Dame Care by Hermann Sudermann

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He did not see Elsbeth any more. With the beginning of the cold weather the
confirmation-classes had been transferred from the church to the vicarage,
and as there was no room there large enough to hold all the candidates, the
boys and girls were taught separately. Sometimes he saw Elsbeth's carriage
pass, but she herself was so wrapped up in furs and shawls that her face
could not be recognized. He did not even know whether she had seen him.

At this time he had to suffer much vexation from the brothers Erdmann, who
knew how to torment him beyond endurance. He was perfectly powerless
against them, for each of them was twice as strong as he; besides, they
always attacked him both at the same time, and while one held him the
other pinched. Not that they were thoroughly vicious; on the contrary,
they knew how to practise benevolence and generosity towards others; but
his quiet, reserved nature was just what they hated with all their heart.
They called him a hypocrite and a Puritan, and when they had thrashed him
would say, "There, now go and tell tales of us; that would be just like
you."

His rancor against these antagonists grew stronger and stronger. He often
reproached himself with behaving in a cowardly and dishonorable manner, and
accused himself of having a low, servile nature. One day, when he ran up
and down in the snow, he worked himself into such a fury that he resolved
to rid himself of these two wicked brothers were it at the risk of his own
life. He ran to the stables where the grindstone stood, thawed the frozen
water in the tub, and sharpened his pocket-knife till it cut a piece of
the thinnest tissue-paper. But when, on the following Monday, he was again
thrashed, he had not the courage to draw it from his pocket, and had once
more to reproach himself with cowardice. He put it off till the next time;
but that was the end of it. From his father, too, he had much to endure.
The latter was again taken up with grand plans, and when this was the case
he always felt very superior, and in an especially bad humor with Paul,
whom he despised for his narrow-mindedness.

"Why has not the tiniest spark of my genius been transmitted to that boy?"
he would remark; "how beautifully I could educate him to assist in my
plans. But he is too stupid--everything is lost upon him." It was now his
intention to found a company to make his moor profitable, to bring capital
together, and to be himself named director of it all, with a salary of
several thousand thalers. Every week he drove into town two or three
times, and often did not come home even on the following day. "It is
difficult enough," he would say, when he had slept off his intoxication,
"but I'll be even with the niggards! That Douglas, too, insolent fellow,
shall pay for it. If I only knew how to tackle him. I will never enter
Helenenthal again, were it only that I might not see how the fellow has
neglected it--for that he certainly has done--and in town I never get
sight of him. But pay for it--pay for it he shall. If he does not
immediately sign a whole bushel of shares, the devil take him."

Frau Elsbeth listened sadly to all this without saying a word, but Paul
used secretly to take down the key of the shed from its shelf, and go off
to have mute intercourse with "Black Susy." He stuck to the belief that she
would be the means of saving them.

When the Easter holidays were over, the confirmation-classes were again
held in the church. Boys and girls met together after a half year's
separation.

Elsbeth had changed very much during the winter. She almost looked like a
grown-up lady now.

She wore a longer dress and her hair was arranged in little curls on her
forehead.

Paul saluted her very shyly; he felt as if he were no longer fit for her;
but she rose from her seat, walked a few steps towards him, and shook his
hand heartily before everybody's eyes. During the ensuing lesson a sheet
of paper was circulated among the boys which caused much mirth. On it was
written, with all sorts of flourishes:

"_Paul Meyerhofer,
Elsbeth Douglas,
Betrothed."_

The writing was that of the younger Erdmann. Paul's hand searched for his
knife; for a moment he felt as if he could draw it on his neighbor here
in the open church. He snatched the paper from his hand and tore it into
little pieces.

Elsbeth looked at him wonderingly, and the vicar called him to order. Then
he became terrified at his own audacity. The Erdmanns must have understood
that on this subject he would not stand any joking, and made no further
attempts to tease him about Elsbeth.

The confirmation took place on the last Sunday before Whitsuntide. The
night before, Paul could not sleep, and at sunrise quietly got up, put on
the new clothes which his good aunt had sent him for this occasion, and
took a walk through the quiet yard and over the dewy fields, till he
reached the moor, which in its flowery garb lay brightly extended before
him.

At the sight of the rising sun he folded his hands and said an ardent
prayer. From this day forth he resolved to begin a new and better life,
forgive all offences, and love his enemies, as Jesus Christ had commanded.
Then he thought of the knife which he had once ground with a view to the
Erdmanns; he pulled it out of his pocket and threw it far away over the
moor, where it sank down in the swamp with a gurgling sound. Hot tears
streamed from his eyes; he thought himself bad and reprobate, and totally
unworthy to stand before God's altar; he scarcely dared to go home to the
farm; only when the twins came rushing towards him in their brand-new
muslin dresses did he feel happier and easier in his mind. He embraced his
sisters, and vowed in silence to be a true friend and support to them.

Then came his mother, dressed in a faded silk gown, kissed him on his
forehead and cheeks, and held his face between her two hands for a long
while, looking fixedly into his eyes. She wanted to say something to him,
but she could get out nothing more than "My boy, my dear boy!"

Even his father was in the rosiest humor to-day. He took both Paul's hands
in his, and made him a long speech as to how he must learn to look out for
what was great in human life, and to emulate him, his father, who, though
always pursued by misfortune and plundered by the wickedness of men, had
never allowed himself to be discouraged from aspiring to the stars, even
in this miserable hole into which adverse fate had let him sink. And he
knitted his brows and ruffled his hair, every inch of him grandeur and
importance.

Paul kissed both his hands and promised everything. At eight o'clock he saw
on the high-road which led across the heath a carriage roll by, the silver
ornaments of which sparkled in the morning sun.

For a long time he looked after it. Everything seemed to him like a dream.
He felt so exultantly glad that he was almost overpowered by happiness.
"How have I deserved all this?" he asked himself; and then he began
brooding over what the first trouble would be which would drag him down
from this bliss. When the twins announced to him that the carriage stood
ready for the drive to church he felt sad and depressed.

In the vicarage garden, where syringa and lilac were in bloom, and where
the sunbeams glittered on the lawn, stood two little groups of human beings
apart from each other--one black, the other white. The former were the
boys, the latter the girls.

Elsbeth, in her snowy muslin dress with a lace handkerchief crossed over
her bosom, looked white and graceful as a hawthorn blossom.

Her cheeks were very pale, and she kept her eyes lowered, and played
alternately with her hymn-book and a twig of lilac, both of which she held
in her hand.

Paul looked at her for a long time, but she did not see him. She would not
be disturbed in her devotion by any worldly thought.

And then the vicar came; the bells pealed, the organ resounded, and the
procession, ranged in couples, advanced slowly towards the altar.

Paul walked close behind the two Erdmanns, who in their long black coats
looked very solemn and demure. Suddenly the consciousness of his guilt
overcame him more forcibly than ever. He bent forward a little, touched
them softly on the shoulder, and whispered, with moist eyes,

"Forgive me, I have behaved so badly to you."

They nudged each other and smiled maliciously. One of them half turned
round, and whispered, with a face of pathetic misery and a look of injured
innocence,

"My son, we forgive you."

Paul felt very well that they were mocking him, but his heart was so full
of devotion and love that no mocking could affect him.

The children ranged themselves on both sides of the altar.

Paul sent a shy glance into the body of the church, which was crammed with
people, but he could not distinguish anybody.

The hour for the sermon was past. He gazed down before him. All seemed like
a dream.

A little later he felt his knees resting on a soft cushion and the hand of
the vicar on his head. What he said to him he did not hear. He saw Elsbeth
on the other side, crying quietly with her handkerchief to her eyes, and
thought,

"Ah, cry away, cry away, you will soon laugh again."

And then he asked himself why people always laughed so much, while on the
whole there were so few laughable things in the world.

The organ now intoned the hymn, "Praise ye the Lord, the mighty King of
Glory." The chorus of the congregation sounded jubilant, and his gaze
wandered up to the sunbeams which fell in iridescent light through the
painted church windows like a rainbow.

And while he was gazing at it he suddenly started. Just opposite the cross
which crowned the altar stood a dark woman clad in gray, of supernatural
stature, looking down upon him with big, hollow eyes. It was the penitent
Magdalene.

He felt a cold shudder run through his frame.

"Dame Care," he murmured, and bent his head as if he wished to accept with
humility what she might grant him for life.

And when he lifted his eyes again the sun shone more magnificently than
before.

Fiery red and emerald green sparkled the rays, weaving a radiant halo
round the gray dame's head.

But she stood there sadly in the midst of all the brilliant radiance, and
stared down upon him with her big, hollow eyes.

Then the organ began the finale with swelling chords. A joyful thrill
passed through the congregation. The troop of children hastened to throw
themselves into the arms of their parents, and a kindly glance greeted him
from Elsbeth's eyes.

CHAPTER VIII.

Paul now began to help with the farming. He faithfully kept the vow which
he had made on the morning of his confirmation. He worked like the meanest
of his servants, and when his mother begged him to spare himself, he kissed
her hand and replied, "You know we have a great deal to make good."

In the evening, when the servants had retired to rest and the twins had
frollicked till they fell asleep, mother and son often sat together for
hours and planned and calculated; but when some resolution had ripened
within them and a gleam of hope shone from their eyes, it often happened
that they would suddenly start and let their heads droop with a sigh; but
neither of them gave utterance to that which weighed on their minds.

About this time Frau Elsbeth began to age rapidly. Long, deep furrows lined
her face, her chin became very prominent, and silver streaks appeared in
her hair. Only from the depths of her sorrowful eyes one could still see
how beautiful she had once been.

"Yes, you see, I am quite an old woman now," she said to her son one
morning, as she combed her hair before the looking-glass, "and luck has
never yet come."

"Hush, mother, what else am I here for?" he answered, though he did not
feel hopeful at all.

Then she smiled sadly, stroked his cheeks and his brow, and said, "Yes, you
certainly look as if you had caught luck in its flight! but I won't speak
like this," she continued; "what should I do without you?"

Such moments of overflowing love had to satisfy them for a long time, for
often months passed by without mother or son daring to say any loving words
to each other; their hearts were too sorrowful.

The twins meanwhile grew up--two frolicksome, apple-cheeked tomboys, for
whom no tree was too high, no ditch too deep. Their curly brown hair fell
over their foreheads in a thousand little ringlets, and beneath them two
pairs of eyes peeped out, as full of mischief and as sparkling, both with
shyness and impudence, as if a stray sunbeam were laughing out of black
forest depths.

The laughter of these two resounded from morning to night through the
lonely Howdahs, and the quietness when they were at school or running
about in the open fields was the more oppressive.

It was all the same to the twins whether there was sunshine or storm in
the house; their heads were always full of tricks, and when at times their
father's storming grew too insupportable and they deemed it more prudent
to, hide behind the stove, they made up for it there by pinching one
another's legs.

They were devoted to Paul, which, however, did not prevent them from
quietly claiming as their property the best morsels from his plate, the
whitest sheets of paper from his writing-case, and the finest buttons off
his trousers, for they used to steal like magpies.

He was very anxious about them, for he feared they would become wilder and
wilder, especially as his mother grew more tired and despondent, and left
matters to take their own course. But he began his educational experiments
at the wrong end. His warnings were of no avail, and once as he was in
the middle of a beautiful sermon one of them suddenly jumped on his knee,
pulled his nose, and called out to his sister, "Fanny, he is getting a
beard."

Then the other one climbed after her, and both of them tried who could
pinch him the most. But when he got seriously angry with them, they began
to sulk, and said, "Fie, we won't speak to you any more."

He had not seen Elsbeth again since the day of their confirmation, though a
whole year had elapsed meanwhile.

It was said she had been sent to town to learn there how to move in
society. This word had given his heart a pang; he scarcely knew what it
meant, but he vaguely felt that she was farther and farther removed from
him.

But it happened one day about Easter-tide that he had to work on a piece of
ground which lay removed from the other fields and far away at the edge of
the wood. He was sowing the seed himself, and a servant with two horses
went harrowing after him.

He wore a big seed-cloth round his shoulders, and watched with quiet
pleasure how the grains sparkled like a golden fountain as they sank into
the earth. Then it seemed to him that he saw something bright between the
dark trunks of the trees, rocking up and down like a cradle suspended in
the air. But he scarcely allowed himself time to notice it, for sowing is
the kind of work which requires all one's attention.

At length the pause for breakfast came. The servant sat down on a sack
of corn, but he himself, feeling hot, went towards the wood to be in the
shade.

He threw a passing glance at the suspended cradle, and thought, "That must
be a hammock;" but he little cared who was lying in it.

Then suddenly it seemed to him as if he heard his name called.

"Paul, Paul!" It sounded sweet and familiar, and in a soft, clear voice,
which he seem to know.

He started and looked up.

"Paul, do come here," the voice called again.

He turned hot and cold, for now he well knew who it was.

He cast a shy look at his working-suit, and began to untie the knots of his
seed-cloth; but it slipped round to the back of his neck, so that he could
not reach it.

"Do come as you are," called out the voice; and now he could see how the
upper part of her body raised itself from the hammock, while a book, bound
in red and gold, glided from her hands and fell to the ground.

Hesitatingly he approached, trying secretly to wipe his boots in the moss,
for the soil of the fields was sticking to them.

She on her part had only this moment perceived that her feet and white
stockings showed beneath her dress, and hastily tried to cover them with
the shawl which had been put round her shoulders. But she could not pull it
from under her arms, and she could think of nothing better than to crouch
down quickly so that she looked like a hen, while the hammock swayed to and
fro.

Perhaps she might have had the intention to impress him a little with her
elegance and freshly-acquired social education, but now, as fate would have
it, she did not look at him less blushingly or shyly than he at her.

On his side he observed nothing of her state of mind; he only saw that she
had grown very beautiful, that her hair was twisted up into a very
aristocratic knot, and that the bow at her bosom trembled slightly on her
rounded form. It was quite clear to him that she had now grown into a
lady.

A long while elapsed before either of them spoke a word.

"Good-day," she said, at last, with a little laugh, and stretched out her
right hand to him, for she soon saw that she had the best of it.

He was silent and smiled at her.

"Help me to pull out my shawl," she continued.

He did so.

"That's it; now turn round."

He did that, too.

"Now it's all right." She had made herself comfortable, thrown the shawl
quickly over her feet again, and was looking up at him roguishly through
the meshes of the hammock. "It's really delightful to be with you again,"
she said; "you are the best of them all. Have you also been longing for
me?"

"No," he answered, truthfully.

"Oh, get away with you!" she replied, and, pouting, tried to turn over
to the other side; but the hammock began to sway too much again, so she
laughed and remained lying as she was.

He wondered inwardly at her being so merry. He never heard any one laugh
like that, except the twins, and they were children. But this laugh gave
him back his self-possession, for he felt instinctively how much older
than she he had grown during the interval.

"I suppose you have been very happy all this time?" he asked.

"Thank God, yes!" she replied. "Mamma is always rather delicate, but that
is all." A shadow passed over her face, but disappeared again the next
moment, and then she chatted on: "I have been in town--oh dear, what I have
gone through there! I must tell you about it at the first opportunity. I
have had dancing lessons. I have also had admirers--you can fancy that!
They serenaded me under my windows, sent me anonymous bouquets, and
verses, too--original verses! There was a student, among others, with a
white-braided coat, and a green, white, and red cap; oh, he understood it!
The things he would say to you! Afterwards he engaged himself to Betty
Schirrmacher, one of my friends, but quite in secret--nobody knows it but
myself."

Paul breathed freely again, for the student had already begun to make him
uncomfortable.

"And were you not vexed?" he asked.

"Why?"

"At his being fickle to you."

"No; we are above such things," she replied, shugging her shoulders. "Oh,
you know--they are all stupid boys in comparison with you!"

He felt quite frightened at the idea of calling a student a stupid boy,
and, above all, in comparison with him.

"My brother is no stupid boy," he retorted.

"I don't know your brother," she said, with philosophic calmness; "perhaps
he is not. Oh, I have grown ever so much older," she went on. "I took
literature lessons, and from that I learned many beautiful things."

Tormenting envy awoke in him.

"Do pick up that book."

He did so.

"Do you know that?"

In gold letters he read on the red cover the words, "Heine's Buch der
Lieder" (Heine's Book of Songs), and shook his head sadly.

"Ah, then you don't know anything! Oh, how much there is in that book! I
must lend it to you. There, read that; it teaches one a great deal. And
after reading it for a little while one generally begins to cry."

"Is it so sad, then?" he asked, looking at the cover with shy curiosity.

"Yes, very sad; as beautiful and as sad as--as--It only speaks of love, of
nothing else; but you feel such a great longing overpower you, and that you
would like to fly off to the Ganges, where the lotus blossoms, and where--"
She stopped, and then she laughed merrily and said, "Oh, that is too
stupid; is it not?"

"What?"

"What I am chattering about."

"No; I could listen to you for my whole life."

"No! could you? Oh, you know--it is so cosey here; I feel so secure when
you are near me," and she stretched herself out in the net-work as if she
wanted to lean her head on his shoulder.

A strange feeling of happiness and peace came over him, such as he had not
felt for a long time.

"Why do you look away?" she asked.

"I don't look away."

"Yes, you do.... You must look at me. I like that.... You have such
earnest, faithful eyes. Oh, I know now what to compare those poems with!"

"Well, with what?"

"With your whistling. That is also so--so--well, you know what I mean....
Do you still whistle sometimes?"

"Very seldom."

"And you have not learned to play the flute either, I suppose?"

"No."

"Oh, fie! If you love me, you will learn it.... I will give you a beautiful
flute next time."

"I have nothing to give you in return."

"Oh yes--you shall give me all the songs which you play. And when your
heart is very sad ... well, only read that book; everything is in there."

Paul looked at it from all sides. "What a wonderful book it must be!" he
thought.

"And now tell me something about yourself," she said. "What are you doing?
What are you working at? How is your dear mamma?"

Paul gave her a grateful glance. He felt he could speak to-day of all that
was in his heart; then it suddenly occurred to him that the pause for
breakfast was long over, and that the servant was waiting for him with the
horses. By noon he must finish, for after dinner the cart was to drive to
the town with a load of peat which he had had secretly cut.

"I must go to work," he faltered.

"Oh, what a pity! And when will you have done?"

"At dinner-time."

"I can't wait so long as that or mamma will be uneasy. But in the next few
days do come and look here again--perhaps you'll find me. Now I shall lie
here for another hour or so and watch you. It looks quite splendid when you
walk up and down in your big snowy white cloth and the grain flies round
you."

He gave her his hand silently and went away.

"I shall leave the book here," she called after him; "fetch it when you
have finished."

The servant smiled knowingly when he saw him come, and Paul hardly dared to
raise his eyes to him.

Each time when he passed at his work the place where she was resting in
the wood she raised herself up a little and waved to him with her pocket-
handkerchief. About twelve o'clock she rolled up her hammock, stepped to
the edge of the wood, and called out a farewell to him through her folded
hands.

He took off his cap to thank her, but the servant looked the other way and
whistled softly, as if he had seen nothing.

During dinner that day his mother could not take her eyes from her son, and
when they were alone she went up to him, took his head in both her hands,
and said,

"What has happened to you, my boy?"

"Why?" he asked, with embarrassment.

"Your eyes sparkle so suspiciously."

He laughed loudly and ran away; but when at supper she still looked at
him--inquiringly and sadly--he was sorry that he had not given her his
confidence, and went after her and confessed all that had happened to him.

Then her haggard face suddenly lit up as by a ray of sunshine, and while he
crept away ashamed, with glowing cheeks, she looked after him with moist
eyes and folded her hands as if in prayer.

He sat up in his room till nearly midnight, his head leaning on his hands.
The mysterious book was lying on his knee; but he could not read it,
because his father had forbidden him to burn a light at night. He had to
wait till Sunday.

He was musing on how she had altered. If only she had not laughed so
often; her mirth estranged her from him, and the full blooming life by
which she was surrounded removed her far away into that distant country
where happy people live. And although she appeared as good and kind as
ever, she could not fail to despise him sooner or later because he was
nothing but a peasant, and stupid and awkward into the bargain.

A wild tumult of happiness, shame, and self-reproach raged within him,
for he thought he might have behaved in a much more dignified manner. An
unaccountable fear was mixed up with it all which almost choked him, though
in vain he racked his mind to find out whom this fear was connected with.

The next afternoon he could see from the yard, where he was putting up some
poles, something white moving to and fro at the edge of the wood. He set
his teeth with pain and vexation, but could not make up his mind to abandon
his work.

For two days more the white was to be seen there--then it disappeared
altogether.

On Sunday morning he took the book of poems out of his box and went with it
towards the wood. At dinner-time he was still absent, and in the evening
the twins, who were playing at hide-and-seek on the heath, found him
whistling under a juniper-bush with the tears streaming down his cheeks.

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