Only a Girl: or, A Physician for the Soul.Hillern, Wilhelmine von
General
Only a Girl: or, A Physician for the Soul.
Hillern, Wilhelmine von
German fiction -- Translations into English
The invalid was silent for awhile, and then said, "Yes,--ah, yes, we
have all abused her; but God knows I never intended this last! I was
sound asleep yesterday evening when Ernestine came home and crept in to
me here and waked me with her sobs."
"Poor child! she had cause to weep," the Geheimrath interrupted him.
"Yes, yes,--but I did not understand that yesterday. When I awoke, I
was thirsty, and sent her up to my brother to bring me a little--a
little--a few drops----"
"To bring you liquor," the Geheimrath completed the sentence.
"Yes, I confess it," Hartwich continued; "but in her uncle's room there
was a telescope, and she looked through it and forgot her father's
errand. I waited and waited, with my throat on fire, but she did not
come. I grew more and more impatient; and when, at the end of a full
half-hour, she came down without what I had sent her for, I seized hold
of her to beat her; she clung to my lame arm so that the pain made me
wild,--and in my senseless rage I flung her off and hurled her away
with my healthy arm;--may it be crippled forever! She fell backward,
and struck the back of her head first against the marble top of my
wash-stand,--you can see the blood there still,--and then upon the
floor, where she lay like one dead. Everything grew black before my
eyes, as it did when I had the stroke. I rang for my people; no one
came. I could not move,--could not leave my bed to go to the child. I
saw her blood flow, I heard her gasp as if in the death-agony, and I
lay here a miserable cripple, thinking that I had killed my child. Oh,
Herr Geheimrath, at such a time our inmost selves are revealed to as;
in such agony one learns to pray. At last, after repeated ringing and
calling, my good-for-nothing servants made their appearance. Herr
Geheimrath, I cannot tell you how I felt when they laid the child upon
my bed,--my poor, beaten child. As the little bleeding head lay on my
arm, it seemed as if my heart opened wide with the gaping wound, and,
for the first time, real, warm, paternal affection gushed from it.
Before, when I chastised the child, she was all defiance and
stubbornness; then I did not care if I hurt her; but now, as she lay
mute and crushed before me, she spoke to me in a language that recalled
me to myself. And, Herr Geheimrath, I have not been myself,--I have
drunk myself down to the level of a brute; and the poor victim of my
fury has recalled me from my degradation."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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