DORA

BY

JOHANNA SPYRI

AUTHOR OF "HEIDI," "MÄZLI," ETC.

TRANSLATED BY

ELISABETH P. STORK

ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR BY

MARIA L. KIRK

PHILADELPHIA & LONDON

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. UNDER THE LINDEN TREES

II. LONG, LONG DAYS

III. THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HEDGE

IV. ALL SIX

V. BEFORE AND AFTER THE DELUGE

VI. A TERRIBLE DEED

VII. IN THE GARDEN AT LAST

VIII. STILL MORE RIDDLES AND THEIR SOLUTIONS

IX. FOUND AT LAST

ILLUSTRATIONS

Before closing her little window, she always gazed out at the sky. Frontispiece

She had been lost in everything she had partly seen and heard.

Before Jul could prevent it, he was pulled off his chair.

"Come, I'll say it and you must learn it by heart."

"Do you think it was a little rabbit that made the noise?" asked Willi, frightened.

Dora marched behind with a wax taper and some cigars.

"I suppose it is patrimony, my son," said Mr. Titus, patting Rolf's shoulder.

Dora and Paula returned to the garden arm in arm singing gaily.

DORA

CHAPTER I

UNDER THE LINDEN TREES

IN A beautiful park in Karlsruhe, a gentleman was seen walking under the shady linden trees every sunny afternoon. The passers-by could not help being touched when they saw him leaning upon a little girl, his daily companion. He was apparently very ill, for they walked slowly and he carried in his right hand a cane, while he often took his left from the child's shoulder, inquiring affectionately, "Tell me, child, if I press on you too heavily."

But the little girl always drew back his hand and reassured him gladly, "I can hardly feel it, papa. Just lean on me as heavily as you want."

After walking up and down for a while the pair always settled beneath the lovely trees.

The sick man, a certain Major Falk, lived with his daughter Dora and an elderly housekeeper who attended to his wants. They had only recently come to Karlsruhe. Dora had never known her mother, who had died soon after the child's birth, and she therefore clung to her father with double affection, and he, with great tenderness, did his best to make up to Dora for her early loss.

A year before he had been obliged to leave his child and fight in a war against the enemy. When he returned he was very ill and miserable, having received a dangerous wound in the chest, which physicians pronounced as hopeless. Major Falk, who had no relatives or connections in Hamburg, had lived a very retired life there, and the only relative he had in the world was an elderly step-sister who was married to a scholar in Karlsruhe by the name of Titus Ehrenreich. When Major Falk realized the hopelessness of his condition, he decided to move to Karlsruhe, where his step-sister could come to his and his eleven-year-old daughter's assistance, if his illness became acute. The resolution was soon carried out and he found pleasant lodgings near his sister.

He enjoyed these beautiful spring days with his lovely daughter as daily companion on his walks, and when the two sat hand in hand on the bench, the father told about his past experiences and Dora never grew tired of listening. She was quite sure nobody in the world was as wonderful and splendid and interesting as her father. Most of all, she loved to hear about her mother, who had been so merry, bringing sunshine wherever she went. Everyone had loved her and no one who had loved her could forget her. When the father was lost in such recollections, he often forgot completely where he was till it grew late and the damp evening air made him shiver and reminded him that it was time to go home. The pair walked slowly till they came to a narrow street with high houses on both sides.

Here the father usually stopped, saying: "We must go to see Uncle Titus and Aunt Ninette." And climbing up the stairs, he daily reminded his little daughter: "Be very quiet, Dora! You know Uncle Titus writes very learned books and must not be disturbed, and Aunt Ninette is not used to noise, either."

Dora climbed upstairs on tiptoe, and the bell was rung most discreetly.

Usually Aunt Ninette opened the door herself and said, "Come in, dear brother, but please be very quiet. Your brother-in-law is much lost in his work as usual."

With scarcely a sound, the three went along the corridor to the living room which was next to Uncle Titus's study. Here, too, one had to be very quiet, which Major Falk never forgot, though Aunt Ninette herself often broke out into sad complaints about many things that troubled her.

June had come and the two could stay out quite long under the linden trees. But they found themselves obliged to return sooner than was their wish, because otherwise Aunt Ninette worried dreadfully. On one such warm summer evening, when the sky gleamed all golden, and rosy and fluffy clouds were sailing along the sky, Major Falk stayed seated on the bench until quite late. Holding his child's hand in his, he quietly watched the radiant sunset with Dora, who gazed up with wonder at her father.

Quite overwhelmed by her impression, she cried out, "Oh, father, you should just see yourself; you look all golden the way the angels in heaven must look."

Smilingly, her father answered, "I think I shall not live much longer, and I feel as if your mother were looking down upon us from that sky." But before long her father had grown pale again and all the glow in the sky had faded. When he rose, Dora had to follow, quite depressed that the beautiful glow had paled so soon. But her father spoke these words of comfort, "It will glow again some day and much more splendidly than today, when your mother, you and I will be all together again. It won't ever fade then."

When the pair came up the stairs to greet Dora's uncle and aunt, the latter stood upstairs at the open door showing visible signs of agitation, and as her visitors entered her living room, she gave free vent to her excitement.

"How can you frighten me so, dear brother!" she wailed. "Oh, I imagined such terrible things! What can have kept you so long? How can you be so forgetful, and not remember that you must not be out after sunset. Just think what dreadful things might happen if you caught cold."

"Calm yourself, dear Ninette," said the Major as soon as he had a chance to speak. "The air is so mild and warm today that it could do me no harm and the evening was simply glorious. Please let me enjoy the few lovely evenings that are still left to me on earth. They neither hasten nor hinder what is sure to happen very soon."

These words spoken so quietly brought forth new outbursts of despair.

"How can you speak that way? How can you frighten me so? Why do you say such awful things?" cried the excited woman. "It cannot happen and it must not happen! What is to be done then with—yes, tell me—you know whom I mean." Here the aunt threw an expressive glance at Dora. "No, Charles, a terrible misfortune like that must not break in upon us—no, it would be too much. I would not even know what to do. What is to happen then, for we shall never get along."

"But, my dear Ninette," the brother retorted, "don't forget these words:"

"'Though sad afflictions prove us And none his fate can tell, Yet God keeps watch above us And doeth all things well.'"

"Oh, yes, I know, and I know it is true," agreed the sister. "But where one sees no help anywhere, one feels like dying from fright, while you talk of such dreadful things as if they were quite natural."

"We'll have to say good-night now, and please try not to complain any more, dear Ninette," said the Major, stretching out his hand. "We must remember the lines:"

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

"Yes, yes, I know it is true, I know it is true," assented the aunt once more, "but don't catch cold on the street, and do go downstairs without making any noise. Do you hear, Dora? Also, shut the downstairs door quietly, and when you go across the street, try not to be in the draft too long."

During these last injunctions, the father had already gone downstairs with Dora and home across the narrow street.

The following day, when they sat on the bench again under the lindens, Dora asked, "Papa, didn't Aunt Ninette know that:"

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

"Of course she knows it," replied the father, "but at times when she gets anxious, she forgets it a little. She regains her balance when she thinks of it."

After musing a while Dora asked again, "But, papa, what shall one do to keep from being frightened and dying from fear as Aunt Ninette says?"

"Dear child," the father answered, "I will tell you what to do. Whatever happens, we must always think that it comes from God. If it is a joy, we must be grateful, and if it is a sorrow, we must not be too sad, because we know God our Father sends everything for our good. In that way we need never suffer from fear. Even if a misfortune comes and we see no help at hand, God is sure to find some succor for us. He alone can let good come out of evil, even one that seems to crush us. Can you understand me, Dora, and will you think of that if you should ever be unhappy? You see hard days come to everybody and to you, too, dear child."

"Yes, yes, I understand and I'll think of it, papa," Dora assured him. "I'll try not to be frightened."

"There is another thing which we must not forget," continued the father. "We must not only think of God when something special happens to us. We must ask Him at every action if He is satisfied with us. When a misfortune comes, we are near to Him already if we do that and we experience a certainty at once of receiving help. If we forget Him, on the contrary, and a sorrow comes, we do not find the way to Him so easily and we are apt to remain in darkness."

"I'll try never to lose the way, papa," said Dora eagerly, "and ask God every day: 'Am I doing right?'"

Tenderly stroking his child's head, the father remained silent, but in his eyes lay such a light that she felt herself surrounded by a loving care.

The sun sank behind the trees and father and child happily walked home.

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.