Dame Care by Hermann Sudermann

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And, shouting with joy, she jumped on the strange man's knee.

Then he thought to himself, would he ever dare to jump on _his_ papa's
knee, and from this he concluded that all fathers were not alike.

But the man in the shooting-coat caressed his child, kissed her on both
cheeks, and let her ride on his knees.

"See! Elsbeth has got a playfellow," said the kind, strange lady, pointing
towards Paul, who, hidden by the foliage, glanced shyly towards the arbor.

"Just come here, my boy," the man called out merrily and snapped his
fingers.

"Come--here, on the other knee; there is room enough for you," called out
the child; and when, with a questioning glance at his mother, he crept
timidly nearer, the strange man seized him, put him on his other knee, and
then they had a merry race.

He had lost all fear, and when freshly-baked cakes were put on the table,
he fell to bravely. His mother stroked his hair and warned him not to eat
too much. She spoke very softly, and kept looking down upon the ground
before her. And then the children were allowed to go to the bushes and pick
gooseberries for themselves.

"Are you really called Elsbeth?" he asked his friend, and as she said
"Yes," he expressed his astonishment that she had the same name as his
mother.

"But I have been christened after her," said the child; "she is my
godmother."

"Why didn't she kiss you, then?" he asked.

"I don't know," said Elsbeth, sadly, "perhaps she does not like me."

But that she had not had the courage to do it never occurred to either of
them.

It already began to grow dark when the children were called back.

"We must go home," said his mother.

He was very sorry, because he had just now begun to like it. His mother
pulled his collar straight, and said: "There, now kiss the lady's hand and
thank her."

He did as he was ordered, the kind lady kissed his forehead, and the man in
the shooting-coat lifted him high up into the air, so that he thought he
could fly.

And now his mother took Elsbeth in her arms, and kissed her several times
on her mouth and cheeks, and said: "May Heaven some day reward you, my
child, for what your parents have done for your godmother."

A heavy burden seemed to be taken from her soul; she breathed more freely
and her eyes shone.

Elsbeth and her parents went with the two as far as the gate, when his
mother took leave of them there over again, and stammered all sorts of
things about compensation and divine blessings. The man interrupted her
laughingly, and said the whole affair was not worth mentioning and did not
require any thanks at all. And the kind woman kissed her warmly, and asked
her to come again very soon, or at least to send the children.

The mother smiled sadly and was silent. Elsbeth was allowed to go a few
steps farther; then she took leave with a little courtesy. Paul's heart
was heavy; he felt there was still something he had to tell her, so he ran
after her, and, when he had caught up to her, whispered into her ear,

"You know--I _can_ whistle all the same!"

When, mother and son entered the wood, night was closing in. It was
pitch-dark all round, but he was not afraid in the least. If a wolf had
come in their way now he would soon have shown him who had the best of it.

His mother did not speak; the hand which clasped his so firmly burned
feverishly, and her breath came from her breast like a sigh.

And when they both stepped out onto the heath the moon rose pale and
majestic on the horizon. A blue veil spread over the distance. Thyme and
juniper sent forth their perfume, here and there a little bird twittered on
the ground.

The mother sat down at the edge of the ditch, and looked across at their
sad home to which all her care was devoted. The outlines of the buildings
stood out clearly against the evening sky. One lonely light twinkled from
the kitchen.

Suddenly she spread out her arms, and called out over the silent heath,
"Oh, I am happy!"

Paul clung to her side almost anxiously, for never yet had he heard a
similar cry from her. He was so much accustomed to her tears and her
sorrow that this exultant joy seemed to him quite uncanny.

And then it occurred to him: "What will father say when he hears of this
walk? Will he not scold mother and be even more angry with her than usual?"
A sullen defiance took possession of him; he set his teeth, then he stroked
his mother's hand consolingly, kissed her, and whispered,

"He shall not harm you!"

"Who?" she asked, with a shudder.

"Father," he said, softly and hesitatingly.

She sighed deeply but answered nothing, and silently and sadly they went
on.

The gray woman had flitted across their path and spoiled the moment of joy,
and it was the only one that Fate had still in store for Frau Elsbeth.

Next day there was a bad hour between herself and her husband. He called
her undutiful and dishonorable. By her begging she had added disgrace to
poverty.

However, he took the money.

CHAPTER V.

Years passed away.

Paul grew up a quiet, unpretending boy, with a shy look and awkward
behavior.

Generally he kept apart, and, while he took care of the twins, would sit
for hours working at some wood-carving without saying a single word. He was
what one calls in his part of the country "fussy:" a nature inclined to
worry about details and brooding anxiously by himself.

He had no intercourse with any boys of his age, not even in school. Not
that he avoided them on purpose; on the contrary, he liked to help them,
and more than one used to copy, in the morning before prayers, his
arithmetic problems or his German composition; but their interests were not
his, and therefore he could not befriend them.

He also got an abundance of thrashings; especially from the brothers
Erdmann--two saucy, wild-eyed fellows, loved and feared as the strongest
and most daring--he had much to suffer. They were inexhaustible in the
invention of new tricks which imbittered his life: they threw his copy-
books on the top of the stove, filled his satchel with sand, and let his
cap, in which they put a stick for a mast, float down the river like a
boat. Most of these injuries he bore patiently; only once or twice a blind
fury came over him. Then he bit and scratched like a madman, so that even
those companions who were much stronger than he wisely took to flight. The
first time one of the boys had called his father a drunkard, and another
time they wanted to lock him up in a dark cow-shed with a little girl.

Afterwards he was ashamed, and came of his own accord to beg pardon. Then
they only laughed at him the more, and the hardly-won respect was lost
again.

Learning went on with great difficulty. The task for which his comrades
hardly needed fifteen minutes he required an hour or two to finish. On the
other hand, his handwriting was like copper-plate and there never was a
mistake in his sums.

All the same, no work seemed done well enough to satisfy himself, and often
his mother surprised him as he got up at night on the sly, because he was
afraid that what he had learned by heart had escaped his memory.

That he should go to a better school, like his brothers, was not to be
thought of. His mother had for some time cherished the plan of letting him
follow the two elder ones as soon as they had passed their examination, for
it pained her mother's heart that he should be behind the others; but in
the end she gave in, and that was certainly for the best.

Paul himself had never expected anything else. He considered himself as a
creature totally subordinate compared to his brothers, and had long since
given up trying ever to be like them. When they came home for their
holidays--velvet caps on their wavy hair, many-colored ribbons on their
breasts, for they belonged to some forbidden school corporation--he looked
up to them as to beings from a higher world. Eagerly he listened when they
began to talk to each other about Sallust and Cicero, and the tragedies
of Aeschylus--and they liked to speak about them a great deal, if only to
impress him. But the object of his highest admiration was the thick book,
on the first page of which was written "Table of Logarithms," and which
from the first page to the last contained nothing but figures--figures in
long, close rows, the mere sight of which made him giddy. "How learned he
must be, to have all that in his head," he said to himself, caressing the
cover of the book, for he imagined that they had to do no less than learn
all those figures by heart.

The brothers were unusually affable and condescending to him; when they
wished to have anything in the house, when they desired a saddled horse or
an extra stiff glass of grog, they always addressed him confidentially, and
he felt highly honored to be allowed to help them.

As regards farming matters, he was as well acquainted with them as if he
were the master of the house himself; to them were devoted all his efforts
and his care.

What was it that had made him so prematurely serious?

Was it the helplessness of his lonely mother, who had initiated him so
early into all her cares? Was it the brooding, striving spirit, ever
looking to the future, which was peculiar to him?

Very often when he sat musing, his elbows leaning on the table--in his
manners, too, he was quite like a grown-up person--his mother stroked his
hair, and said,

"Let us see a bright face, my boy; be glad that you have no cares yet."
Oh, he had cares enough! Care cleaved to him like his own flesh and blood:
whether the hen which had strayed to-day would be found again to-morrow;
whether the ointment which his father had brought from the town yesterday
would agree with a dun-colored horse; whether the hay had been dry enough
before it was turned; and how the starlings in the gutter on the roof would
bring up their little ones without the cat getting at them.

And he had to care about everything. Care had been born with him; only for
himself he never took any care.

The older and more reasonable he grew, the deeper, too, grew his
understanding of the mismanagement which his father had allowed to
prevail, and often a deep sigh came from his breast: "Oh, if I were only
big already!" The fear of his father's wrath did not let him express his
anxieties, and if ever he dared to speak his mind to his mother, she looked
with fearful eyes all around the room, and said, anxiously, "Be quiet."

And yet his father saw very well whither his son's thoughts tended. He had
given him the nickname of "Cotquean," and jeered at him whenever he saw
him. That naturally was in his good moments; in his bad ones he thrashed
him with the yard measure, with the handle of the whip, with the straps
of the harness--with whatever was nearest his hand. Paul feared his hand
itself most of all, the blows of which hurt more than all the sticks in the
world. His father had a strange manner of boxing his ears. He flung his
hand into his face with the knuckles outward, so that the nails and
joints left bruises on his cheeks. This kind of blow he called his
"cheek-comforter," and when he intended beating Paul he called out to him
in the most affable tone, "Come here, my son, I want to comfort you."

When he had received his beating he used to run out trembling onto the
heath in shame and pain, and while he made faces and drummed with his
fists, to choke down his tears, he whistled.

In whistling he manifested not only all his longings, his childish dreams,
but also his anger and indignation. The feelings for which his uncouth mind
did not find any expression, for which he lacked words or even thoughts, he
dared in this loneliness to pour forth unchecked by means of whistling. So
his depressed, timid soul found an outlet. Whole symphonies he executed,
shrill and harsh at the beginning, growing softer and softer, and at last
melting away in sadness and resignation.

Nobody guessed the art he practised by himself, and how much consolation
and exultation he owed to that same art--not even his mother.

Since he had seen her break into tears, one winter's night, as he, without
heeding her, had softly whistled to himself--since that time he left off as
soon as she came near him; he thought it hurt her. What power was given him
in those sounds he little knew.

Only at times he was proud--looking towards the White House--that he had
after all learned to whistle; and when some melody seemed to him especially
good, he thought within himself, "Who knows if you would laugh at me if you
were to hear this?"

But never had he met any of them again.

CHAPTER VI.

For some time past Mr. Meyerhofer had gone about with great plans in his
head. He had discovered that the turf moor which surrounded the farm in a
wide circle was in a condition to afford a sure profit. Already, twice or
thrice, when need had been sorest, he had, to make shift, ordered peat to
be cut, and sent five cart-loads to the town.

Secretly, quite secretly--for he was too proud to be considered as nothing
better than a common peat-cutting farmer. His people had each time brought
home twenty to twenty-five marks clear gain, and said that there was far
more to be gained still in this way, because black, firm peat was an
article much in demand in the market.

But Meyerhofer was not to be induced to utilize the moor in this manner.
"I have never bothered about such trifles," he said; "I'd rather be ruined
wholesale than earn in detail," and then he drew himself up like a hero.

But the moor did not let him rest. It was in September, after an unusually
favorable harvest, when Lob Levy, the complaisant friend of all farmers
in debt, appeared on the farm twice or thrice weekly, and had much to
negotiate with the master. Frau Elsbeth trembled with fear as soon as the
Jew, in his dirty caftan, appeared at the gate. She seated herself at the
window and followed untiringly every movement of the negotiators. If her
husband assumed a thoughtful air she felt a cold shiver, and only when he
smiled again she dared to breathe freely, too.

She anticipated no good, but did not venture to ask what kind of business
her husband had to transact with this usurer.

She was soon to be enlightened. One afternoon Paul saw how a strange
vehicle came rumbling along on the road from the town, which looked in the
distance like an immense black copper on wheels. Something that appeared
to be a chimney stuck out beyond it, and when the wheels staggered on the
uneven ground bent to the right and the left like a man politely bowing. He
gazed at the wonder for a while, then ran to his mother, whom he eagerly
pulled to the door by her dress.

She shaded her eyes with her hand and looked down the road. "That is a
locomobile," she said at last.

Paul knew as much as before. "What is a locomobile?" he asked.

"A steam-engine which can be moved anywhere, and which great land-owners
use to turn their thrashing-machines; one can also harrow and plough with
it, for such a thing has more strength than ten horses."

"But why is it drawn by horses, then?" he asked.

"Because by itself it cannot move anywhere," was the answer.

He did not understand that. "Anyhow," he thought, "it must be a great
happiness to possess such a thing with that strange name, and if we ever
become rich--"

At this moment his father came rushing out of the house in great
excitement; he had a slipper on one foot, a boot on the other, and his
necktie had turned to the back of his neck.

"They are coming! they are coming!" he cried, clapping his hands; then he
caught his wife round the waist and danced with her into the middle of the
road.

She looked at him with great anxious eyes, as if she wanted to say, "What
fresh nonsense have you contrived now?" But he would not let her go, and
when the twins in their pink cotton frocks and dark little pigtails came
running out of the garden, he made for them, took them in his arms, let
them dance on his shoulders, and pretended to throw them over the ditch, so
that the mother could only stop this nonsense by most ardent pleading.

"There, you little rogues," he cried, "rejoice and dance. All poverty is
ended now; next spring we shall measure our money by the bushel." The
mother looked at him askance, but said nothing.

The monster came nearer and nearer. Paul stood there motionless--all eyes.
Then he looked up at his mother, whose face was care-worn, and a certain
fear came over him as if now the devil had come into the house; but then he
remembered how his wish of a moment ago was fulfilled, and he resolved to
meet the black guest with full confidence.

Meanwhile all the farm-servants and maids came hurrying from the stables
and kitchen. All the inmates of the Howdahs stood in a row by the fence
and gazed at the approaching wonder.

"But tell me, what do you want to do with it?" Frau Elsbeth at last asked
her husband.

He threw a pitying glance at her; then he laughed shortly, and said, "Drive
about in it."

Frau Elsbeth asked no more. Her husband, turning to the upper farm-servant,
expounded his plans: how he would begin peat-cutting on a large scale;
cutting and pressing machines were also on the way, and to-morrow, early,
work could begin. Then he gave him orders to go to the village to engage
the necessary workmen. Ten men would suffice for the beginning, but he
hoped soon to need as many as twenty or thirty.

Frau Elsbeth mutely shook her head, and went into the house just as the
locomobile arrived before the gate. Paul never tired of looking and
admiring. Behind the yellow screws and crooked handles there seemed to lie
a world of mystery; the place for the fire, with the grate and ash-box
beneath, seemed to him like the entrance to that fiery furnace, in which
the well-known three holy men had once intoned their song of praise; and
the chimney above all, standing threateningly upright, with its wreath
of pine soot at its mouth, which seemed to lead down into blackness and
fathomless depths!

Paul did not heed the little basket-carriage that drove behind the monster,
in which sat Lob Levy, with his shaggy, reddish beard, and his merry,
twinkling eyes; he did not heed the screaming of the carmen, and the
exultation of his two little sisters, who danced like mad round the wheels.
He stood there dazed with wonder, as if he could not understand yet what
was happening around him.

When, later on, he entered the big room, he found his mother crouching in
the corner of the sofa, crying.

He put his arm round her neck; but she kept him gently off, and said, "Go
and look after the little ones, so that they do not get under the wheels."

"But why do you cry, mamma?"

"You will see in time, my boy," she said, stroking his hair. "Lob Levy is
in it--you will see in time."

Then he felt angry with his mother! When all were joyful why should she
sit moping in a corner and cry? But the joy was now over for him; and when
he saw Lob Levy loiter about the yard, in his long black "heel-warmer," he
would have liked most to favor Caro with a hint towards his calves.

The twins were quite beside themselves with joy. They took a cord, and
crying "gee" and "whoa," raced wildly through the garden. One of them was
the locomobile, the other the horse, but each wanted to be the locomobile,
because then she got father's black hat put on for the chimney.

Before going to sleep they had already given a name to the new monster.

They maintained that it resembled the fat servant-girl with a long neck,
who a short time ago had been dismissed on account of her slatternliness,
and they called it, after her, "Black Susy."

The locomobile kept this name forever after in Meyerhofer's house.

Next morning the noise began afresh. The ten hired workmen stood in the
yard and did not know what to do. Meyerhofer wanted to have the engine
heated, but Lob Levy, who had passed the night in a shed in order to be at
hand the first thing in the morning, wanted first to receive his price, as
it had been settled in the agreement, because the grain had to be delivered
in town by noon.

"What grain?" the mother asked, turning pale.

Well, it could not be denied any longer: Meyerhofer had sold almost
the whole harvest--the thrashed corn as well as the amount still to be
thrashed--to the Jew for the old worn-out engine. Triumphantly the latter
drove away with the beautiful full sacks. And this was only a sort of
premium; towards Christmas he would come and fetch the rest.

A feeling of discouragement overcame for a moment even the light-minded
Meyerhofer himself when he saw the high-piled carts disappear behind
the woods; but in the next he put his hands defiantly into his
trousers-pockets, and ordered that the machine should be got ready without
delay.

At the same time as the monster a man in a blue blouse and with a
brandy-nose had come to the farm; he called himself "stoker," and
distinguished himself by constantly eating onions; he said that this was
good for the digestion. This man fancied himself the hero of the day.
Puffed up with pride, he stood near the engine, called it his foster-child,
and stroked the rusty iron walls with his black, knotty hand, that sounded
as if two graters were rubbed together. With a great show of foreign words
he explained to every one who came near him the inner arrangement of the
"lookmanbile," as he called his foster-child, only he had to have some
drink; otherwise he was abusive. But if he got the amount of brandy which
he wanted, he was deeply moved, and swore he would rather have his hands
and feet cut off than ever separate himself from his foster-child. He had
got to love it like his own flesh and blood, and thought a thousand times
more of it than of any human being in the world. Meyerhofer walked proudly
round him, for this pearl was now his property, too, and he declared over
and over again that here one could see what German faithfulness meant.

But when the engine was to be heated, the very faithful man could nowhere
be found. At last he was discovered on a hay-stack asleep. When he was
awakened, he called this proceeding ill-treatment of human beings, and
could only with great trouble be induced to come out of his corner.

The heating of the engine was a new festival. Paul stood before the fire,
and stared with dreamy eyes into the glowing depths which opened yawning,
as if it wished to swallow something alive. He thought of the old
heathenish idol Moloch, about whom he had heard in his biblical history,
and every moment he expected to see a pair of red, glowing arms stretch
themselves forth. And then in the body of the monster there arose a
mysterious singing, at times hollow, like the distant roar of a forest,
then again delicate and high, like soft angels' voices. Then it began to
hiss in the valves--steam clouds rose, the iron shovel clattered, and
fresh heaps of coal sank rattling into the furnace. There was such a noise
all round that one could hardly hear one's own voice. The stoker with the
red nose stood there like a king; he drank from a flat-bodied flask, and
from time to time he handled the valves, sending forth a loud, imperious
bellowing like a tamer of wild beasts. And then the big wheel began to
turn--surr, surr, surr--always quicker and quicker. One became quite giddy
by merely looking on, and then there was a crack--a clatter--a hissing--
the great wheel stood still forever.

At first the stoker gave himself great airs, and declared in half an hour
the whole damage would be repaired, but when Meyerhofer, after two days'
work, urged him to have done with his repairs, he became abusive, and
declared that this old heap of rubbish could not be repaired any more, and
that it was just good enough to be sold to the dealer for old iron.

"Foster-child?" he thanked you for such a foster-child; he was still a
little too good to look after such a heap of rubbish. And then it came out:
Lob Levy had picked him up three days ago in some low den, and had asked
him whether he would like to live like a king for a week--longer the joke
would not last, anyhow. And only on this assurance he had gone with him,
for to stay in one place longer than eight days was against his principles.

Hereupon he was driven from the farm.

Next day Meyerhofer sent for the village blacksmith, that he might look at
the damage. He again fumbled about the engine for a few days, ate and drank
for two, and declared in the end that if it was not all right now the devil
was in it.

The heating was repeated; but "Black Susy" was not to be brought to life
again.

When, towards Christmas, Lob Levy came to the farm to fetch the rest of
the grain, Myerhofer thrashed him with the handle of his own whip. The Jew
screamed "Murder!" and drove away hastily. But soon a lawyer's messenger
with a big red-sealed letter appeared. Myerhofer swore and drank more than
ever, and the end of it all was that he was sentenced to pay all costs of
the case and compensation money as well. Only with great difficulty he
escaped the punishment of imprisonment.

Since that day he would not see "Black Susy" any longer. She was put into
the farthest shed, and stood there in concealment many a year without
anybody ever looking at her.

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