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.
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 letmealone 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?”
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 mildWatches till dreams shall bring thee peace—Sleep on!“The little bell whose tones so clearFrom out the wood resounded hereIts 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 wildOf heath and hill and many things—Sleep on!“Thy little bird upon the sillChirps 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 mildWatches 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 nightHer 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.’“‘Dear heart, dost thou know how forsaken I dwell?Oh, take me, poor maiden, o’er moor and o’er fell,But give, give me love!’When of her company wearied at last,He said, ‘Pretty rogue we’ve a pleasant time passed,So hast thou had love!”“‘And of my love art thou weary, dear heart?So will I stay by thee, nor evermore part,For I long for thy love.’But heartily laughed the knight bold and gay;He saddled his horse and he rode far away,And left her in sorrow to love.“And when the time had passed sadly away,In sorrow her son saw the light of the day,An offspring of love.She carried him out in the night on the heath;‘With a kiss, thou poor child, will I do thee to death—I will kill thee with love.”“‘Do to me, judge, what you will,’ then she cried.‘Forsaken am I of the whole world so wide,And left without love.’She mounted the scaffold in bridal array,And said ‘Take me hence, thou good God, I pray,And I long sore for love!’”
Then his two sisters came to his mind, and he had a feeling as if his mother had known all and forgiven all beforehand.
And directly after stood written, in big letters, this title:
There was once a mother, to whom the good God had given a son, but she was so poor and lonely that she had nobody who could stand godmother to him. And she sighed, and said, “Where shall I get a godmother from?” Then one evening at dusk there came a woman to her house who was dressed in gray and had a gray veil over her head. She said, “I will be your son’s godmother, and I will take care that he grows up a good man and does not let you starve; but you must give me his soul.”
Then his mother trembled, and said, “Who are you?”
“I am Dame Care,” answered the gray woman; and the mother wept; but as she suffered much from hunger, she gave the woman her son’s soul and she was his godmother.
And her son grew up and worked hard to procure her bread. But as he had no soul, he had no joy and no youth, and often he looked at his mother with reproachful eyes, as if he would ask,
“Mother, where is my soul?”
Then the mother grew sad and went out to find him a soul.
She asked the stars in the sky, “Will you give me a soul?” But they said, “He is too low for that.”
And she asked the flowers on the heath; they said, “He is too ugly.”
And she asked the birds in the trees; they said, “He is too sad.”
And she asked the high trees; they said, “He is too humble.”
And she asked the clever serpents, but they said, “He is too stupid.”
Then she went away weeping. And in the wood she met a young and beautiful princess surrounded by her court.
And because she saw the mother weeping she descended from her horse and took her to the castle, which was all built of gold and precious stones.
There she asked, “Tell me why you weep?” And the mother told the princess of her grief that she could not procure her son a soul nor joy and youth.
Then said the princess, “I cannot see anybody weep; I will tell you something—I will give him my soul.”
Then the mother fell down before her and kissed her hands.
“But,” said the princess, “I will not do it for nothing; he must ask me for it.” Then the mother went to her son, but Dame Care had laid her gray veil over his head, so that he was blind and could not see the princess.
And the mother pleaded, “Dear Dame Care, set him free.”
But Care smiled—and whoever saw her smile was forced to weep—and she said, “He must free himself.”
“How can he do that?” asked the mother.
“He must sacrifice to me all that he loves,” said Dame Care.
Then the mother grieved very much, and lay down and died. But the princess waits for her suitor to this very day.
“Mother, mother!” he cried, and sank down on the grave.
“Come,” said Elsbeth, struggling with her tears as she laid her hand on his shoulder; “let mother be, she is at peace; and she shall not harm us any more—your wicked Dame Care!”
Dame Care, the deep gray-veiled dame,You know her, dear parents, not only by name;She came, His thirty years to-day,And into strange countries she followed your way.As the November day, sad and dreary and dull,Lay on the heath in a leaden lull,And in the willow-trees the windWhistled your wedding-dance, rough and unkind.And when, after hours without any rest,In Littau’s forest you found a nest,And trembling stood at the threshold so bare,She entered with you, gray Dame Care,And waving her arms she blessed the two,The home you entered, the house and you,And blessed those two, who, without harm,Still slept in creation’s shielding arm.The empty cradle that time did markStands under the staircase in the dark,Indulging in long deserved rest,As four times it saw a new little guest.Then when sun sunk, and all round slept,From some dark corner a shadow crept,And staggered dumbly and grew and rose,And crept with stretched arms to the cradle close.And what Dame Care then promised to you,Life has so faithfully made it trueIn sighs and weeping and ever and aye,In troubles of weary working-day,In pain of so many a sleepless night,With need and torment ever in sight.And you are gray, your strength grew lame,But ever still the deep-veiled DameWalks with fixed eyes and blessing handAll through the poor house, to pass without endFrom the tables so poor to the chests so bare.From threshold to threshold, and blows in the glareOf the flame on the hearth, and ever and ayeRivets the weary day to the day.O dearest parents, don’t cease to strive,And as you had work and cares all your life,A life so hard and a life so long,So will at last from Heaven descendA day of rest when care has an end.We boys are young, and we can strive,Our courage is still fresh in life.We know how to fight with care and need,And where luck’s flower is blooming so sweet.Soon we return, and when we are there,We laughingly turn her out, gray Dame Care.
II. DU (Thou) AND SIR (You), pages 68, 115, 116: References to the German use of the former pronoun to denote greater intimacy than the latter implies.
III. AUGUST, page 143: Name of the chief clown in the Berlin Circus.
IV. POLTERABEND, page 275; Evening before the wedding. In some parts of Germany it is customary for the friends of the bride to bring old china or glass, which they smash before her door.