Dame Care by Hermann Sudermann

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Only Paul from time to time secretly took the key of the shed and crept
in to the black monster that he loved more and more, and which at last
appeared to him like a dumb, ill-treated friend.

CHAPTER VII.

When Paul was fourteen years old his father decided to send him to
confirmation-classes.

"He will never learn anything decent in school, anyhow," he said; "time and
money are thrown away upon him. Therefore, he shall be confirmed at once,
so that he can make himself useful on the farm. He will never be anything
better than a peasant, anyhow."

Paul was satisfied, for he was longing to take a part of the care which
pressed on his mother upon his own shoulders. He thought of making himself
a sort of inspector, who could at any time replace the absent master, and
work himself where the farm-servants needed a good example. He hoped this
activity might be the beginning of a new, prosperous time, and when he lay
in his bed at night he dreamed of waving cornfields and brand-new massive
barns. The resolution to use all his strength to bring the neglected
Haidehof into good repute became stronger and stronger.

The brothers one day should be able to say of him: "He has been of some
good, after all, even if he could not follow us in our brilliant careers."

Yes; the brothers! How tall and distinguished they had grown meanwhile. One
of them studied philology, and the other had entered a big bank as clerk.
In spite of their good aunt, both wanted money, much money--far, far more
than their father could send them. Paul hoped that for them also, as a
result of his beginning farming, a better time would come. All surplus
money should be sent to them, and he! oh, he would save and scrape, so that
they might strive for their lofty aims, free from need and care.

With these pious thoughts Paul made his way to the first confirmation
class. It was a sunny spring morning at the beginning of the month of
April.

The fresh grass on the heath shone in greenish lights, juniper and heather
budded with new tender shoots, anemones and ranunculus were blooming at the
edge of the wood.

A warm wind waved over the heath towards him; he could have shouted aloud,
and his heart was quite filled with rapture.

"There must be something sad in store," he said to himself, "for on earth
one may not feel so happy."

Before the rectory garden there stood a long row of conveyances, only a few
of which he knew. There was also aristocratic carriages among them. The
coachmen with their shining buttons sat on their boxes with proud smiles
and threw contemptuous glances all around.

In the garden were assembled a big troop of children. The boys and girls
stood apart. Among the boys were the two brothers from whom he had had to
suffer so much formerly, and who had ceased going to school for the last
year. They gave him a friendly greeting, and while one of them shook hands
with him the other tripped him up.

Some of the girls walked arm in arm on the paths. Some also had put their
arms round each other's waists and giggled. Most of them were strangers to
him. Some seemed especially aristocratic; they wore fine gray ulsters, and
had hats with feathers on their heads. The carriages outside must belong to
them.

He looked down at his jacket, to assure himself that he had nothing to be
ashamed of. It was made of fine black cloth, from an old evening suit of
his student brother's, and looked as good as new, only that the seams were
a little shiny. Taken altogether, he did not need to be ashamed of himself.

A bell sounded. The candidates were called into the church. Paul felt
light-hearted and pious in the solemn twilight of the house of God. He
did not think of his jacket any longer; the forms of the boys around grew
shadowy.

At both sides of the altar benches were placed. On the right the boys were
to have their seats, and on the left the girls.

Paul was pushed into the back row, where the little ones and the poor sat.
Between two barefooted cottage children, who wore coarse, ragged jackets,
he took his seat. Past the shoulders of the boys before him he saw how the
girls on the other side ranged themselves: the most distinguished in
front, and then the more poorly clad.

He was thinking whether in heaven the order of rank would be a similar one,
and the verse occurred to him:

"Blessed are the meek and lowly, for they shall be exalted."

The vicar came.

He was a comfortable-looking man, with a double chin and light, spare
whiskers. His upper lip shone from frequent shaving. He did not wear his
robe, but a simple black coat; nevertheless, he looked very dignified and
solemn.

He first spoke a long prayer on the text, "Suffer little children to come
unto Me," and added an exhortation to consider the coming year as a time
of consecration, not to romp wildly or to dance, for that would not be in
keeping with a student of religion.

"I have never romped or danced," thought Paul, and for a moment he was
filled with pride over his pious conduct. "But it was a pity all the
same--" he thought afterwards.

Then the vicar praised as the highest of all Christian virtues: humility.
None of these children should feel above the others because their parents
happened to be richer and more distinguished than those of their humbler
brethren and sisters, because before God's throne they were all equal.

"That's for you," thought Paul, and lovingly seized the arm of his ragged
neighbor. The latter thought he wanted to pinch him, and said, "Ow, don't!"

Then the vicar took from his pocket a piece of paper, and said, "Now I will
read you the order of rank in which you will have to sit henceforth."

"Why this order of rank," thought Paul, "if before God's throne we are all
equal?"

The very first name startled Paul, for it was "Elsbeth Douglas." He saw a
tall, pale girl, with a gentle face and fair hair smoothly combed back,
rise and walk towards the first place.

"So that's you," thought Paul, "and we shall be confirmed together." His
heart beat with joy, but also with fear, because he was anxious at the same
time lest she should think him too much beneath her. "Perhaps she does not
remember me any more," he thought.

He watched her as she took her seat with downcast eyes and a kind smile.

"No; she is not proud," he said softly to himself; but to make sure he
looked at his jacket.

Then the boys were called up. The brothers Erdmann came first. Without
asking, they had already placed themselves comfortably on the first seats,
and then his own name was called out. At this moment Elsbeth Douglas did
exactly as he had done before. She raised her head quickly and scrutinized
the ranks of the boys.

When he had seated himself in his place he also looked down on the ground,
for he wanted to imitate her humility; and when he looked up again he saw
her eyes on him, full of curiosity. He blushed and picked a little feather
from the sleeve of his jacket.

And then the lesson began. The vicar explained passages from the Bible and
heard verses of hymns. It was Elsbeth's turn first. She raised her head a
little, and repeated her verses quietly and modestly.

"Oh golly! the hussy has courage," mumbled the younger Erdmann, who was at
his left side.

Paul felt sudden anger rise within him. He could have cudgelled him in open
church. "If he calls her 'hussy' again I shall thrash him afterwards."
He promised this solemnly to himself. But the younger Erdmann no longer
thought of her; he was busy sticking pins into the calves of the boys
sitting behind him.

When the lesson was over, the girls left the church first, marching in
couples. Only when the last were outside, the boys were allowed to follow.
Just outside the church he met Elsbeth, who was walking towards her
carriage. Both looked a little askance at each other and passed on. An old
lady, with little gray curls and a Persian shawl, stood near her carriage;
she probably had waited for her at the vicarage. She kissed Elsbeth's
forehead, and both seated themselves on the back seat. The carriage was
the finest one in the whole row. The coachman wore a beautiful fur cap
with a red tassel; he had also smart braid on his collar and cuffs.

Just as the carriage had started, Paul was attacked by the two Erdmanns,
who thrashed him a little.

"You ought to be ashamed, two against one," he said, and they let him go.

He went home very contentedly. The midday sun glittered on the open heath,
and in misty distance the carriage rolled before him; it grew smaller and
smaller, and at last disappeared as a black spot in the fir-wood.

When he arrived home his mother kissed him on both cheeks, and asked,
"Well, was it nice?"

"Quite nice," he answered, "and, mamma, Elsbeth from the White House was
there, too."

Then she blushed with joy and asked all sorts of things: how she looked,
whether she had grown pretty, and what she had said to him.

"Nothing at all," he answered, ashamed; and as his mother looked at him
surprised, he added, eagerly, "but you know she is not proud."

Next Monday when he entered the church he found her already sitting in her
place. She had the Bible lying on her knee, and was learning the verses
they had been given as their task.

There were not many children there, and when he sat down opposite to her
she made a half movement as if she meant to get up and come over to him;
but she sat down again immediately and went on learning.

His mother had told him before he left just to address Elsbeth. She had
charged him with many greetings for her mother, and he was to ask, too, how
she was. On his way he had studied a long speech, only he was not quite
decided yet whether to address her with "_Du_" or "_Sie_." "_Du_" would
have been the simplest; his mother took it for granted. But the "_Sie_"
sounded decidedly more distinguished--so nice and grown up. And as he could
come to no decision he avoided addressing her at all. He, too, took out his
Bible, and both put their elbows on their knees and studied as if for a
wager.

It was not of much use to him, because when the vicar questioned him
afterwards he had forgotten every word of it.

A painful silence ensued; the Erdmanns laughed viciously, and he had to sit
down again, his face burning with shame. He dared not look up any more, and
when, on leaving the church, he saw Elsbeth standing at the porch as if
she was waiting for something, he lowered his eyes and tried to pass her
quickly. However, she stepped forward and spoke to him.

"My mother has charged me--I am to ask you--how your mother is?"

He answered that she was well.

"And she sends her many kind regards," continued Elsbeth.

"And my mother also sends many kind regards to yours," he answered, turning
the Bible and hymn-book between his fingers, "and I was to ask you, too,
how she is?"

"Mamma told me to say," she replied, like something learned by heart, "that
she is often ill, and has to keep in-doors very much; but now that spring
is here she is better; and would you not like to drive in our carriage as
far as your house? I was to ask you, she said."

"Just look, Meyerhofer is sweethearting!" cried the elder Erdmann, who had
hidden behind the church door, through the crack of which he wanted to
tickle his companions with a little straw.

Elsbeth and Paul looked at each other in surprise, for they did not know
the meaning of this phrase; but as they felt that it must signify something
very bad they blushed and separated.

Paul looked after her as she got into the carriage and drove away. This
time the old lady was not waiting for her. It was her governess, he had
heard. Yes; she was of such high rank that she even had a governess of her
own.

"The Erdmanns will get a good licking yet;" with that he ended his
reflections.

The next week passed without his speaking to Elsbeth. When he entered the
church she was generally already in her seat. Then she would nod to him
kindly, but that was all.

And then came a Monday when her carriage was not waiting for her. He
noticed it at once, and as he walked towards the church-yard he breathed
more freely, for the proud coachman with his fur cap, which he wore even in
summer, always caused him a feeling of oppression. He had only to think of
this coachman when he sat opposite to her and she appeared to him like a
being from another world.

To-day he ventured to nod to her almost familiarly, and it seemed to him as
if she answered more kindly than usual.

And when the lesson was ended she came towards him of her own accord, and
said, "I must walk home to-day, for our horses are all in the fields. Mamma
thought you might walk with me part of the way, as we go the same road."

He felt very happy, but did not dare to walk by her side as long as they
were in the village. He also looked back anxiously from time to time, to
see whether the two Erdmanns were lurking anywhere with their mocking
remarks. But when they went through the open fields it was quite natural
that they should walk side by side.

It was a sunny forenoon in June. The white sand on the road glittered;
round about golden hawkweed was blooming and meadowsweet waved in the warm
wind; the midday bell sounded from the village; no human creature was to
be seen far and wide; the heath seemed quite deserted.

Elsbeth wore a wide-brimmed straw-hat on her head as a protection against
the sun's rays. She took it off now, and swung it to and fro by the
elastic.

"You will be too hot," he said; but as she laughed at him a little he took
his off also and threw it high in the air.

"You are quite a merry fellow," she said, nodding approvingly.

He shook his head, and the lines of care which always made him look old
appeared again upon his brow.

"Oh no," he said; "merry I am certainly not."

"Why not?" she asked.

"I have always so many things to think of," he answered, "and if ever I
want to be really happy something always goes wrong."

"But what do you always have to think about?" she asked.

He reflected for a while, but nothing occurred to him. "Oh, it is all
nonsense," he said; "clever thoughts never come to me, by any means."

And then he told her about his brothers, of the thick books, which were
quite filled with figures (the name he had forgotten), and which they had
already known by heart when they were only as old as he was now.

"Why don't you learn that as well, if it gives you pleasure?" she asked.

"But it gives me no pleasure," he answered; "I have such a dull head."

"But _something_ you know, surely?" she went on.

"I know absolutely nothing at all," he replied, sadly; "father says that I
am too stupid."

"Oh, you must not heed that," she replied, consolingly. "My Fraulein
Rothmaier also finds fault with many things I do. But I--pah, I--" she was
silent, and pulled up a sorrel-plant which she began to chew.

"Has your father still such sparkling eyes?" he asked.

She nodded, and her face brightened.

"You love him very much--your father?"

She looked at him wonderingly, as if she had not understood his question,
then answered, "Oh yes; I love him very much."

"And he loves you, too?"

"Well, I should think so."

Now he also rooted up a sorrel-plant and sighed.

"Why do you sigh?" she asked.

Something was just crossing his mind, he said, and then asked, laughingly,
if her father still took her on his knee sometimes, as on the day when he
had been in the White House.

She laughed and said she was a big girl now, and he should not ask such
silly questions; but afterwards it came out that all the same she still
sat on her father's knee--"Of course, not astride any more!" she added,
laughing.

"Yes, that was a nice day," he said, "and I sat on his other knee. How
small we must have been then."

"And we were so pitifully stupid," she answered, "when I think now how you
wanted to whistle, and could not."

"Do you remember that?" he asked, and his eyes sparkled in the
consciousness of his present attainments in the art.

"Of course," she replied; "and when you went away you came running back
and--do you still remember?"

He remembered very well.

"Now you can whistle, of course," she laughed; "at our age that is no
longer an accomplishment--even I can do it," and she pointed her lips in a
very funny manner.

He was sad that she spoke so slightingly of his art, and reflected whether
it would not be better to give up whistling altogether.

"Why are you so silent?" she asked. "Are you tired, too?"

"Oh no, but you--eh?"

Yes; the walk through the sand and the noontide heat had tired her.

"Then come into our house and rest," he cried, with sparkling eyes, for he
thought what joy his mother would feel at seeing her.

But she refused. "Your father is not kindly disposed towards us, mamma
said, and that's why you may not come for a visit to Helenenthal. Your
father would perhaps send me away."

He replied, with a deep blush, "My father would not do that," and felt much
ashamed.

She cast a glance towards the Haidehof, which lay scarcely a hundred yards
from the road. The red fence shone in the sunshine, and even the gray
half-ruined barns looked more cheerful than usual.

"Your house looks very nice," she said, shading her eyes with her left
hand.

"Oh yes," he answered, his heart swelling with pride, "and there is an owl
nailed to the door of one of the sheds. But it shall become much nicer
still," he added after a little while, seriously, "only let me begin to
rule." And then he set to work to explain to her all his plans for the
future. She listened attentively, but when he had finished she said again,

"I am tired--I must rest;" and she wanted to sit down on the edge of the
ditch.

"Not here in the blazing sun," he cautioned her; "we'll look out for the
first juniper-bush we can find."

She gave him her hand, and let him drag her wearily over the heath, which
undulated with molehills like the waves on a lake, and near the edge of the
wood there were some solitary juniper-bushes, which stood out like a group
of black dwarfs above the level plain.

Under the first of these bushes she cowered down, so that its shadow
almost entirely shrouded her slight, delicate figure.

"Here is just room enough for your head," she said, pointing to a mole-hill
which was just within the range of shade.

He stretched himself out on the grass, his head resting on the mole-hill,
his forehead covered by the hem of her dress.

She leaned back on the bush in order to find support in its branches.

"The needles don't prick at all," she said; "they mean well by us. I
believe we could pass through the Sleeping Beauty's hedge of thorns."

"You--not I," he answered, lifting his eyes to her from his recumbent
position; "every thorn has pricked me. I am no fairy prince, not even a
simple Hans in luck, am I?"

"That will all come in time," she replied, consolingly, "you must not
always have sad thoughts."

He wanted to reply, but he lacked the right words; and as he looked up,
meditatively, a swallow flitted through the blue sky. Then involuntarily he
uttered a whistle as if he wanted to call it, and as it did not come, he
whistled again, and for a second and third time.

Elsbeth laughed, but he went on whistling--first without knowing how, and
without reflecting why; but when one tone after the other flowed from his
lips, he felt as if he had become very eloquent all of a sudden, and as if
in this manner he could say all that weighed on his heart and for which in
words he never could have found courage. All that which made him sad, all
that which he cared about came pouring forth. He shut his eyes and
listened, so to speak, to what the tones were saying for him. He thought
that the good God in heaven spoke for him, and was relating all that
concerned him, even that which he had never been clear about himself.

When he looked up he did not know how long he had been lying there
whistling, but he saw that Elsbeth was crying.

"Why do you cry?" he asked.

She did not answer him, but dried her eyes with her handkerchief and rose.

Silently they walked side by side for a while. When they reached the wood,
which lay thick and dark before them, she stopped and asked,

"Who has taught you that?"

"Nobody," he said; "it came to me quite naturally."

"Can you also play the flute?" she went on.

No, he could not; he had never even heard it; he only knew that it was the
favorite pastime of "old Fritz."

"You must learn it," she said.

He thought it would probably be too difficult for him.

"You should try all the same," she counselled him; "you must be an
artist--a great artist."

He was startled when she said that; he scarcely dared to follow out her
thoughts.

When they had reached the other side of the wood they separated. She went
towards the White House and he went back. When he passed the juniper-bush
where they had both been sitting all seemed to him like a dream, and
henceforth it always remained so to him. Two or three days elapsed before
he dared to say anything of his adventure to his mother, but then he could
contain himself no longer; he confessed everything to her.

His mother looked at him for a long time and then went out; but from that
time she used to listen secretly to catch, if possible, some notes of his
whistling.

The two children often walked home together, but such an hour as the one
beneath the juniper-bush never came to them again.

When they passed it they used to look at each other and smile, but neither
of them dared to propose sitting down again beneath it.

There was also no further mention of the flute-playing between them, but
Paul thought of it often enough in secret. It seemed to him like something
divine, unheard of--like the science which taught the table of logarithms.
Ah, if he had been clever and gifted like his two brothers; but he was only
a dull, stupid boy, who might be glad if others allowed him to help them.

He often asked himself what such flute-playing sounded like, and what kind
of people they were who were initiated into the mysteries of it. He formed
a high opinion of them, and thought that they must always cherish high and
holy thoughts, such as arose in his own mind occasionally when he was
deeply absorbed in his whistling.

And then came the day when he was to see a flute-player face to face.

It was a dreary, stormy afternoon in the month of November. It began to get
dark already as he left school and slowly walked along the village road
to-go home. Issuing from the public-house, which used to be frequented by
all the rogues of the neighborhood, wonderful sounds met his ear. He had
never heard the like, but he immediately knew this must be a flute-player.
Eagerly listening, he stopped at the door of the public-house. His heart
beat loudly, his limbs trembled. The sounds were very much like his
whistling, only much fuller and softer. "Such music the angels of God must
make at His throne," he thought to himself.

Only one thing was inexplicable to him: how this flute-playing, which
sounded so sad and plaintive, could come from such a place of ill-repute.
The shouts and the clinking of glasses which sounded in between filled his
soul with horror. Sudden rage seized him; if he had been tall and strong
he would have sprung into the house and turned all these noisy and drunken
people out into the street, so that the holy sounds should not be profaned.

At this moment the door was thrown open; a drunken workman reeled past him,
an obnoxious odor issued forth. Louder still grew the noise; the tones of
the flute could scarcely make themselves heard above it.

Then he took courage, and before the door was closed pressed through the
narrow opening into the inner room of the public-house.

He stood there, squeezed behind an empty brandy-cask. Nobody heeded him.

During the first few moments he could not distinguish anything.

The oppressive atmosphere and the noise had overwhelmed his senses, and the
tones of the flute grew harsh and unmelodious, so that they hurt his ears.

In the midst of the yelling and stamping people sat a ragged fellow on an
upturned cask; he had a bloated, pimply face, a brandy-nose, and black,
greasy hair--a figure, the sight of which made Paul shudder. It was he who
had played the flute.

Petrified with horror, the boy stared at him. It seemed to him as if the
heavens were falling and the world going to ruin.

The musician now put down his flute, uttered a few coarse words in a rough,
hoarse voice, greedily swallowed the brandy which was handed to him by
the by-standers, and, beating time with his feet, began playing a vulgar
ballad, which the listeners accompanied with loud brawling.

Then Paul fled from the den, and ran and ran till he was perfectly dizzy,
as if he wished to escape from his own thoughts.

When he was alone on the storm-swept heath, from the extremity of which a
sulphurous streak of evening light was shining, he stopped, hid his face in
his hands, and cried bitterly.

In the winter which followed, Paul stopped whistling altogether, and
flute-playing disgusted him even more. When he thought of it there stood
before his eyes the figure of the outcast who had profaned his yearnings
for art.

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