light, I will speak with my father. I know that he will help you; I’m sure of it! He is so immeasurably good and tender-hearted. He will not allow them to compel you –”
“No, Christl, you will not do that!” she interrupts in a calm, firm voice. “It is not for my mother’s sake that I am asking you not to do it; it would destroy all her vain plans, but I don’t … I don’t love her. I can’t help it, I’m ashamed of her”, she continues in low voice, her face turned away from me, “but I love my … my … foster-father. Why should I not say openly that he is not my real father? You know, don’t you, even though we have never spoken about it? No one told me, but I know; even as a child I felt it, felt it even more clearly than one can know something. He has not the faintest idea that I am not his daughter. I would be happier if he did know. Then perhaps he would not love me so much and would stop torturing himself to death for my sake.
Oh, you have no idea how often, even as a child, I was close to telling him. But there is a dreadful wall between him and me. It was my mother who raised it. Ever since I can remember I have never been allowed to speak more than a few words with him alone, as a little girl I was never allowed to sit on his knee or kiss him. ‘Don’t touch him, you’ll make yourself dirty’, she always used to say. I was always the shining princess and he was the grubby, despised slave. It is a miracle that horrible, poisonous seed has not taken root in my heart. I thank God that He has not allowed it … Sometimes, on the other hand, I think that if I really had turned into such an unfeeling, arrogant monster, then I would not feel torn apart by this indescribable pity for him, and I rail at destiny for not having let me be like that.
Often I choke on every bite I take at the thought that he has worked till his hands bled to put it on the table. Only yesterday I jumped up from the table and ran down to him. My heart was so full, that I thought that this time I would tell him everything. I wanted to say, ‘Drive us from your door like stray dogs, my mother and I, for that is all we are worth. And him, ‘him’, that cruel, despicable bloodsucker, who is probably my real father! Throttle him! Take your honest carpenter’s tools and strike him dead!’ I wanted to scream at him, ‘Hate me, with a hatred beyond forgiveness’, so that I should be finally freed from this terrible, burning pity.
How many thousand times have I prayed to God, ‘Send hatred into his heart.’ But I think it is more likely that this river should flow back upstream than that his heart should harbour hatred …
My hand was already on the latch of the workshop door, when I looked in through the window. He was standing at the table, writing my name on it with a piece of chalk. The only word he can write! At that, my resolution left me. For ever.
I know what was bound to happen, if I had gone in to confront him: either he would not have listened to a word I was saying, but just stood there stammering, “Fräulein Ophelia, my daughter, what an honour!”, as he does every time he sees me, or he would have understood and … and … gone mad.
You see, my own, that’s why you cannot, must not help me.
Could I destroy the only hope he has? Could I be the one to make his mind lose what grip on reality it has? No, there is only one course left open to me: to become that for which he slaves away day and night, a shining star; only, it is true, in his eyes, in my own I will be a spiritual prostitute.
Don’t cry, my child, my own dear child, don’t cry now. Have I caused you pain? Come here and dry your tears. Would you love me more if I thought differently? I gave you a shock, that’s all, dear, dear Christl. Look, perhaps it’s not as bad as I portrayed it. Perhaps I’m just being sentimental and seeing everything distorted and out of perspective. If you spend all day declaiming ‘Ophelia’, then some of
“No, Christl, you will not do that!” she interrupts in a calm, firm voice. “It is not for my mother’s sake that I am asking you not to do it; it would destroy all her vain plans, but I don’t … I don’t love her. I can’t help it, I’m ashamed of her”, she continues in low voice, her face turned away from me, “but I love my … my … foster-father. Why should I not say openly that he is not my real father? You know, don’t you, even though we have never spoken about it? No one told me, but I know; even as a child I felt it, felt it even more clearly than one can know something. He has not the faintest idea that I am not his daughter. I would be happier if he did know. Then perhaps he would not love me so much and would stop torturing himself to death for my sake.
Oh, you have no idea how often, even as a child, I was close to telling him. But there is a dreadful wall between him and me. It was my mother who raised it. Ever since I can remember I have never been allowed to speak more than a few words with him alone, as a little girl I was never allowed to sit on his knee or kiss him. ‘Don’t touch him, you’ll make yourself dirty’, she always used to say. I was always the shining princess and he was the grubby, despised slave. It is a miracle that horrible, poisonous seed has not taken root in my heart. I thank God that He has not allowed it … Sometimes, on the other hand, I think that if I really had turned into such an unfeeling, arrogant monster, then I would not feel torn apart by this indescribable pity for him, and I rail at destiny for not having let me be like that.
Often I choke on every bite I take at the thought that he has worked till his hands bled to put it on the table. Only yesterday I jumped up from the table and ran down to him. My heart was so full, that I thought that this time I would tell him everything. I wanted to say, ‘Drive us from your door like stray dogs, my mother and I, for that is all we are worth. And him, ‘him’, that cruel, despicable bloodsucker, who is probably my real father! Throttle him! Take your honest carpenter’s tools and strike him dead!’ I wanted to scream at him, ‘Hate me, with a hatred beyond forgiveness’, so that I should be finally freed from this terrible, burning pity.
How many thousand times have I prayed to God, ‘Send hatred into his heart.’ But I think it is more likely that this river should flow back upstream than that his heart should harbour hatred …
My hand was already on the latch of the workshop door, when I looked in through the window. He was standing at the table, writing my name on it with a piece of chalk. The only word he can write! At that, my resolution left me. For ever.
I know what was bound to happen, if I had gone in to confront him: either he would not have listened to a word I was saying, but just stood there stammering, “Fräulein Ophelia, my daughter, what an honour!”, as he does every time he sees me, or he would have understood and … and … gone mad.
You see, my own, that’s why you cannot, must not help me.
Could I destroy the only hope he has? Could I be the one to make his mind lose what grip on reality it has? No, there is only one course left open to me: to become that for which he slaves away day and night, a shining star; only, it is true, in his eyes, in my own I will be a spiritual prostitute.
Don’t cry, my child, my own dear child, don’t cry now. Have I caused you pain? Come here and dry your tears. Would you love me more if I thought differently? I gave you a shock, that’s all, dear, dear Christl. Look, perhaps it’s not as bad as I portrayed it. Perhaps I’m just being sentimental and seeing everything distorted and out of perspective. If you spend all day declaiming ‘Ophelia’, then some of
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