Chapter II: Long, Long Days

A few days after this lovely evening, Dora sat at her father's bedside, her head prostrate beside his. She was sobbing bitterly, for he lay quite still with a smile on his white face. Dora could not fully comprehend what had happened yet, and all she knew was that he had joined her mother in heaven.

That morning when her father had not come as usual to her bedside to wake her, she had gone to his room instead. She found him lying motionless on his bed, and, thinking him asleep, she had kept very quiet.

When the housekeeper, who came in with breakfast, had cast a glance in his direction, Dora heard her exclaim, "Oh God, he is dead! I must quickly fetch your aunt." With this she had run away.

This word had fallen on Dora like a thunderbolt, and she had laid her head on the pillow beside her father, where she stayed a long while, sobbing bitterly. Then Dora heard the door open and her aunt came in. Lifting her head, she used all her strength to control her sorrow, for she knew that a wild outburst of grief was coming. She was dreadfully afraid of this and most anxious not to contribute to it further. She wept quietly, pressing her head into her arms in order not to let her sobs escape. The aunt loudly moaned and cried, wailing that this dreadful misfortune should just have happened and saying she saw no help for any of them.

What should be seen to first, she wondered. In the open drawer of the table beside her brother's bed several papers lay about, which the aunt folded up in order to lock away. Among them was a letter addressed to her. Opening it she read:

"DEAREST SISTER NINETTE:"

"I feel that I shall leave you soon, but I don't want to speak of it, in order not to cause you dark hours before I have to. I have a last request to make to you. Please take care of my child as long as she needs you. As I am unable to leave her any fortune to speak of, I beg you to use the small sum she owns to let her learn some useful work by which Dora, with God's help, will be able to support herself when she is old enough. Be not too much overcome with sorrow and believe as I do that God does His share for all His children whom we recommend to His care, and for whom we ourselves cannot do very much. Accept my warm thanks for all your kindness to me and Dora. May God repay you!"

The letter must have soothed the aunt a little, for instead of wailing loudly she turned to Dora, who, with her head pressed into her arms, was still quietly weeping.

"Come with me, Dora," said the aunt; "from now on you shall live with us. If we didn't know that your father is happy now, we should have to despair."

Dora obediently got up and followed, but she felt as if everything was over and she could not live any longer. When she entered the quiet dwelling, the aunt for the first time did not have to remind her to be quiet, feeling sure this was unnecessary. As the child came to her new home, it seemed as if no joyful sounds could ever again escape her.

The aunt had a store-room in the garret which she wanted to fit up for Dora. This change could not take place without some wailing, but it was at last accomplished and a bed placed in it for her niece. The maid went at once to fetch the child's belongings, and the little wardrobe in the corner was also set in order.

Dora silently obeyed her aunt's directions and, as bidden, came down afterwards to the quiet supper. Uncle Titus said nothing, being occupied with his own thoughts. Later on, Dora went up to her little chamber where she cried into her pillow till she fell asleep.

On the following day, Dora begged to be allowed to go over to her father, and the aunt accompanied her with expressions of renewed sorrow. Dora quietly said goodbye to her beloved father, sobbing softly all the while. Only later on, in her own little room, did she break out into violent sobs, for she knew that soon he would be carried away and she would never see him any more on earth.

From then on, Dora's days were planned quite differently. For the short time she had been in Karlsruhe, her father had not sent her to any school, only reviewing with her the studies she had taken in Hamburg. Apparently, he had been anxious to leave such decisions to his sister when the time came. Aunt Ninette had an acquaintance who was the head of a girls' private school and Dora was to go there in the mornings. For the afternoon a seamstress was engaged to teach Dora to make shirts, cut them out and sew them. Aunt Ninette considered this a very useful occupation, and by it, Dora was to make her livelihood. All clothing began with the shirt, so the knowledge of dressmaking also began with that. If Dora later on might get as far as dressmaking, even her aunt would be immensely pleased.

Dora sat every morning on the school-bench, studying hard, and in the afternoons on a little stool beside the seamstress. Sewing a big heavy shirt made her feel very hot and tired. In the mornings, she was quite happy with the other children, for Dora was eager to learn and the time went by pleasantly without too many sad thoughts about her father.

But the afternoons were different. Sitting in a little room opposite her teacher, she had a hard time handling the shirts and she would get very weary. The long hot summer afternoons had come and with her best exertions, she could hardly move the needle. The flannel felt so damp and heavy and the needle grew dull from heat. If Dora would look up to the large clock, whose regular ticking went on, time seemed to have stood still and it never seemed to be more than half past three. How long and hot these afternoons were! Once in a while, the sounds of a distant piano reached her—probably some lucky child was playing her exercises and learning lovely melodies and pieces.

This seemed, in these hard times, the greatest possible bliss to Dora. She actually hungered and thirsted for these sounds, which were the only thing to cheer her, as few carriages passed in the narrow street below and the voices of the passers-by did not reach them. The scales and exercises she heard were a real diversion, and if Dora heard even a little piece of music she was quite overjoyed and lost not a note. What a lucky child! she thought to herself, to be able to sit at the piano and learn such pretty pieces.

In the long, dreary afternoons, Dora was visited by melancholy thoughts and she remembered the time when she had strolled with her father under the linden trees. This time would never come again, she would never see and hear him any more. Then the consolation her father himself had given her came into her mind. Some day, of course, she would be with both her parents in the golden glow, but that was probably a long way off, unless something unusual happened and she were taken ill and should die from sewing shirts. But her final consolation was always the words her father had taught her:

"'Yet God keeps watch above us
And doeth all things well.'"

She tried to believe this firmly and, feeling happier in her heart, made her needle travel more easily and more lightly, as if driven by a joyful confidence. Just the same, the days were long and dreary, and when Dora came home in the evening to Aunt Ninette and Uncle Titus, everything about her was so still. At supper, Uncle Titus read and ate behind a big newspaper and the aunt talked very little in order not to disturb her husband. Dora said nothing, either, for she had become adapted to their quiet ways. In the few hours she spent at home between her lessons, Dora never had to be told to be quiet; all her movements had become subdued and she had no real heart in anything.

By nature, Dora was really very lively and her interests had been keen. Her father had often exclaimed with satisfaction: "The child is her mother's image!—The same merriment and inexhaustible joy in life." All that was now entirely gone and the child very seldom gave her aunt occasion to complain. Dora avoided this because she feared such outbreaks. Every time, after such a demonstration, she repressed for a long time every natural utterance and her joy of life would be completely gone. One evening, Dora returned from her work full of enthusiasm, for the young pianist across the street had played the well-known song Dora loved and could even sing:

"Rejoice, rejoice in life
While yet the lamp is glowing
And pluck the fragrant rose
In Maytime zephyrs blowing!"

"Oh, Aunt Ninette!" she cried upon entering the room, "It must be the greatest pleasure in the world to play the piano. Do you think I could ever learn it?"

"For heaven's sake, child, how do you get such ideas?" wailed Aunt Ninette. "How can you frighten me so? How could such a thing be possible? Only think what noise a piano would make in the house. How could we do it? And where, besides, should we get the time and money? How do you get such unfortunate ideas, Dora? The troubles we have are enough without adding new ones."

Dora promised to make no more suggestions. She never breathed another word about the subject, though her soul pined for music.

Late in the evening, when Dora had finished her work for school, while the aunt either knitted, mended or sometimes dropped asleep, Dora climbed up to her garret room. Before closing her little window, she always gazed out at the sky, especially when the stars gleamed brightly. Five stars stood close together right above her head, and by and by, Dora got to know them well. They seemed like old friends come especially to beckon to her and comfort her. Dora even felt in some mysterious way as if they were sent to her little window by her father and mother to bring her greetings and keep her company. They were a real consolation, for her little chamber was only dimly lighted by a tiny candle. After saying her evening prayer while looking at the starry heavens, she regained a feeling of confidence that God was looking down at her and that she was not quite forsaken. Her father had told her that she had nothing to fear, if she prayed to God for protection, for then His loving care would enfold her.

In this fashion, a dreary hot summer went by, followed by the autumn and then a long, long winter. Those days were dark and chilly and made Dora long for warmth and sunshine, for she could not even open her little window and gaze at her bright stars. It was bitter chill in her little garret room so near the roof, and often she could not fall asleep, she was so cold. But spring and summer came at last again and still things went their accustomed rounds in the quiet household. Dora was working harder than ever at her large shirts because she could now sew quite well, and was expected really to help the seamstress.

When the hot days had come, something unusual happened. Uncle Titus had a fainting spell and the doctor had to be fetched. Of course, Aunt Ninette was dreadfully upset.

"I suppose you have not gone away from Karlsruhe for thirty years, and you only leave your desk to eat and sleep?" asked the physician after a searching glance at Uncle Titus and a short examination.

The question had to be answered in the affirmative. It was the truth.

"Good!" continued the doctor. "You must go away at once and the sooner the better. Try to go tomorrow. I advise Swiss mountain air, but not too high up. You need no medicine at all except the journey, and I advise you to stay away at least six weeks. Have you any preferences? No? We can both think it over and tomorrow I'll come again. I want to find you ready to leave, remember."

The doctor was out of the door before Aunt Ninette could stop him. Eager to ask a thousand questions, she followed. This sudden resolution had paralyzed her and she could not at first find her tongue. She had to consult the doctor about so many important points, though, and he soon found that his abruptness availed him nothing. He was held up outside the door three times as long as he had been in the house. Returning after some time the aunt found her husband at his desk, absorbed as usual, in his studies.

"My dear Titus!" she cried out amazed, "Is it possible you have not heard what is to happen? Do you know we have to start at once and leave everything and without even knowing where to go? To stay away six weeks and not to know where, with whom and in what neighborhood! It frightens me to death, and here you sit and write as if nothing particular had happened!"

"My dear, I am making use of my time just for the very reason that we have to leave," replied Mr. Titus, eagerly writing.

"My dear Titus, I can't help admiring how quickly you can adapt yourself to unexpected situations. This matter, though, must be discussed, otherwise it might have serious consequences," insisted Aunt Ninette. "Just think, we might go to a dreadful place!"

"It doesn't matter where we go so long as it is quiet, and the country is always quiet," replied Mr. Titus, still working.

"That is the very point I am worried about," continued his wife. "How can we guard ourselves, for instance, against an overcrowded house. Just think if we should come into a noisy neighborhood with a school or mill or even a waterfall, which are so plentiful in Switzerland. How can we know that some frightful factory is not near us, or a place where they have conventions to which people from all cantons come together. Oh, what a tumult this would make and it must be prevented at all costs. I have an idea, though, dearest Titus. I'll write to Hamburg, where an old uncle of my sister-in-law lives. At one time his family lived in Switzerland and I can make inquiries there."

"That seems decidedly far-fetched to me," replied Uncle Titus, "and as far as I know, the family had some disagreeable experiences in Switzerland. They probably have severed all connections with it."

"Just let me look after it. I'll see to everything, dear Titus," concluded Aunt Ninette.

After writing a letter to Hamburg, she went to Dora's sewing-teacher, a very decent woman, and asked her to take care of Dora while they were away in Switzerland. After some suggestions from both women, it was decided that Dora should spend her free time at the seamstress's house, and at night, the woman would come home with the child in order to have someone in the house. When Dora was told about these plans that evening, she said nothing and went up to her lonely garret. Here she sat down on the bed, and sad memories crowded upon her mind of the times when she and her father had been so happy. They had spent every evening together and when he had been tired and had gone to bed early, she had come to his bedside. She was conscious how forsaken she would be when her uncle and aunt had left, more lonely even than she was now. Nobody would be here to love her and nobody she could love, either.

Gradually, poor Dora grew so sad that she drooped her head and began to cry bitterly, and the more she wept the more forlorn she felt. If her uncle and aunt should die, not a soul would be left on earth belonging to her and her whole life would be spent in sewing horrid heavy shirts. She knew that this was the only way by which she could earn her livelihood and the prospect was very dreary. She would not have minded if only she had someone to be fond of, for working alone all day, year in and year out, seemed very dreadful.

She sat there a long time crying, till the striking of the nearby church clock startled her. When at last she raised her head it was completely dark. Her little candle was burnt out and no more street lamps threw their light up from the street. But through the little window her five stars gaily gleamed, making Dora feel as if her father were looking down affectionately upon her, reminding her confidently as on that memorable evening:

"'Yet God keeps watch above us
And doeth all things well.'"

The sparkling starlight sank deep into her heart and made it bright again, for what her father had said to her must be the truth. She must have confidence and needn't be frightened at what was coming. Dora could now lie down quietly, and until her eyes closed of themselves, she looked at her bright stars which had grown to be such faithful comforters.

The evening of the following day, the doctor appeared again as promised with many suggestions to Mr. Ehrenreich about where to go. But Aunt Ninette lost no time in stepping up and declaring that she was already on the search for a suitable place. Many conditions had to be fulfilled if the unusual event was to have no fearful consequences for her husband, every detail had to be looked into, and when everything was settled, she would ask for his approval.

"Don't wait too long, go as soon as possible; don't wait," urged the doctor in an apparent hurry to leave, but nearly falling over Dora who had entered noiselessly just a moment before.

"Oh, I hope I didn't hurt you?" he asked, stroking the frightened child's shoulder. "The trip will do that pale girl good. Be sure to give her lots and lots of milk there. There is nothing like milk for such a frail little girl."

"We have decided to leave Dora at home, doctor," remarked Aunt Ninette.

"That is your affair, of course, Mrs. Ehrenreich! Only look out or her health will give you more worry than your husband's. May I leave now?"

The next moment he was gone.

"Oh, doctor, doctor! What do you mean? How did you mean that?" Aunt Ninette cried loudly, following him down the stairs.

"I mean," called the doctor back, "that the little thing is dreadfully anaemic and she can't live long, if she doesn't get new blood."

"Oh, my heavens! Must every misfortune break in upon us?" exclaimed Aunt Ninette, desperately wringing her hands. Then she returned to her husband. "Please, dear Titus, put your pen away for just a second. You didn't hear the dreadful thing the doctor prophesied, if Dora doesn't get more color in her cheeks."

"Take her along, she makes no noise," decided Uncle Titus, writing all the while.

"But, dear Titus, how can you make such decisions in half a second. Yes, I know she doesn't make any noise, and that is the most important thing. But so many matters have to be weighed and decided—and—and—" but Aunt Ninette became conscious that further words were fruitless. Her husband was once more absorbed in his work. In her room, she carefully thought everything over, and after weighing every point at least three times, she came to the conclusion to follow the doctor's advice and take Dora with her.

A few days later, the old uncle's brief answer arrived from Hamburg. He knew of no connections his brother had kept up with people in Switzerland, for it was at least thirty years since he had lived there. The name of the small village where he had stayed was Tannenberg, and he was certain it was a quiet, out of the way place, as he remembered his brother complaining of the lack of company there. That was all.

Aunt Ninette resolved to turn to the pastorate of Tannenberg at once in order to inquire for a suitable place to live. The sparse information from the letter pleased her and her husband well enough: quiet and solitude were just the things they looked for. The answer was not slow in coming and proved very satisfactory. The pastor wrote that Tannenberg was a small village consisting of scattered cottages and houses and suitable rooms could be had at the home of a school teacher's widow. She could rent two good rooms and a tiny chamber, and for further questions, the pastor enclosed the widow's address.

This proved an urgent need to Aunt Ninette's anxious mind and she wrote to the widow at once, asking for a detailed description of the neighborhood. Beginning with expressions of joy at the knowledge that Tannenberg was a scattered village, she yet questioned the widow if by any chance her house was in the neighborhood possibly of a blacksmith's or locksmith's shop, or stonemason's, or a butcher's, also if any school, mill, or still worse, a waterfall were near—all objects especially to be avoided by the patient.

The widow wrote a most pleasant letter, answering all these questions in the most satisfactory way. No workshops were near, the school and mill were far away and there were no waterfalls in the whole neighborhood. The widow informed her correspondent further that she lived in a most pleasant location with no near dwellings except Mr. Birkenfeld's large house, which was surrounded by a splendid garden, fine fields and meadows. His was the most distinguished family in the whole county; Mr. Birkenfeld was in every council, and he and his wife were the benefactors of the whole neighborhood. She herself owed this family much, as her little house was Mr. Birkenfeld's property, which he had offered to her after her husband's death. He was a landlord such as few others were.

Everything sounded most propitious, and a day was set for the departure. Dora was joyfully surprised when she heard that she was to go along, and she happily packed the heavy linen for the six large shirts she was to sew there. The prospect of working in such new surroundings delighted her so much that even the thought of sewing those long seams was quite pleasant. After several wearisome days, all the chests and trunks stood ready in the hall and the maid was sent to get a carriage. Dora, all prepared, stood on the top of the staircase. Her heart beat in anticipation of the journey and all the new things she would see during the next six weeks. It seemed like immeasurable bliss to her after the long, long hours in the seamstress's tiny room.

Finally Aunt Ninette and Uncle Titus came out of their rooms, laden with numerous boxes and umbrellas. Their walk down stairs and into the waiting carriage proved rather difficult, but at last each object had found a place. A little exhausted uncle and aunt leaned back in the seat and expectantly drove off to their destination in the country.