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 mild
Watches till dreams shall bring thee peace--Sleep on!
“The little bell whose tones so clear
From out the wood resounded here
Its 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 wild
Of heath and hill and many things--
Sleep on!
“Thy little bird upon the sill
Chirps 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 mild
Watches 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 night
Her 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:
THE FAIRY TALE OF DAME CARE.
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!”
NOTES.
L TRANSLATION OF THE DEDICATION:
TO MY PARENTS.
FOR THE 26TH OF NOVEMBER.
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 wind
Whistled 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 mark
Stands 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 true
In 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 Dame
Walks with fixed eyes and blessing hand
All through the poor house, to pass without end
From the tables so poor to the chests so bare.
From threshold to threshold, and blows in the glare
Of the flame on the hearth, and ever and aye
Rivets 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 descend
A 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.
THE END.