C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Freed from Dame Care
By Hermann Sudermann (1857–1928)
T
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 tasseled 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 yourself, 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-by.”
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 on to the sunny, flowery heath. Wild pinks, bluebells, and ground-ivy wove themselves into a many-colored carpet; and the white meadow-sweet lifted its waving blossoms, as if snowflakes 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 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 also 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 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 something. Do you remember?”
“I should think so!”
“How long is it since then?”
“Seventeen years.”
“O 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 an 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….
And directly after stood written, in big letters, this title:—
“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!”