Der Wunsch. English

by Hermann Sudermann

  V.

  The lights round Olga's coffin had burnt down.

  The guests, who for so long had surrounded the bier in solemn silence,began to move to and fro, and to look round for refreshments.

  Mrs. Hellinger, who was receiving condolences, and at the same time,with a great profusion of tears and pocket handkerchiefs, extolling thevirtues of the deceased, suddenly, in the midst of her grief, provedherself an attentive and liberal hostess. The guests gave a sigh ofrelief when the doors of the dining-room were thrown open, and from theresplendent table a sweet odour of roast meats, _compotes_ and herringsalad greeted them.

  Mr. Hellinger, senior, praised the Lord, and with a few privilegedfriends, drank the specially fine claret which he set before them inhonour of the occasion. They were not yet agreed whether an innocentgame of cards would be disparaging to the general mourning, and decidedto send delegates to the hostess to obtain her permission.

  There was plenty of life and bustle in the Hellingers' house--one mighthave imagined one were at a wedding.

  The physician, who dropped in late upon this merry company, lookedabout anxiously for Robert. He was nowhere to be seen.

  Thereupon he took one of the guests aside and inquired after him. Yes,he had been there, had looked about him with startled eyes, and hadsilently moved aside when any one wanted to shake hands with him. Butafter a very few minutes his disappearance had been noticed.

  The physician went into the entrance-hall, and hunted among the guests'wraps for Robert's cloak. It was lying there yet.

  With the freedom of an old friend of the family, he then commenced hissearch through the back rooms of the house, which were quiet anddeserted; for the servants were busy waiting at table.

  In a narrow, dark chamber, where disused furniture was piled up, hefound him sitting on an overturned wooden case, brooding with his headin his hands.

  "Robert, my boy, what are you doing here?" he cried out to him.

  He raised his head slowly and said, "I suppose there are merrygoings-on in the other part of the house?"

  The physician laid his hands on his shoulders:

  "I am anxious about you, my boy. Since three days you grudge a word toany of us; you are on the road to madness, if you go on like this."

  "What do you want?" answered Robert, with a sigh that broke from himlike a cry of anguish. "I am calm, quite calm." Then he once morerested his bushy head upon his two hands, and fell again to brooding.

  The old man sat down at his side and began to remonstrate with him. Heforgot no single thing that one is won't to say in such cases, andadded many a comforting, strengthening word of his own making. Robertsat there motionless, he hardly gave any sign of interest. But when theold man came to no stop, he interrupted him, and said:

  "Leave that, uncle, that is sweet stuff for little children. To the onequestion on which for me depends life and death, you, too, can give meno answer."

  "What question?"

  "Uncle, see, I am calm now--wonderfully calm--no fever, no frenzy isupon me as I speak, and so you will believe me when I tell you that Ido not know--how I shall live through this night!"

  "For God's sake, what are you about to do?"

  Robert shrugged his shoulders.

  "I do not know," he said, "whatever suggests itself at the moment willdo for me. I am only sorry for the poor little mite that will have togo on living without a father--perhaps I shall take it with me on myjourney--I do not know. I only know the one thing, that I cannot go onlike this any longer!"

  The old man, trembling with fear in every limb, heaped reproaches uponhim. That would be cowardly, that would be unmanly, and only worthy ofa miserable weakling.

  Robert listened to him calmly, then he said:

  "You would be right, uncle, if it were her death which made me despairof myself and of my happiness! But, good heavens!"--he laughed harshlyand bitterly--"I have long since accustomed myself to lay no claim tohappiness. As for me, I would quietly bear my affliction,--(I haveexperience in that, as you know, for I have already lowered one lovedbeing into the grave),--and go on raking and scraping money together,as I have been doing for so long, and doing in the midst of the deepestsorrow; for the interests, you know, they take little notice of thestate of one's feelings, and even if one's hand grows numb with painand despair--they have to be paid! But that is not what makes my brainso disorganised--for I am disorganised, you may believe me; before myeyes sparks are constantly dancing, my body is convulsed, and my bloodrushes like fire through my veins. And yet I am quite calm with it all,and see everything all around as clearly as if I could look rightthrough it. Only the one thing I cannot comprehend--it haunts me like aterrible phantom by day and by night, and when I seek to grasp it, itescapes me--this one thing: _Wherefore_ did she die?"

  The old man started. He thought of the letter and the promise that thedead girl had therein required of him.

  Robert continued: "There is a voice which constantly screams into myears, 'It is _your_ fault!' _How_ so I do not know; for however much Iprobe the depths of my soul, I find no wrong there that I did her; andyet the voice will not be silenced. I tell myself,--'This is a fixedidea.' I tell myself, 'You are tormenting yourself; you are a fool andwicked--wicked towards yourself and your child;' but it is no good,uncle!--it will not be silenced. And, after all, there may be somethingin it, uncle? Would Olga not be alive yet, if it were not for me? If,on the preceding evening, things had not happened----"

  He stopped, shuddering, and covered his face with his hands. Tearlesssobs shook his mighty frame. Then he said: "Uncle, I cannot--I dare notthink of it; it drives me out of my senses. I feel--as if I must breakand dash to pieces everything with these fists."

  "And yet you must pull yourself together, my boy," said the old man,"and tell me everything successively; for that is the only way to throwlight upon the mystery."

  There ensued a silence in the dark room. The old man trembled in everylimb. He saw the outlines of the massive figure that stood out darklyagainst the light window of the chamber; he saw the heaving of thechest which rose and sank and panted and groaned like the crater of avolcano; he felt on his skin the hot waves of breath from Robert'smouth.

  "Pull yourself together, my boy," he repeated softly.

  Robert waged a conflict within himself Then he stretched himself as ifwith newly awakening energy and said:

  "All right, uncle; you shall know all....

  "Since the day on which she so proudly and coldly refused my offer Ihad not met her again. It is true she came as before to the manor tolook after the child and the household. I know now that it was forMartha's and not for my sake; but there was a silent understandingbetween us, so that we avoided meeting each other. She chose the hourswhen she knew I was busy out in the sheds and stables, and I did notreturn to the house until I had seen her disappear through the gate.

  "On Tuesday, as it happened, I was obliged to go out to the manor farm;but half a mile outside the town, on that bad road, my axle broke. As Ihad taken no driver with me, and far and wide there was no one insight, I myself mounted the harnessed horse and rode back to fetchhelp. At the manor the overseer told me that the young lady had gonehome some time before. It was, in fact, already beginning to grow verydark. 'Well, then there's no danger,' I think to myself, and walk intothe house.

  "When I open the door of the sitting-room, I see in the dusk a darkshadow that flits hurriedly out of the room.

  "'Who may that be?' I think, and follow in pursuit.

  "In the child's room I find--_her_--just as she is trying hard tounbolt the door leading to the corridor, which, as you know, is alwayskept locked on account of the draught.

  "Then, uncle, it comes over me as if I must rush towards her; but justin time I recollect who she is--and who I am.

  "I see how her hands are trembling. 'Do not be angry with me, Olga,' Isaid, stammering; 'I did not wish to do you any harm. I am only here bychance. I will henceforth arrange so tha
t you may never meet me.'

  "Then she lets her hands drop, and gives me a look that makes me feelhot and cold all over. 'Martha never looked at me like that,' I thinkto myself. I want to speak, but the words will not come, for I am soconfused and embarrassed. She stands pressing her tall figure close upto the door, as if to take refuge there from me. I hear her heavy,feverish breathing. 'Olga,' I say, 'it was presumption on my part thatI ever dared to think of gaining your hand; I know very well that I amnot worthy of you. I beg of you, forget all about it; I will neverremind you of it.'

  "And at this moment, uncle--how shall I describe it to you?--leave mefor a second the memory--yet what boots it?--I will be strong, uncle--Iwill pull myself together--at this moment she rushes towards me, claspsme round, covers my face with kisses, and then suddenly she sinks downwith a sigh and lies there at my feet as if felled by a stroke. I gazedown upon her like one in a dream.

  "'It is not true,' I cry to myself; 'it is madness. You were ready tolook up to her as to a goddess, and now she throws herself away on onewho is not worthy of her.'

  "I hardly dared to touch her; but I had to raise her up; and when Iheld her in my arms she began to sob bitterly, as if she would cry hervery soul out. 'Olga, why are you crying?' say I. 'All is well now.'But even I, giant of a fellow as I am, start crying like a littlechild.

  "'Forgive, me, Robert!' I hear her voice at my ear; 'I have grieved yousorely, but I will never--never do so again.'

  "'And will you always love me now?' I ask; for even now I cannotrealise it yet.

  "'Oh, you--you,' she says, 'I love you more than anything else in theworld,' and hides her face upon my neck.

  "But now, uncle, hear what followed! When I see her dark head of curlslying so submissively upon my shoulder the question arises within me:'Is this the same Olga who, a few days ago, turned from you so calmlyand proudly when you modestly and humbly asked her consent?'

  "So I said to her: 'Olga,' said I, 'how could you torture me so? Have Ibecome a different man in this short space of time?' Then I see hergrow as white as the chalk on the walls, and hear her voice in my ear:'Do not question me; for God's sake do not question me!'

  "A feeling of terror awakens within me lest I may perhaps lose herto-morrow--as I have won her to-day.

  "'Olga,' say I, 'if you are so changeable in your decisions, who willgive me surety----?'

  "I stop short, for in her face lies something which commands silence.She tears herself away from me and flings herself into a chair.

  "'As you wish to know,' she says, and the while with darkening browsstares upon the ground--'I was afraid--I doubted your love, and thoughtyou might let me feel that I came to you without a penny----'

  "And with that the lie makes her face all aflame.

  "'Olga,' I cry out, 'could you think that of me? Do you remember 'WhatI reminded her of was one night on her father's estate when I camewooing Martha and thought to return sadly with a refusal; for Marthawas ready to sacrifice herself and her happiness, so that I might marryanother. Then she--Olga--had come to me in the middle of the night, andhad opened my eyes for me, blind fool that I was, and spoken words tome, words full of contempt for mammon, which sounded like Love's songof triumph in my ears. _Those_ words I spoke to her now; for each onewas indelibly stamped on my memory.

  "'At that time, then--you had such brave and generous thoughts--whenyou spoke on Martha's behalf,' I cried out to her, 'and now--when theyapply to yourself----' I look into her face, which is trying to smileand ever smiling; but this smile grew rigid, and in the midst of it sheclosed her eyes and fell down fainting, like a log of wood.

  "It was trouble enough to bring her back to life; for I did not care tocall in any help. Quite a quarter of an hour she lay there--not muchotherwise than she is lying now--then she opened her eyes, and for along time gazed silently into my face--so sorrowfully, so wearily andhopelessly, that I quite trembled for her. And thereupon she folded herhands and spoke up to me softly and imploringly:

  "'Give me time, Robert; I have overtaxed my strength. I must first growaccustomed to it----'

  "I, however, was so filled with the exuberance of my new happiness thatI believed I could by force compel her too to be happy. 'If we loveeach other, Olga,' I cried, 'and the deceased says "Yes" and "Amen" toour union, I should like to see who could object! Therefore be braveand cheerful, my child!' But she was anything but brave or cheerful.And not till now--when she is dead--have I realised how utterlymiserable and broken down she was as she lay there on the cushions--shewho as a rule was so proud and severe in her behaviour to herself andothers. It was as if some intense sorrow had cut the innermost nerve ofher life in twain. That is all clear to me now, but then I did not seeit--I would not see it; and I went on remonstrating with her,comforting her as I thought. She listened to me, but said nothing; onlynow and then she nodded her head, and a smile of unutterable sadnessand weariness played about her lips.

  "I put it all down to the excitement of the moment and to the sadnessof the last few years, which must rise up once more all the mightierwithin her, now that, for her too, a new happiness was dawning tosupplant it.

  "'And the first thing we do,' said I, 'Olga, shall be to visit thechurchyard. When we have stood at Martha's grave, my mother'sresistance and the ill-will of the whole world need no longer affectus.'

  "Then she let her hands drop from her face, looked at me with greatterror-stricken eyes, and asked in a perfectly toneless voice: 'Youwant to go to the churchyard with me?'

  "'Yes, with you,' I answered; 'and now, at once, if you are willing.'

  "'Then a shudder ran through her frame, and in a strangely hoarse toneshe said: 'Have patience till to-morrow; to-morrow I will do what youwish.'

  "'Yes, my dear, good child,' I then said; 'put all foolish fancies outof your head by tomorrow, and think to yourself that _she_ is not angrywith us. We shall certainly not forget her! And must not our mutualgrief for her bind us all the more closely together for the whole ofour lives? Her memory will always be with us; and do you not alsobelieve that from her whole heart she would bless our union if shecould look down upon us from heaven? Has she not left us her child as alegacy, that we might watch over it together, and not surrender it toany stranger?'

  "Then she threw herself down in front of the little cot, in which thelittle creature lay blissfully dozing, and pressed her face against itslittle head.

  "Thus she lay for a long time, and I let her lie.

  "When she rose up, the rigid calm once more rested upon her face thatwe were wont to see there. She gave me her hand, and said: 'Go, myfriend; leave me alone.' And I went, for I was ready in all things todo her bidding; I did not even embrace her.

  "A quarter of an hour later I saw her cross the courtyard. I waited atthe window; but she did not look back any more.

  "Next morning--well, you know, uncle, how I found her then. And atthat moment I was as if struck by lightning. Uncle, I may grow old andgrey--that moment will destroy every pleasure, and every laugh will dieaway from my lips as its consequence. But at least I might live. Imight drag on this miserable existence, so that my child should not bedeprived of its modest share of happiness. Only that one thing I mustknow--I must be freed from that one horrible idea, else I cannot goon--I cannot, however hard I try. Else I shall rot away alive.... Someone must arise, even if it be from the other side of the grave, andmust tell me wherefore she died!"

  Once more there was silence in the dark room. Nothing was audible butthe heavy breathing of the two men and the rustling of a rat, which hadaccompanied Robert's story with the monotonous, hollow music of itsgnawing.

  The old man struggled hard within himself. Should he treacherouslydisclose the secret of her life as he had already betrayed the secretof her death? But was there not, in this case, a good deed to be done?Did it not mean freeing him whom she had loved above all things, fromthe torments to which--either a mistaken idea or a secret consciousnessof guilt--condemned him? It seemed like a miracle, like specialhe
avenly grace, that the mouth which seemed closed for ever, shouldonce more be permitted to open, to bring peace to the loved one.

  The old man gave a deep sigh. He had taken his resolution. "Andsupposing she should have taken thought, Robert," he said, "to give anaccount to you from beyond the grave?"

  Robert uttered a cry, and clutched his wrists.

  "What do you mean by that, uncle?"

  "If you had not burrowed in your grief like a mole, and taken flightbefore every human face, you would have known long ago what is in everyone's mouth, namely, that on the morning of her death I received aletter from her----"

  "You--uncle--from her----?"

  "Goodness, my boy, you are breaking the bones in my body. Do firstlisten to me patiently"--and he told him the contents of the letter.

  Robert had started to his feet and was nervously running his fingersthrough his hair. His eyes, which were staring down upon the old man,gleamed through the darkness.

  "And the book--give it to me--where is it?"

  The old man informed him how great was the danger in which Olga'ssecret was hovering, and what anxiety he had himself passed through onits account.

  "Wait, I will fetch it," cried Robert, and hurried towards the door.

  The old man held him back. "Your mother has the key--take care that hersuspicion is not aroused."

  "The door is half broken, I will smash it entirely."

  "They will hear you downstairs."

  "They are enjoying themselves much too well!" answered Robert, andlaughed grimly. "Come, we will go together."

  And through a back door, along the dark corridor, up the creakingstairs, the two men crept like two thieves who have come to takeadvantage of some festive occasion.

  Opening the door proved even easier than they had hoped. The loosenedhinge of the lock moved out of its joints almost without pressure.

  At the door both stopped, overcome with emotion, as the dark room,faintly illumined by the starry clearness of the night, lay beforetheir eyes. All traces of death had been removed: the emptybedstead--whose supports stood out darkly against the grey wall--aloneindicated that its occupant had sought another resting-place. The odourof her dresses, the faint scent of her soap, still filled the room withtheir fragrance. Even the towels on which she had dried herself werestill hanging, in fantastic whiteness, near the black Dutch stove.

  Robert, unable to keep himself upright, dropped down upon a chair, andin long, eager breaths, which resembled a sobbing, he drank in thefragrance of the room. It was as if he were trying to absorb into hisbeing the very last trace of her life.

  A short, dazzling gleam of light darted through the room, danced alongthe walls, strayed with a yellow flicker across the writing-desk, andmade the white-draped dressing-table stand out from the darkness likesome crouching phantom.

  The old man had struck a match and was groping by its aid for thelittle green-shaded lamp which had lighted Olga's sleepless nights. Itstood on the pedestal, in the same place where Olga had extinguished itwhen about to plunge into eternal night. Its glass bowl was yet nearlyfull of petroleum. She had been in a hurry to get to rest.

  Carefully he lifted down the globe and lighted the wick. With apeaceful twilight glow the veiled flame cast its light across thesilent chamber. Then he stepped up to the bookshelf, where the gildedvolumes were ranged in rows and gleamed in the light. His hand for alittle while groped along the wall and then pulled out to the lightsome blue, rolled-up object.

  "We have it, Robert," he cried, triumphantly; "come away!"

  The latter shook his head in silence. The old man urged him again; thenhe said: "We will read here, uncle--here--where she wrote it."

  "What if any one should surprise us?" cried the old man, fearfully.

  Robert shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the floor.

  The old man was satisfied; they softly drew up their chairs withinlight of the lamp. After this nothing was audible but the rushing ofthe winter wind as it swept through the leafless lime-tops, and themonotonously hoarse voice of the reader, accompanied from time to timeby the chorus of the funeral party--now swelling up loudly, now dyingaway to a whisper.