildings of the Haidehof rose there now stretched a level
plain; only a few trees spread out their miserable branches.

He could not accustom himself to this sight, and covered his face with his
hands, while he shivered feverishly.

"Do not be sad," she pleaded. "Papa would not have it rebuilt before you
could make your own arrangements."

"Let us go there," he said.

"Please, please, not," she replied, "there is nothing to be seen except a
few heaps of ruins--at another time, when you are not so excited."

"But where shall I sleep?"

"In the same room in which you were born--I have had it arranged for you,
and your mother's furniture put in. Can you still say now that you have
lost your home?"

He pressed her hand, gratefully, but she pointed to the juniper-bush, which
had struck them before.

"Let us go there," she said, "lay your head on the mole-hill and whistle me
something. Do you remember?"

"I should think so!"

"How long is it since then?"

"Seventeen years."

"Oh, heavens, I have loved you so long already, and in the mean time have
become an old maid! And I have waited for you from year to year, but you
would not see it. 'He must come at last,' I thought, but you did not come.
And then I was discouraged, and thought: 'You cannot force yourself upon
him; in reality he does not want you at all. You must come to some
resolution.' And to put an end to all my longings, I accepted my cousin,
who for the last ten years had been dangling after me. He had made me
laugh so often, and I thought he would--but enough of this--" and she
shuddered. "Come, lie down--whistle."

He shook his head and pointed with his hand silently across the heath,
where, on the horizon, three lonely fir-trees stretched their rough arms
towards the sky.

"Thither," he said. "I cannot rest ere I have been there."

"You are right," she replied, and hand in hand they walked through the
blooming heather, over which the wild bees were swarming, sleepily humming.

When they entered the cemetery the clock at the White House was striking
noon. Twelve times it sounded in short strokes, a soft echo quivered in the
air, and then all was quiet again; only the humming and singing continued.

His mother's grave was overgrown with ivy and wild myrtle, and at its head
rose the radiant blossom of a golden-rod. Between the leaves rust-colored
ants were creeping, and a lizard rustled down into the green depths.

Silently they both stood there, and Paul trembled. Neither dared to
interrupt the solemn stillness.

"Where have they buried my father?" Paul asked at last.

"Your sisters took the body over to Lotkeim," answered Elsbeth.

"That is as well," he replied. "She has been lonely all her life; let her
be so in death, too. But to-morrow we will also go over to him."

"Will you go and see your sisters?"

He shook his head sadly. Then they relapsed into silence.

He leaned his head on his hands and cried.

"Do not cry," she said, "each one of you has now a home." And then she took
the little parcel that she held under her arm, unfastened the white paper
of the cover, and there appeared an old manuscript-book with torn cover and
faded leaves.

"See," she cried, "she sends you this, her greeting."

"Where did you get it from?" he asked, surprised, for he had recognized his
mother's handwriting.

"It lay in the old chest of drawers which was saved from the fire,
squeezed between the drawers and the back. It seems to have been lying
there ever since her death."

Then they sat down together on the grave, laid the book between them on
their knees, and began to study it. Now he remembered that Katie, at the
time when he surprised her with her lover, had spoken of a song-book which
had belonged to their mother; but he had never made up his mind to ask
after it, because he did not want to bring to life again the painful
remembrance of that hour.

All sorts of old songs were in it, copied out neatly; near them others half
scratched out and corrected. The latter she seemed to have reproduced from
memory, or perhaps composed herself.

There was also the one about the poet which Katie had recited at the time.

And then came one, which was this:

"Dear child, sleep on; sleep on, dear child;
Beside thy bed thy mother mild
Watches till dreams shall bring thee peace--Sleep on!

"The little bell whose tones so clear
From out the wood resounded here
Its silver music soon will cease--
Sleep on!

"Dear child, sleep on; sleep on, dear child!
Without the moon shines soft and bright,
A legend tell the linden-trees--
Sleep on!

"About the heath the shepherd's son,
The princess in the White House lone;
While leaves are flutt'ring in the breeze--
Sleep on!

"Dear child, sleep on; sleep on, dear child!
Thy rose-bush at the door dreams wild
Of heath and hill and many things--
Sleep on!

"Thy little bird upon the sill
Chirps gently towards thy bed his trill,
And closes wearily his wings--
Sleep on!

"Dear child, sleep on; sleep on, dear child!
Beside thy bed thy mother mild
Watches the hour-glass slowly turn--
Sleep on!

"Thy mother watches--time goes by--
The midnight hour approaches nigh,
And then thy father may return--
Sleep on!"

And then another poem:

I knew a sweet maiden in years that are gone,
Who on the green heath dwelt forsaken and lone.
And longed sore for love--
She looked from her window by day and by night
Her lovely blue eyes glanced out smiling and bright;
Ah! she longed sore for love!

Then by there came riding a bold youthful knight,
Who asked, 'So strange on me gaze thine eyes bright?'
'I long sore for love!'
Then he laughed, 'Foolish maiden, wilt come to my arms,
There can'st thou rest sweetly, free from all harms,
And there find'st thou love.'

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