Wolf Among Wolves

Chapter Seven

Full Moon on an Oppressive Night

I

Amanda Backs stood panting among the bushes.

“Well, Herr Meier, what a strange voice you’ve got. You’re bleating like a woman,” squeaked the Geheimrat in his thin old voice.

Black Meier’s head popped out of the window. “Herr Geheimrat,” he explained, “that’s only because I was awakened suddenly. When I’m asleep I’ve always got a high-pitched voice.”

“It’s all the same to me,” said the old man. “I only hope, when you get married, your wife believes in this high-pitched voice! I’ve got a letter here, Herr Meier.”

“Very good, Herr Geheimrat, I’ll deliver it.”

“Now don’t be in such a hurry, young man. You shall get back to your bed in a minute. This letter is for my son-in-law.”

“Certainly, Herr Geheimrat. I’ll give it to him tomorrow morning as soon as he arrives from the station.”

“No, that won’t do. His wife will be present. This is a business matter, you understand?”

“Yes, Herr Geheimrat. So I’ll give it to him …”

“Wait a moment, young man. Never mind about the bed creaking. I expect it’s getting bored, eh?”

“Yes, Herr Geheimrat.”

“Well now! And you won’t catch a cold at the open window; you’re used to draughts. By the way, do you always sleep without a nightshirt?”

“Herr Geheimrat, I …”

“Better stick to ‘Yes, Herr Geheimrat’—that’s safer, isn’t it? You think I can’t see in the dark. I can see as well as an old tom-cat.”

“It was so hot, Herr Geheimrat—you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course I’ll excuse you, my son. I quite understand that you’re feeling hot, not having brought in the crops and having a drop too much afterwards—yes, you’d certainly feel hot.”

“Herr Geheimrat!”

“Well, what can I do for you? Do you know, my son, I’ve changed my mind. I’ll get Elias to take the letter. I’m inclined to think you’ll have too much on your mind tomorrow.”

“Herr Geheimrat!” (Pleadingly.)

“Well, good night, Herr Meier, and do put on a nightshirt. I believe I saw Amanda in the park.”

The old man shuffled off. In the bushes, her heart thudding, stood Amanda. She had always known that her Hans was not worth much and was always running after every skirt; but she had thought that she could keep him straight if she was always there when he needed her.… But, nothing doing, no such luck!

Little Meier still leaned out of the window. Once more he had pleaded “Herr Geheimrat!” as if the old man could be of any help, and as if having the letter entrusted to him would have altered anything.… From where she stood Amanda could plainly see him hanging out of the window. He was so stupid. Why did she always take up with such silly, spineless fellows who were no good at all? She didn’t understand it. It made her miserable.

And now the female in his room started to whisper.

Hans turned his head round and said roughly: “Shut up!” That rather pleased Amanda; his insolence to the other woman showed that he could not care very much for her. He would not have dared to talk to herself like that; she would have boxed his ears. She would very much like to know who the other woman was, however. It was no one from the Manor; they had all been at the prayer meeting.

“For Heaven’s sake dress quickly,” she heard Hans say. “If Amanda comes there’ll be the hell of a row. That would just about finish it.”

Amanda almost burst out laughing. He was as silly as ever. The row was waiting outside his very window, but he’d noticed nothing. Hans was always wise after the event. But she would like to have had a few words with the female—everyone in the village, not to mention the people on the estate, knew by now that she went herself with Meier.

The woman inside did seem to be in a hurry—Amanda heard her moving about. Now her head was beside his.

“Shut the window and switch the light on. I can’t find my things,” she grumbled.

Who could it be? One couldn’t recognize a whisper like that.

“Hush!” said Meier, so loudly and roughly that even Amanda started. “Can’t you keep your trap shut? If I turn on the light they’ll think I’m awake.”

“Who’ll think that? Your Amanda?”

Was it the Hartig woman? That would be the limit. The coachman’s wife with her eight children stealing a girl’s young man! If so, she’d be in for it.

“That’s none of your business. You’ve got to hurry up!”

“But my things …”

“I’m not turning on the light. You must manage the best way you can.”

Complaining, the second head vanished from the window. Amanda was now almost certain that it was Frau Hartig. But almost certain is not quite sure. Amanda was in no hurry; she could catch Hans at any time. Now she had to intercept the woman first. Even if she stood there all night, she must get her. She would have to come out through the door or the window—one must be patient!

It was strange that, although Amanda had grown so angry in the prayer meeting, now when there was much more cause for it she couldn’t feel really angry. Least of all with Hans. He was a fool and remained a fool, and if she didn’t look after him he would do stupid things. Neither was she furious with the woman. Indeed, she was surprised at herself. But perhaps she would be furious when she knew who it was and had had a talk with her. Amanda hoped to be in good form. The woman was not to imagine that she could annex someone who by rights belonged to another.

So she waited patiently or impatiently, according to her thoughts from one moment to another, until—and not without relief—she at last saw the visitor climbing out of the window. The relief was derived from the fact that this proved that Hans could not care much about the woman; she had no power over him if he was too lazy to unlock the front door for her. The woman, too, did not waste much time on an affectionate farewell or look round, but steered straight for the corner of the house in the farmyard.

That’s that, thought Amanda Backs, and followed. The bailiff’s windows were thereupon shut rather noisily, which annoyed her, for a shut window on such a warm night could only signify that Herr Meier didn’t want any more visitors—which Amanda took personally.

“Wait for me, you Hartig woman!” she called.

“You, Mandy?” asked the coachman’s wife, peering at her. “How you frightened me! Well, good night! I must go. I’m in a hurry.”

“Let me come with you,” said Amanda, and hurried with her across the farmyard toward the coachman’s dwelling. “I’m going the same way as you.”

“Are you?” asked Frau Hartig and walked more slowly. “Yes, a girl like you on her legs from morn till night—madam won’t get another like you so easily.”

“I don’t put my legs up as easily as some people,” said Amanda, with meaning. “Well, get along; your husband will be waiting for you.”

But Frau Hartig stopped. They were in the middle of the farmyard. To the right were the pigsties in which there was still an occasional rustling (the sty doors stood open because of the heat); on the left was the midden. The two women, however, stood so that Amanda was facing the coachman’s dwelling at one end of the farmyard, while Frau Hartig looked toward the other end, where she could see a light burning in the bailiff’s window—and, of course, it annoyed her that he should have turned on the light after all.

“Besides, Mandy isn’t the right way to address me,” said Amanda Backs after a longish pause.

“I can call you Fräulein Backs, if you prefer it,” said Frau Hartig submissively.

“Yes, Fräulein,” was the retort. “I’m not yet a Frau—I can go with whom I like.”

“So you can,” acknowledged the coachman’s wife. “Any master or mistress would be glad to have a poultry maid like you.”

“Shall we have it out now or shan’t we?” cried Amanda and stamped.

The coachman’s wife remained silent.

“I can talk to your husband if you like,” said Amanda threateningly. “I’ve heard that he’s already wondering how you get such varied children.”

“Varied children,” echoed Frau Hartig with a forced laugh. “How strange you are, Mandy.”

“You’re not to say Mandy. I don’t want to hear it from you.”

“I can say Fräulein Backs if you like.”

“Then say it—and besides, it’s a shame for a married woman to take away a girl’s young man.”

“I haven’t taken him away from you, Amanda,” pleaded Frau Hartig.

“Yes, you have. And one would think that a woman with eight children has got her share.”

“Lord, Amanda,” said the coachman’s wife, conciliatory, “you don’t know anything about what it’s like to be married. You imagine it quite different from what it is.”

“Don’t talk rubbish, Hartig,” cried Amanda threateningly. “You can’t fool me that way.”

“When one’s got a steady man,” explained Frau Hartig, “one thinks all that’s over. But you get that queer feeling again …”

“What queer feeling? Don’t talk nonsense.”

“God, Amanda, I’m not talking nonsense. You must know what it’s like when you feel as if you had a prickling all over your body, and no peace whatever you do, and everything’s got to be done in a blazing hurry, as if you hadn’t a moment to spare—and then you find that you’ve been standing about with a swill pail in your hand for a quarter of an hour without knowing where you are!”

“I’ve nothing to do with swill,” said Amanda Backs cuttingly. But actually she was no longer feeling so hostile; she was giving due attention to what she was hearing.

“No, of course not,” assented Frau Hartig.

“And you’ve got your husband whenever you feel like that. So you oughtn’t to put a spoke in my wheel.”

“But, Amanda, that’s just what you can’t foretell,” exclaimed Frau Hartig eagerly.

“What can’t you foretell?”

“That your husband can’t help you in that at all. If I’d known as a young girl what I know today, I’d never have married, you can believe me.”

“Is that really so?” meditated Amanda Backs. “Don’t you like your husband at all?”

“Lord, yes, of course—he’s quite nice in his way. And quite steady, too. But I don’t like him that way anymore. That queer feeling stopped as far as he was concerned a long time ago.”

“So you like—Hans—Bailiff Meier—much more?”

“God, Amanda, what are you thinking about? I’ve told you already that I’m not taking him away from you.”

Amanda’s voice was thick with rage. “So he was the first to start—I mean, Meier?”

Frau Hartig remained silent for a while, thinking it over. In the end, however, she decided in favor of the truth. “No, Amanda, I won’t tell you a story. I wanted him first—and a man feels it. And then he was a bit drunk …”

“So he was drunk, too! But I don’t quite understand—if you don’t like him at all?”

“Well, you know, Amanda, I don’t understand it either, but when one has that queer feeling, and at the same time can’t help being inquisitive …”

“But you mustn’t!” Amanda prepared to end the scene with a tremendously severe lecture which, to tell the truth, would have turned out milder than at first intended. When all was said and done, she understood Frau Hartig quite well.… But she broke off.

Three persons were walking across the farmyard in Indian file—a man, a woman, then another man.…

They walked through the farmyard in the darkness without a word or a sound—and Amanda Backs and Frau Hartig gaped.

When the first man had approached the two women, he stopped and said in a peremptory voice: “Who’s standing there?” At the same time there shone on them the light of a flashlight held by the woman in the middle. (The moon had not risen very high yet and the stable buildings were still intercepting her light.)

“Amanda,” said Amanda Backs calmly, while the coachman’s wife automatically shielded her face with her hands as if she had been caught in some criminal offense.

“Hurry up and get to bed,” said the man in front, and noiselessly and stealthily the three figures passed by the women, crossed the farmyard and disappeared round the corner of the bailiff’s house where, as Frau Hartig saw, the light had gone out during her dispute with Amanda.

“Who was that?” she asked, dumbfounded.

“I think it was the young Fräulein,” replied Amanda thoughtfully.

“The young Fräulein in the dead of night with two men!” cried Hartig. “I’ll never believe it.”

“The man behind might have been the servant. The one in front I don’t know. He isn’t from here—I never heard that voice before.”

“Extraordinary!” said Hartig.

“Extraordinary!” said Backs.

“What business is it of his if we stand here?” asked Amanda loudly. “He’s nothing to do with the place and yet he orders us to bed.”

“That’s it,” echoed Frau Hartig. “And the young Fräulein allows him to order us about.”

“Where did they go to?” Amanda stared across the farmyard.

“To the Manor?” suggested Hartig.

“No. Why should they go to the back door? The young Fräulein needn’t enter the Manor by the back way,” snapped Amanda.

“Then there’s only the bailiff’s …” suggested Frau Hartig.

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Amanda frankly admitted. “But what are they after, behaving so strangely, one behind the other, and so quietly—as if they wanted nobody to see them?”

“Yes, it was strange,” agreed Frau Hartig. And added: “Shall we go and have a look?”

“You’d better get back to your husband,” said Amanda Backs severely. “If anyone is having a look in the staff-house, it’s me.”

“But I should like to know so much, Mandy.…”

“You’re to call me Fräulein Backs. Besides, what will your husband say to your being away so long? And your children.”

“Pooh!” said Frau Hartig indifferently.

“And what’s more, you’re to leave my Hans alone. Another time I shan’t be so easy-going. If I catch you again …”

“You can be sure you won’t, Amanda. I swear it! But you’ll tell me tomorrow, won’t you?”

“Good night,” said Amanda Backs curtly and went toward the dark staff-house.

The coachman’s wife stood for a moment there, looking enviously after her. She was thinking how lucky such young unmarried girls were and how little they knew it. Then she sighed and went toward her home, to her scuffling children and nagging husband.

II

Frau von Teschow, after the shock of that evening’s devotions, felt a craving for peace and quietness. She wished to see and hear nothing more, only to go to bed as quickly as possible.

Supported on one side by Fräulein Jutta von Kuckhoff, on the other by Elias, she staggered upstairs into the big mahogany bedroom with its three windows. Fräulein von Kuckhoff undressed her trembling, tearful friend, and at last Frau von Teschow lay in her wide mahogany bed, looking no bigger than a child, with her little wizened bird’s head, a white nightcap over her thin hair and a loosely knitted bed-jacket round her shoulders.

“Oh, my Lord and my God, Jutta,” she wailed, “what a world! God forgive me for passing judgment—but how shameless the young people are! What will Lehnich say? And Superintendent Kolterjan?”

“Everything is good for something, Belinde,” said Jutta sagely. “Don’t agitate yourself any more. Are you still feeling cold?”

Yes, Frau von Teschow was still cold. Fräulein von Kuckhoff rang for Elias, who received an order to get two hot-water bottles from the kitchen.

“Oh, Elias!” The servant was just about to leave.

“Yes, madam?”

“Tell the cook to make me a cup of peppermint tea. Yes—and very strong. And with plenty of sugar. Yes. Oh, God!”

“Very good, madam.”

“Oh, Elias!”

“Yes, madam?”

“Perhaps she’d better make me some mulled wine, not peppermint tea. Peppermint tea makes one belch so. But no water, only red wine. Red wine already contains water. Oh, God! And a little nutmeg. And one clove. And plenty of sugar. Elias, you’ll see to it for me, won’t you?”

“Certainly, madam.”

“And, Elias, one moment! She’s to put a dash of rum in it—I feel so ill. Not much, but naturally one must be able to taste it. Not too little, Elias, you understand?”

Elias, bald and getting on for seventy, understood quite well. He was going away when a faint call from the invalid reached him in the doorway. “Oh, Elias!”

“Yes, madam?”

“Please come nearer.… You can inquire in the kitchen—but not as if it came from me, quite casually …”

Elias waited. Madam must be feeling very ill; she could hardly talk. It would be better if she had her mulled wine quickly, but he couldn’t give the order yet. Frau von Teschow still had something on her mind.

“Elias—do ask—but without attracting attention—whether she—you know whom I mean—has gone to bed. Yes, do ask, but without attracting attention.”

For a while the invalid still felt very poorly, and Fräulein von Kuckhoff had plenty to do, what with proverbs and advice, or warming the cold hands between hers, or stroking the aching forehead. Then the hot-water bottles arrived and the mulled wine smelling strongly of rum—its fragrance alone revived Frau von Teschow. Sitting up in bed, she received, with compressed lips, the message that “she” had gone out.

“Thank you, Elias. I’m very sad. Good night. I don’t suppose I shall sleep.”

The old servant assumed a suitably troubled expression on hearing this farewell, wished madam good night, and sat down in the anteroom. He must wait for the Geheimrat, to take off his boots. Then his duty would be ended.

But the waiting was not too tiresome for him; he had his own interests. He pulled out a thick pocketbook, formerly brown, now almost black, and a long list with many numbers, names and words. A packet of brown bank notes came out of the pocketbook, the list was unfolded, and he started comparing, marking and writing.

That evening was a bad one for his old mistress, but a good one for him. He had that day succeeded in buying up five prewar brown red-stamped 1,000-mark notes.

Like many Germans, particularly elderly people, faced by the monstrous fantasy of inflation, Elias, too, refused to believe in a general devaluation. A man who had been saving assiduously for more than fifty years had to retain something; it was impossible that the whirlpool should swallow up everything. And it did not require much thought to convince him that “real money” from prewar times would remain “real.” This was already borne out by the statement on the notes themselves that they were redeemable at the Reichsbank for gold. And gold was “real.” Money which had been issued during or after the war was not, of course, “real.” It was the war which had started the fraud of “linen” shirts made of paper and “leather” shoes of cardboard!

When old Elias first noticed the signs of inflation, he began to buy 1,000-mark notes. There were always people who could not think so deeply as he did. Certainly he had heard that the Reichsbank in Berlin no longer redeemed these notes for gold; but that, of course, was only bluff, intended for fools. The Reichsbank wanted to call in its own notes cheaply—to save its scanty gold. Elias, however, being no fool, did not hand over his notes cheaply to the Reichsbank. He waited; he could afford to wait; one day he would receive gold, as was plainly stated on the notes.

Thus it started—in the beginning as a capital investment. Then Elias found that this investment had its own science; in his old age, without knowing it, he discovered the delights of collecting.

There were so many kinds of brown 1,000-mark notes! Of course, one learned at the very outset that only notes with the red stamp were valid. Those with the green stamp originated during the war or postwar times and should not be collected. But there were notes with one red stamp and some which bore two red stamps; bank-notes with no fiber strips and notes with a blue fiber strip on the left side and others with the strip on the right side. There were notes bearing eight signatures, some with nine, and some even with ten. There were notes with the series letters A, B, C, D, followed by seven and eight figures. Yet it was the same brown 1,000-mark note, pictures and text never changing—but with what a multitude of variations!

Old Elias jotted down and compared; he was now no longer collecting brown 1,000-mark notes, he was collecting variations, differences, distinctions. His big, round, smooth head grew crimson over his task. He beamed when he found a specimen which he had not seen before. He was firmly convinced that its distinctive features were secret signs made by connoisseurs for connoisseurs. They possessed a significance. He who knew how to interpret them would be rewarded with much gold thereby.

Let the old Geheimrat laugh at him! With all his cunning the old gentleman understood nothing of these secret matters. He believed what the people in the banks told him; he believed what was printed in the newspapers. Old Elias was not so credulous, and for that reason he was richer than his master; he possessed more than a hundred thousand marks in gold currency—or in currency as good as gold.

Tonight he was very happy; he had three perfectly new specimens among his recent purchases, among them a note from the year 1876. He had not known of any 1,000-mark notes of such an early date—his earliest hitherto was of 1884. He would think twice before going so far as to change these notes for gold. They were so beautiful with their engravings of human forms which, as he had heard, represented Industry, Trade and Transport.

“Industry, Trade and Transport,” he murmured and stared at the notes awe-struck. The labor of a whole people! Except that Agriculture was not included, which seemed a pity.

What would he do with gold? He could not carry about with him over a hundred thousand marks in gold. With gold he would be in a state of perpetual anxiety—whereas this paper money was so beautiful.

The old servant was happy. Each note was carefully folded before it found its way back into his pocketbook. The bank-note presses in Berlin harassed the people in an ever-increasing delirium—but they had presented Elias with happiness, great happiness. With beautiful notes.

The mulled wine had had its effect. From her pillows Frau von Teschow, feeling more lively, spoke to her friend: “Would you read to me, Jutta?”

“From the Bible?” asked Fräulein von Kuckhoff, quite agreeable.

But this suggestion did not find favor tonight. The evening devotions directed to the conversion of an erring girl had miscarried; the Bible and its God were rather in disgrace.

“No, no, Jutta—we must continue with Goethe.”

“Gladly, Belinde. The keys, please.”

Fräulein von Kuckhoff received them. On the top shelf of the wardrobe, with the hats, was hidden a thirty-volume edition of Goethe in half-calf—Frau von Teschow’s confirmation present to her granddaughter, Violet von Prackwitz. Violet’s confirmation already belonged to the distant past, but it was impossible to predict when the Goethe would be handed over to her.

Fräulein von Kuckhoff took down the seventh volume: Poems. Lyrical. I. It looked oddly swollen. Nearby, Fräulein von Kuckhoff placed scissors and paper.

“Paste, Jutta!” Frau von Teschow reminded her.

The friend added the little pot of paste, opened the book and at the marked place started to read the poem of the goldsmith’s journeyman.

After the first verse Frau von Teschow nodded approvingly. “This time we’re lucky, Jutta.”

“Wait and see, Belinde,” said Fräulein von Kuckhoff. “Never count your chickens before they are hatched.”

And she read the second verse.

“Good, good!” nodded Frau von Teschow and found the subsequent verses praiseworthy.

Till they came to the lines:

Her little foot peeps in and out,

And calls to mind what is above;

I recollect the garter, too,

I’m giving to my love.…

“Stop, Jutta,” cried Frau von Teschow. “Again!” she lamented. “What do you think, Jutta?”

“I told you so,” declared Fräulein von Kuckhoff. “What’s bred in the bone will come out in the flesh.”

Frau von Teschow waxed indignant. “Even present-day writers aren’t worse. What do you say, Jutta?” But she did not wait for a reply. Sentence was passed. “Paste it up, Jutta, paste it up well—suppose the child should read it!” Fräulein von Kuckhoff was already pasting up the lewdness. “Not much left, Belinde,” she said and held up the volume for scrutiny.

“It’s scandalous.” Frau von Teschow was very indignant. “And such a man regards himself as a classic! Oh, Jutta, why didn’t I buy a Schiller for the child? Schiller is much nobler, far less carnal.”

“Don’t forget the old proverb, Belinde—‘No rose without its thorn.’ Schiller, too, is not good for young people. Think of ‘Intrigue and Love,’ Belinde. And then that female, that Eboli woman.…”

“True, Jutta. Men are all like that. You’ve no idea the trouble I’ve had with Horst-Heinz.”

“Yes,” said the Kuckhoff. “Every pig to its sty. Well, I’ll read on.”

Thank God, next followed the poem about Johanna Sebus, the rescuer. That was really noble; but why the poet referred to Johanna Sebus as “Sweet Susan” was not clear.

“He ought to have written ‘Sweet Hannah,’ oughn’t he, Horst-Heinz?” For the Geheimrat had just come in. Smirking, he watched the two little women. “He may have considered Hannah as too common,” he suggested after a close examination of the point. In socks and shirt sleeves he paced up and down the room, the book in his hand.

“But why ‘Suschen’?”

“I think, Belinde, Suschen is an abbreviation of Sebuschen. And Sebuschen, you know, Belinde—well, what do you think, Jutta?” The Geheimrat was serious, but the corners of his eyes were twitching. “Sebuschen, Buschen, Busen, Bosom; that, too, sounds indecent, don’t you think?”

“Paste it up, Jutta, paste it up. Suppose such thoughts occurred to the child!” cried Frau von Teschow excitedly. “Oh, there’s simply nothing left.… Horst-Heinz, you must get rid of the Backs woman on the spot.”

“On the spot I’m only going to bed. Besides …”

“I’m going at once,” grumbled the Kuckhoff. “Let me just lock up the Goethe.”

“The Backs woman is already out of the house. I saw her a moment ago in the park.”

“You know quite well what I mean, Horst-Heinz.”

“If I know, then there’s no need to tell me, Belinde.” And with a warning clearing of the throat: “Fräulein von Kuckhoff, may I point out that I’m just about to take off my trousers?”

“Horst-Heinz! Give her time; she must first say good night.”

“I’m going. Good night, Belinde, and don’t worry any more about the meeting. Sleep well. Are the pillows comfortable? The hot-water bottles? …”

“Fräulein von Kuckhoff! I’m taking off my pants, and then I shall be in my shirt. A Prussian Geheimrat in his shirt! You don’t want to—”

“Horst-Heinz!”

“I’m going at once. Sleep well, Belinde. Good night. The Seidlitz powder …”

“Sebuschen—Sweet Bosom!” cried the Geheimrat, now only wearing his shirt. He shrank, however, from shedding this last veil.… Every evening the same comedy with the two old hens! “Oh, these women!” he shouted.

“I wish you good night, Herr Geheimrat,” said Fräulein von Kuckhoff with dignity. “And He created man in His image—that is, a long time ago.”

“Jutta,” weakly protested Frau von Teschow against this disparagement of her Horst-Heinz; but the door had closed behind her friend and not a moment too soon.

“What was the matter with the evening prayers?” inquired the Geheimrat, diving into his nightshirt.

“Do not evade the issue, Horst-Heinz. Tomorrow you must dismiss the Backs.”

The bed groaned under the old gentleman. “It’s your poultry maid and not mine,” he said. “Do you want to burn the light much longer? I want to sleep.”

“You know I cannot bear agitation, and when such a person becomes insolent … You ought to do me a favor for once, Horst-Heinz.”

“Was she insolent during prayers?”

“She’s immoral,” said Frau von Teschow furiously. “She’s always climbing through the window to the bailiff.”

“I believe she’s doing it tonight as well,” said the Geheimrat. “Your prayers seem to have had no effect, Belinde.”

“She must go. She’s incorrigible.”

“And then the to-do with your poultry starts again. You know the position, Belinde. No one else has lost so few chicks or had so many eggs either. And she uses less feed than anyone.”

“Because she’s hand-in-glove with the bailiff.”

“True, very true, Belinde!”

“So she gets much more feed than she notes down.”

“We can’t grumble about that; it’s our son-in-law’s corn. No, no, Belinde, she’s efficient and has a lucky hand. I wouldn’t give her notice if I were you. What business is it of ours what she does of a night?”

“Our home must remain pure, Horst-Heinz!”

“But she goes to him at the staff-house; he doesn’t come here.”

“Horst-Heinz!”

“Well, it’s true, anyhow.”

“You know quite well what I mean. She’s so brazen!”

“She is,” admitted the Geheimrat, yawning. “However, that’s always the same. The efficient people put up with the least nonsense. That little fellow Meier, her friend—you can kick him in the behind for hours on end and he only grows more polite.”

Since Frau von Teschow refused to hear any coarse expressions from her husband, she missed the word “behind.” “Then tell Joachim to send the fellow away. Then I can keep the Backs.”

“If I tell my grand son-in-law to fire his employee,” said the old gentleman pensively, “he’ll keep him till his dying day. But cheer up, Belinde, I believe Amanda’s friend will be fired tomorrow.… And if he isn’t, then I’ll praise him up, and he’ll have to pack his trunks at once.”

“Do so, then, Horst-Heinz!”

III

Man is not free from the prejudice of investing other creatures with his own failings; for instance, there is said to be no truth in the story that the ostrich when frightened hides its head in the sand. Yet some people certainly shut their eyes to an approaching danger and then maintain it does not exist.

After the departure of Frau Hartig, Bailiff Meier had turned on the light to look for something to drink. His fuddled brain, the rebuff by the old Geheimrat on whose favor he had been relying, the approaching quarrel with Amanda—all these awakened in him the desire to drink. He wanted to think no more of the whole filthy business, as he put it.

Having secured the windows against a surprise attack by Amanda, he stood for a moment looking at his untidy room, with its disheveled bed and scattered garments. He felt his brain to be just as ravaged and, what was more, a sharp pain stabbed his forehead. He knew there was nothing to drink in his room, no cognac, no schnapps, no beer—but when someone felt as he did, then there was always something to drink, if only he could remember where it was.

But the only idea which came to him was that of returning to the inn and fetching a bottle of schnapps. He shook his head peevishly. He had long ago concluded that he didn’t want to be seen there again because of the bill. Besides, he had nothing on—that sly old dog the Geheimrat had noticed that. The others would also notice if he went to the inn like that. He looked down at himself and began to chuckle gloomily. A fine sight! What rubbish! Wouldn’t touch it with a barge pole. “Shame doesn’t lie in the shirt,” he said aloud. He had heard this saying once and remembered it because it seemed to justify any shamelessness. But now he had to look for his shirt, and he started to kick the clothes about on the floor in the hope that it would emerge. But not so. Instead he ran a splinter into his foot.

“A swinish mess,” he cursed, and that reminded him of the pigs, and the pigs reminded him of the veterinary medicine-chest in the office, and the medicine-chest suggested Hoffmann’s ether drops. But there wouldn’t be enough to drink with any effect, anyway, and there might be none left in the chest at all.

Hoffmann’s drops! Since when had Hoffmann’s drops been given to pigs? On a lump of sugar, perhaps? He had to laugh at this idiotic idea; it was too silly.

He wheeled round, suspicion and fear in his face. Was somebody in the room laughing at him? It had sounded exactly like it. Was he alone? Had the coachman’s wife gone? Had Amanda arrived or would she be coming? He looked round the room with his bulging eyes—the gap between seeing and perceiving was so vast that he had to look at an object for a long time before his brain registered it as wardrobe or curtain—bed—nobody in it! Nor under it, either!

Laboriously he arrived at the conclusion that no one was in the room. But how about the office? Was somebody watching him there? The door stood open; the darkness beyond gave him the impression that someone might be lying in ambush.

Was the other door to the office locked? The curtains drawn? Oh, God! Oh, God! Such a lot to be done, and he hadn’t found his shirt yet. Would he never get to bed?

With hasty uneven strides, naked Black Meier went to the office and shook the outer door. It was locked, as he had thought; the curtains were drawn, too. Switching on the light, he looked with hostility at them. Of course they were drawn—it was utter rubbish—they were trying to rattle him. The curtains were drawn and would remain so. Let anyone dare to touch his curtains! They were his curtains—his! He could do what he liked with them—if he tore them down it concerned him alone.

In the deepest agitation he made for the unfortunate curtains—and the medicine-chest of deal, painted brown, entered his field of vision.

“Hallo! There you are at last.” Black Meier grinned contentedly. The key was in the lock, the little door had learned to obey and opened at the first attempt, and there in two crowded compartments were the whole doings. In front stood a big brownish bottle, with something written on the label. But who could read a chemist’s scrawl? No, it was printed—it amounted to the same thing.

Meier took the bottle, withdrew the stopper and smelled the contents.

He took another sniff. He stood there inhaling the ether vapor, while his body started to tremble. Supernatural clarity spread over his brain, he was conscious of an understanding and insight such as he had never known before. He sniffed and sniffed—it was bliss.

His face became haggard, his nose pointed, wrinkles appeared in his skin. His body shuddered. Yet he whispered: “I understand everything—everything! The world … bliss … clarity … blue.”

The ether bottle dropped out of his trembling hand, fell to the floor and broke. Still intoxicated, he stared at it. Then he went quickly to the switch, turned off the light, entered his room again, switched off the light there, groped his way to the bed and threw himself down.

He lay without stirring, with closed eyes, surrendering completely to the bright visions within his brain. The shapes became dimmer, gray mist drifted over them. Darkness approached from the boundaries of consciousness, grew blacker and blacker. Black Meier slept.

IV

“You ought to know who’s got the key,” the Lieutenant stormed.

Three persons stood before the dark staff-house. Räder had tried the handle, but the door was locked.

“Herr Meier has the key, of course,” he said.

“There must be another,” insisted the Lieutenant. “Fräulein, don’t you, by any chance, know who has the second key?” Although the situation between them left no room for doubt, he continued to address Violet as Fräulein.

“The second key will be with father,” said Vi.

“And where does he keep it?”

“In Berlin.” In reply to an angry gesture, she added: “Papa is in Berlin, Fritz!”

“He won’t have dragged the key of this hovel all the way to Berlin! I must go to the meeting.”

“If we go afterwards …”

“And let him run off with the letter in the meantime? Is he in there?”

“I don’t know,” said the offended Hubert. “I’ve nothing to do with the bailiff, Herr Lieutenant.”

The Lieutenant felt he could die of impatience and fury. These damned love affairs were always hampering men. He had absolutely no use for women at this juncture. And how helpless Vi stood there; not a scrap different from the hopelessly stupid servant! He had to do everything himself. What was she going to suggest now?

“There’s a window open upstairs, Fritz,” she said.

He looked up. Yes, a window was open in the gable.

“Splendid, Fräulein. Now we shall pay the young man a visit. Here, you, I’ll lift you up on the chestnut tree. From that branch you can easily climb into the room.”

But Räder stepped back. “If Fräulein will excuse me, I’d rather go home.”

The Lieutenant cursed. “Don’t be so silly, man. Fräulein is present.”

“I’ve given you my willing assistance, Fräulein,” said the servant with invincible determination and taking no notice of the Lieutenant, “and I hope you won’t forget it. But I must really go home to bed.”

“Oh, Hubert,” begged Vi, “do me a favor. When you’ve opened the front door you can go home at once. It’ll only take a moment.”

“It is, so to speak, a punishable offense, Fräulein,” the servant protested respectfully. “And just now two women were standing by the dungheap. I would much rather go to bed.”

“Oh, let the fool go, Violet!” cried the Lieutenant furiously. “He’s messing his trousers like a whole company down with dysentery. Clear off, my lad, and don’t spy about in the bushes.”

“Thank you very much, Fräulein,” said Räder, imperturbably polite. “I wish you good night.” And with a steady stride (without acknowledging the Lieutenant) he vanished round the corner.

“What a boor,” the Lieutenant grumbled. “Really, Violet, I’d like to be for a Sunday what he fancies himself to be the whole week long. Now help me on to the tree. If the trunk weren’t so beastly slippery with the damp I could manage it alone. But what that idiot can do you can do also.”

While Vi was helping her Lieutenant on to the tree, Räder, softly whistling to himself, his hands in his jacket pockets, went across the farmyard. He had eyes in the back of his head and thus saw in the shadow of the stable the person who wanted to pass him.

“Good evening, Fräulein Backs,” he saluted very politely. “Still about so late?”

“You, too, are still about, Herr Räder!” the girl retorted, but stopped.

“Yes. But I’m going home to bed. When do you get up in the morning?”

Amanda Backs paid no attention to this question. “Where did Fräulein go to with the gentleman, Herr Räder?” she asked inquisitively.

“Everything in its turn,” said the unyouthful Räder, pedantically. “I asked you, Fräulein Backs, when you get up in the morning.”

If Amanda had not been a true woman she would have replied, “At five,” and could then have required the answer to her own question. However, she said: “It can’t interest you, Herr Räder, when I get up,” and thereby prolonged the argument.

But in the end, after considerable dispute, Herr Räder learned that Amanda’s time for getting up was governed by the sun, because chickens wake at sunrise, and he heard that in July the sun rose about four o’clock and that Amanda had to be outside by five at the latest.

This he thought was rather early; he himself got up at six and sometimes later.

“Yes, you,” said Amanda rather contemptuously, for after all, a man who tidied rooms was, for that very reason, contemptible. And now he was expressing the opinion that she ought to be in bed. “Where was Fräulein going so late with the gentleman?” she asked sharply. “She’s only fifteen and she ought to have been in bed long ago.”

“I don’t know when Fräulein goes to bed,” said Räder. “There’s probably no time fixed.”

Amanda did not despair. “And, anyway, who was the gentleman, Herr Räder? I don’t know him at all.”

Räder, however, was of the opinion that he had done his duty. Fräulein must be, by now, inside the house with her Lieutenant. He couldn’t do any more to protect them from spies.

“No, you probably don’t know the gentleman,” he confirmed. “We have so many gentlemen visitors. Good night!” Before Amanda could put a fresh question he had gone on.

Angrily she stared after him, trying to make up her mind to go home. In spite of young Räder’s being so clever, she was beginning to feel that he had been pulling the wool over her eyes, and as Herr Räder had a good opinion of himself and rarely talked with her, he wouldn’t have fooled her without some end in view. There must be something behind it.

Thoughtfully Amanda walked on. She left the farmyard, turned the corner of the dark staff-house and stopped before her young man’s windows.

A short time ago those windows were open and had then been closed. A short time ago, when she looked for a moment across the farmyard, a light was burning in his room. Now there was no light. Amanda told herself that it was quite in order; her Hans was sleeping. It was better to let a drunken man sleep; and sleep, in view of her argument with Frau Hartig, would be better for herself, too. There was really no sense in stirring up any more strife—she was not like that. Frau Hartig wouldn’t take up again with her Hans—of that Amanda was convinced.

So she could let him sleep, and herself, too—she needed rest, a good rest. But she was itching with curiosity; she felt so worked up that bed didn’t attract her, although she was longing for it. At other times she knew what she wanted, but now, even though she wished to let him sleep, she nevertheless felt like tapping at the window, just to hear his furious sleepy voice, and know that all was well.… She wanted to and yet she didn’t.…

“Oh, well, I’ll tap,” she decided. And in that moment saw in Hans’s room a little beam of light, as if from a flashlight. Involuntarily she stepped aside, although she had seen by the light that the curtains were drawn. A similar beam had been directed at her a little time ago, when she was standing with Frau Hartig at the dungheap. Precisely similar!

She stood racking her brains, trying to puzzle out the connection between the torch, Fräulein and the unknown gentleman, and what they could be doing so late and so secretly in Hans’s room. She saw the beam of light move, go out, light up again, dart about.…

But she was not the kind of person to stand for long inactive and wondering. She went to the front door and cautiously pressed the handle. When she leaned against the door, it yielded.

Amanda tiptoed into the dark corridor and closed the door behind her.

V

The Lieutenant, through the gable room and down the loft stairs, reached the hall of the staff-house, where the beam of his flashlight showed him that the key, luckily, was in the door—he turned it, and Violet slipped in after him.

The office, it is true, was locked, but here Violet knew her way about: the double key lay in the little tin letterbox on the office door, and that was easily opened—a convenient solution for Meier. Like that, he didn’t have to get up in the mornings, if the foreman fetched the key from the office. The two entered. There was an overpowering stench in the office. Shining his lamp on the broken bottle, the Lieutenant said: “Chloroform or alcohol. I hope the fellow hasn’t done himself in. Don’t tread on the broken glass, Violet!”

No, he had not done himself in. Their ears told them that. Black Meier was snoring and wheezing terribly.

Violet laid her hand on her friend’s arm and felt safe in the disgustingly close room. More than that—she found this whole nocturnal excursion, this commotion over a letter of hers, “ever so interesting,” and thought Fritz “terribly dashing”! She was fifteen; her appetite for life was great, and Neulohe very boring. The Lieutenant, of whose existence her parents were unaware (she herself knew him only by his Christian name), had been met on her walks in the forest. She had liked him at first sight. This hasty, often completely absent-minded, yet generally cool and insolent man, from whose reserve broke now and again an ever surprising and consuming fire—this Lieutenant seemed to her the epitome of all manliness and silent heroism.…

He was quite different from all the men she had yet known. Even if he were an officer, he in no way resembled the officers of the Reichswehr who had asked her to dance at the balls in Ostade and Frankfurt. The latter had always treated her with extreme courtesy; she was always the “young lady” with whom they chatted airily and politely of hunting, horses, and perhaps of the harvest.

In Lieutenant Fritz she had as yet discovered no politeness. He had dawdled through the woods with her, chatting away as if she were some ordinary girl; he had taken her arm and held it, and had let it go again, as if this had been no favor. He had offered her his dented cigarette case with an indifferent “Like one?” as if the strictly forbidden smoking was a matter of course, and then, when lighting her cigarette, he had taken her head in his hands and kissed her—just as if it were all part of it. “Don’t make a fuss,” he had said, laughing. “I find girls who make a fuss simply detestable!”

She did not want him to think her “simply detestable.”

One can warn a young person of dangers and perhaps even protect her from them—but how about the dangers which, like everyday things, do not look at all like dangers? Violet never really had the feeling with Lieutenant Fritz that she was doing anything forbidden, that she was ever really in danger. And when it had happened, and something like an instinctive resistance, a panic fear, did indeed threaten to seize her, he had said with such genuine indignation: “Look here, Violet, don’t kick up a fuss! I can’t for the life of me stand this silly gooselike pretense! Do you think it is different with any other girl? That’s what you’re in the world for! So come on!”

“Is that what I’m here for?” she had wanted to ask. But then she realized she was being merely stupid. She would have been ashamed not to do what he wanted. Just because he thought so little of her, because his visits were so short and irregular, just because all his promises were so unreliable (“I was going to be here Friday? Don’t be silly, Violet; I’ve really got other things to think about besides you!”), just because he was never polite to her, just because of all that, she had succumbed to him almost without resistance.

He was so different. Mystery and adventure hovered around him. All his faults became merits to her because others did not have them. His coldness, his sudden desire which disappeared just as rapidly, his off-hand manner that was only skin-deep, his complete lack of respect for anything in the world—all this was reality, frantic love, manliness!

What he did was right. This casual fellow who traveled about with a vague commission to mobilize the country-folk for all emergencies; this cold adventurer who was not concerned with the object of the struggle, but only with the struggle itself; this mercenary who would have fought for any party so long as there was unrest—for he loved unrest and hated quiet, which immediately left him unoccupied, out of his element, not knowing what to do with himself—this dashing jack-of-all-trades was the hero! And he might have set a world alight—he would nonetheless remain the hero to her!

The way he now, with the flashlight in his hand and her lightly trembling fingers on his arm, directed the beam on to the disarranged bed with the naked man on it, the indifferent way he said to her: “Better look away, Violet!” and covered up the fellow; the way he growled: “Swine!” and then told her to sit by the bed, adding: “See whether he wakes up! I’ll take a quick look through his things!”—this camaraderie which was a shabby thing, hardly concealing ruthlessness, lack of respect, and roughness—all this she found marvelous.

She sat on her chair. It was almost completely dark, the moon scarcely penetrating through the grayish-yellow curtains. The man in bed wheezed, snored and groaned, invisible to her, and then began tossing about, as if in his sleep he sensed his enemies. Behind her the Lieutenant was going through the things, cursing loudly; it is difficult to find anything in an unfamiliar room with a flashlight in one’s hand. He rustled about, stumbled over chairs; his torch danced suddenly across the window and went out. Then the rustling started again.…

Yes, she had to be early in bed of an evening. Now and again she was allowed to go to a dance till eleven o’clock, till twelve at the latest, or to go shooting, with special permission and accompanied by the forester and the servants. In the afternoons, on alternate days, her mother spoke French and English with her. “So that you shall keep up with things, Violet. Later on you will have to go into Society—not like your Mamma, who is only a farmer’s wife.” Oh, how thin, how false, how dull the world at home seemed! Here she sat in the bailiff’s malodorous room, and life smelled of blood and bread and dirt. It was by no means, as parents, governesses and vicars pretended, a gentle, friendly, polite business; it was dark … a wonderful darkness. And out of the darkness came a mouth with glistening white teeth. The eye-teeth were pointed, the lips were thin, dry, saucy. O mouth, man’s mouth for kissing, ravenous teeth for biting!

Parents, grandparents, Altlohe and Neulohe, Ostade with its garrison, the autumn fair in Frankfurt-on-the-Oder, the Café Kranzler in Berlin—narrow world, servile world, world forever standing still. One sits at a little marble table, the waiter bows, Papa and Mamma argue whether their dear daughter can stand another cream puff, the impudent fellow at the next table stares, and the dear daughter looks away—of that ordered world only the ruins are left.

For another life has broken into it, and the past no longer counts. This life is swift and brilliant. Infinite fire, mysterious adventure, a wonderful darkness, in which one may be naked without shame! Poor Mamma who has never known this! Poor Papa—so old with your white temples! For me ever new paths, ever different adventures! Stupid ugly Black Meier, good for nothing but to get himself a little quarter of an hour’s thrill and then be severely punished for it.

“Is that the scrawl?” asked the Lieutenant, shining his torch on a damp smeared sheet of paper. “The fellow has drowned it in spirits!”

“Oh, please give it to me!” she cried, suddenly ashamed of her emotional scribblings.

“By no means, my child!” he replied. “You won’t send it traveling again and get me to run after it!” He had already put the letter in his pocket. “And I tell you this, Violet, you are not to write to me again. Never. Not a word!”

“But I wanted you so much!” she cried and threw her arms round his neck.

“Yes, of course, I understand—understand everything. Tell me, you don’t keep a diary, do you?”

“I? What do you mean? A diary? No, of course not.”

“Well, I think you’re lying. I shall have to inspect your room sometime.”

“Oh, do! Fritz, do come to my room sometime; it would be wonderful of you if you had been in my room!”

“Good! Good! We can arrange it. But now I must hurry off to the meeting. They’ll be cursing.”

“Today—will you come today? After the meeting? Oh, please, Fritz, do come.”

“Today? Absolutely impossible. I’ve got to come back here again after the meeting—chat with the fellow, hear whether he has told any others about the letter.” He became thoughtful.

“Yes, Fritz, go for him properly. You must make him afraid; otherwise he will tell everything. He’s too disgusting and mean.”

“And you yourself recommended him to me as a messenger—” began the Lieutenant, but controlled himself and stopped. There was no use in reminding women of an error they had committed, in starting a quarrel with them. It always immediately passed beyond all bounds. A different, a much more frightening, thought had occurred to him: the man there might not merely be able to babble about the letter—he knew other things. Perhaps Kniebusch had not kept things to himself.…

“No, I have got to talk to him later,” he said once again.

She seemed to have guessed his thoughts. “And what will you do with him then, Fritz? If he has betrayed you?”

The Lieutenant stood quite still. Even this silly little goose had thought of it, had sensed the danger which was always threatening the Cause, which everyone feared: betrayal. As yet hardly anything had been said; outside a very small circle hardly anyone knew exactly what it was all about, what was intended. Hints were thrown out, loose phrases. Dissatisfaction, hatred, despair, sufficiently abounded in the country. The printing presses in Berlin hurled a new wave of bitterness abroad with every new spate of paper money. Thus a few words were enough, the muffled clank of arms … almost nothing. But the traitor did not need to be well informed, he did not need to know much; if he told the Landrat that someone was running around inciting people, that he had even heard today that the weapons were to be counted in the village …

The Lieutenant let the ray of his torch fall on to the sleeper’s face. It was not a good face, not one that could be trusted. He had had the right instinct when he didn’t want to have this fellow in it.… But that was Violet. She had suggested that he would be such a convenient, unnoticeable go-between, always with access to the Rittmeister’s house and always to be found in the fields, in the woods.… And on the very first occasion the affair went wrong! Always these women had to put their oars in. They had nothing on their minds but their so-called love.

The Lieutenant turned round abruptly. “You are going to bed at once, Violet,” he said angrily.

She was quite frightened by his tone. “But Fritz, I wanted to wait for you here. And then I’ve also got to speak with the forester about the buck.”

“Here? Don’t be ridiculous. How can you think of it? Supposing the fellow wakes up, or someone comes in?”

“But, Fritz, what do you want to do then? If he wakes up now and notices his letter is gone, my letter, I mean, and he gets angry with us, he’ll run off and tell everything to Grandpa or Mamma.”

“Now please stop it, Violet! Please! I’ll see to all that. I shall deal with him after the meeting—and properly, I can tell you!”

“But supposing he runs away before?”

“He won’t run away. He’s drunk.”

“But supposing he does run away before?”

“For God’s sake, shut up now, Violet!” The Lieutenant almost shouted. Then, since he himself had had a fright, he added in a whisper: “Come along now, be sensible. You can’t possibly wait here. Keep watch for me outside the house—I shall be back here in an hour.”

They went out together, felt their way through the dark room and along the dark passage. Now they were in the open again. It was night, full moon and peaceful; the air was very warm.

“Blast the moon! Everyone can see us! Go into the bushes there. In an hour, then.”

“Fritz!” she called after him. “Fritz!”

“What’s the matter? Can’t you be quiet?”

“Fritz! Aren’t you going to give me a kiss? Not even one?”

“Damn and curse!” he muttered. Aloud: “Afterwards, my child, afterwards we’ll make up for everything.”

The gravel crunched and he was gone. Violet von Prackwitz stood in the bushes where Amanda Backs had been standing. Like the latter she kept her eyes on the window of the staff-house. She was a little disappointed but at the same time very proud of standing guard like this.

VI

Forester Kniebusch wandered along slowly, gun on back, through the dark forest. The full moon was already fairly high, but here below, among the tree trunks, its rays made visibility only more uncertain. The forester knew the forest just as a townsman knows his house; he had walked here at all hours of the day and night. He knew every bend of the path, every juniper bush which—eerily like a ghost—appeared amidst the trunks of lofty pine trees. He knew that the rustling he had heard came from a hedgehog hunting for mice, but even though everything was familiar, he did not like going through the wood now.

The forest had remained unchanged for ages, but the times had changed and the men with them. To be sure, there had also been timber thieves in the past. Yet they had always been the same questionable characters whose business was shady and whose reputation was even shadier. One had caught them, they were what they were, and because they were like that, they landed in jail. It hadn’t been necessary to get worried about them; in the end it was they who always did the worrying and paid the penalty of their misdeeds.

But had there been such a thing in the past as a whole village, man by man and house by house, going off to steal wood? You ran about and watched and worried yourself to death, and if you eventually caught one of them, then you were either seized with fear of revenge or with a feeling of shame that such a man should have joined thieves.

In the days of Forester Kniebusch’s youth, during his first years in Neulohe forest, there had been a notorious poacher in the district: Müller-Thomas, who afterwards hanged himself in his cell in Meienburg prison. With this fellow there had been a long life-and-death struggle. Cunning had fought against cunning and strength against strength, but it had been a struggle with more or less the same weapons.… Today, however, they went “hunting” in swarms, with army pistols and rifles! They started the game wherever they found it; they spared no pregnant female animal or one suckling its young—they shot at pheasants, even at partridges, with bullets! If they had poached for poaching’s sake like Müller-Thomas, or for a joint to still their hunger, that wouldn’t have been so bad. But, murderers that they were, they killed simply from the desire to kill. Murderers and destroyers!

The old man had now left the dense part of the forest and was walking along a small glade between plantations of pine trees. The little trees were fifteen years old; they should have been thinned out two or three years ago, but one could not get the men. So the plantations had become impenetrable thickets, a mass of thorny branches, uprooted trees fallen in all directions. Even in the daytime one could scarcely see three yards into them. Now in the moonlight they stood there like a black wall.… Whoever had an enemy coming along this path need only conceal himself in the thicket and he could not possibly miss his man. In vain the forester told himself that no one could be expecting to see him coming along this glade now; this was a quite unforeseen errand he was on, and had he kept his mouth shut it would never have come about. So no one could possibly be lying in wait for him in the thicket.

And yet he walked stealthily. He knew where the mossy patches ran, on which one could walk softly, and whenever a twig cracked under his foot he stood still and peered around with beating heart. He had long since put his pipe in his pocket, for one can smell tobacco a long way off in the forest; and he held his three-barreled gun ready to shoot, for even an uncertain shot was better than none at all. He was a very old man. He would much rather have gone into retirement long ago, but that had not been possible. And now he had to walk among the plantations at night because a silly girl couldn’t take care of her heart and her letters. It was a thoroughly foolish business. He wouldn’t be able to spot the buck, and if he did he would miss it. And should he be able to bring it down that wouldn’t be anything—neither the Rittmeister nor his wife would have been surprised if Fräulein Violet said that her stalking expedition had been in vain. “You see, you would have done much better to stay in bed, Vi,” was the most the Rittmeister would have said, and teased her a little.

But no, they didn’t think of that. They actually sent him off after the buck; he had to chase around while the three of them settled their business with that cursed Meier. Whom did they have to thank for their information? Why, himself! Who had got this conceited, thoughtless Lieutenant away from Haase? Why, he himself! And then this young prig could say uppishly: “We don’t need you here, Kniebusch. You go off and shoot the buck. But don’t go playing the fool here among the bushes; otherwise I’ll have something to say to you!”

Fräulein Violet had stood there, she had heard every word of this arrogant speech. She might have been a little grateful to an old man, but no, she merely said: “Yes, do that, Kniebusch, and try and see that I have something to show Papa tomorrow.”

So there was nothing to say except: “Certainly, Fräulein,” and about face into the woods. Therefore he would never learn what did actually happen to Bailiff Meier tonight. Meier would certainly not open his mouth, Räder the manservant would also keep mum, tomorrow the Lieutenant would have disappeared as if blown away, and Fräulein Violet wasn’t one for telling things, however much she liked having things told to her.

Then what had resulted from that calculated tale-bearing which was to have benefited him so much? A nocturnal stalk through the forest and the undying hatred of little Meier! And he could be a really poisonous toad when he was angry.

Forester Kniebusch stood still, sighing. He mopped his brow—it was hot, very hot. But it was not the sultry damp heat in the forest which made him so warm, it was annoyance with himself. For the thousandth, for the ten-thousandth time in his life, he swore firmly to see and hear nothing of whatever might happen to come to his knowledge. He would just go his own way in the few years that he had still to live; he would never again be wise and clever and cunning and calculating. Never again!

As if putting a period after this immovable resolution a shot resounded through the forest, like an “Amen” in church.

The forester started, listening without moving a foot. It was a rifle shot: the crack was sharp like the crack of a whip. And it was the rifle shot of a poacher. For who else could be abroad in the forest at this time?

These two things were certain; but the forester could not decide quite so certainly the direction from which the shot came. The lofty forest wall round the glade re-echoed the sound hither and thither, playing ball with it. Yet the forester could almost have sworn that the report came from the direction in which he was going, from Haase’s field where Fräulein Violet’s buck was browsing. Someone else had fired at it.

The forester had not moved from the spot where he had stopped to mop his brow and heard the shot. He was in no hurry. He was filled with an iron determination. He was a man, he did just what he wanted and nothing else. Slowly he hung his gun over his shoulder, slowly he drew his short pipe from his pocket, filled it and, after a little hesitation, struck a match. Puffing strongly, he carefully pressed the tobacco down once again, snapping-to the nickel lid of his pipe and set off. Purposefully and steeled with determination, he walked steadily away from the place where the shot had rung out. Don’t scald your lips in another man’s pottage. Amen.

Yet the fact is that some people, whether they like it or not, are forever pursued by new events, while others wander through life and hear nothing, getting their bread only when it is stale. The forester, after all, had made not the slightest effort in the afternoon to find out about Fräulein Violet’s letter. On the contrary, he had turned from Meier’s babbling with abhorrence, not wanting to listen to his loathsome bragging—and yet he had learned everything about it.

The forester who smoked so contentedly as he put distance between himself and the poacher, with a grin at his own cunning, was very calmly resolved to traverse slowly the least dangerous parts of the forest until he could quite credibly affirm that every effort and every patient endeavor had been in vain—there was no buck to shoot. This old coward of a Kniebusch, however, was condemned to shoot his buck, and without a rifle!

For the new event from which he so zealously fled came rapidly cycling between the lofty pines down a defile which no moonlight could brighten. Up this defile walked the forester, smoking.

The impact was violent. But while for Kniebusch there was enough soft sand to spare for his old bones, a large rock lay waiting for the cyclist, who struck it first with his shoulder, at which he let loose a powerful oath, although he didn’t know then that his collarbone was fractured. Next his cheek passed over the rough stone so that the skin was scraped off and the raw flesh burned like fire. But this he hardly noticed, for his temple had made the acquaintance of a sharp-edged projection, and a temple is just as sensitive as sleep—both are easily wounded by disturbance. The cyclist, already lapsing into unconsciousness, groaned and was heard no more.

Worthy Forester Kniebusch sat in the sand rubbing the thigh which had borne the brunt of the collision. He would very much have liked to see the other man get on his bicycle and set off again. He, Kniebusch, would have raised no objection and asked no questions, so steely was his resolve not to poke his nose into things anymore.

In the darkness he peered at the other man. Since, however, it was too dark to see anything at all (only someone who knew the forest inside out would dare to cycle down this pitch-black defile) he gradually began to imagine that he saw something, a dark figure which, like himself, was sitting in the sand and rubbing its body.

Forester Kniebusch therefore sat still and peered, now quite certain that the other was also sitting still and peering, that the other was waiting only for him to go away. At first he was undecided, but, on considering the matter, he admitted that the stranger was right. The forester, being to some extent in an official position, ought to go first and thereby signify that he had no wish to pursue the case.

Slowly, quietly and cautiously he stood up, keeping his eye all the time on the black patch. He took a short step, and another, but at the third he fell over for the second time, and naturally right on top of the man from whom he was backing away. The black patch had been deceptive; the forester sat directly beside, even partially on top of, his latest discovery.

His greatest desire now was to jump up immediately and run away, but he had fallen on the bicycle, and this gave rise to some confusion of clothes, pedals, chain, gun strap and saddlebag, quite apart from the pain which his sudden collapse onto thin steel bars and jagged pedals had caused.

Completely shaken in body and spirit, the forester sat there, and if at first he still thought of getting away he yet could not help gradually noticing that the body on which his arm rested was somewhat more motionless than it would have been in the case of a conscious man.

Quite a little time passed, however, before Kniebusch could bring himself to switch on his electric torch. Once this had happened, though, and the beam discovered a pale unconscious face, skinned on one side, things moved more quickly. From the realization that this was the notorious rogue, Bäumer of Altlohe, delivered into his hand as helpless as a lamb, to the resolve to take the wretched poacher and rowdy to the lock-up, was only a step.

With rope and straps the forester made Bäumer into a parcel such as no girl in a store could have tied better or more securely, and all the while he reflected that by this “arrest” he would gain much credit with the old Geheimrat and the young Rittmeister, seeing that Bäumer was an arch rogue, a ring leader, a master thief, a poacher, an absolute thorn in the flesh of every landowner—all of which was proved by the staggard in his rucksack and the gun on his bicycle. Much more important than this credit, however, was the fact that in this riskless manner he was disposing for a long time of his most dangerous enemy, one who had often threatened to give him a beating should the forester ever dare to search his little wood cart. It must truly have been an act of divine providence, that rightly upsets and softens every steely resolve, which had given, helpless into his hands, an enemy who was a match for three men. And thus the forester tied the knots with a feeling of satisfaction such as if he had just experienced the greatest stroke of luck in his life.

Fräulein Jutta, of course, could have told him that one should not praise the bacon until the pig has been slaughtered.

VII

Wolfgang Pagel looked up and down the dark street near Wittenbergplatz, deserted except for a few hurrying pedestrians. It was shortly after midnight. There, where the square broadened out, a man was leaning against the wall of a house; he wore a cap, smoked a cigarette and, despite the summer heat, had his hands in his pockets—everything as it should be.

“That’s him,” said Wolfgang nodding. He felt suddenly cold—he was so near to his goal. Excitement and expectation gripped him.

“Who’s that?” asked von Studmann without much interest. It was a boring business to be dragged through half Berlin at night, dog-tired, just to be able to look at a fellow in a cap.

“The spotter!” said Wolfgang, ignoring the weariness of his two companions.

“I admire your knowledge of Berlin,” grumbled Rittmeister von Prackwitz. “It’s undoubtedly most interesting that that fellow is called a spotter. Do you mind at last telling us what you really have on?”

“Soon,” said Wolfgang, continuing to peer ahead.

The spotter whistled and disappeared into the brightness of Wittenbergplatz. A key rattled in a street door very close to the three men, but no one appeared.

“They have locked the street door; it’s still the old house, No. 17,” explained Pagel. “Now the police are coming. Let’s take a stroll round the square in the meantime.”

But the Rittmeister turned rebellious. Stamping his foot he exclaimed heatedly: “I refuse to be a party to this nonsense any longer, Pagel, if you don’t explain to us at once what you are planning to do. If it’s anything shady, then no thanks! I openly confess that I’m longing for my bed, and Studmann probably feels the same.”

“What’s a spotter, Pagel?” Studmann asked quietly.

“A spotter is someone who keeps a look-out to see whether the police are coming and whether the air is clear in general. And the man who locked the door quickly just now was the tout, who persuades people to come up.”

“So it’s something illegal!” cried the Rittmeister still more heatedly. “Thanks very much, my dear Herr Pagel. Count me out! I don’t like having anything to do with the police, another point in which I’m old-fashioned.”

He broke off, for the two policemen had come up. They were strolling along side by side, one sturdy and big, one little and fat, the storm straps of their shakos under their chins. The chains on which their rubber truncheons hung clinked softly. The noise of their hobnailed boots was re-echoed by the walls of the houses.

“Good evening,” murmured Pagel politely.

Only the tall one who passed nearest to the three turned his head a little, but he did not answer. Slowly the two pillars of order passed down the street. Only the sound of their hobnail boots disturbed the silence of the three. Then they turned into Augsburgerstrasse, and Pagel made a gesture of relief.

“Yes,” he said and felt his heart beat more calmly again, since he had feared that there might be some hindrance at the last moment. “Now they are gone we can soon go up.”

“Let’s go home, Studmann!” said the Rittmeister irritably.

“What’s up there?” asked Studmann, nodding his head in the direction of the dark house.

“Night club,” said Pagel. He looked toward Wittenbergplatz. From its brightness reappeared the spotter, coming slowly down the street, hands in pockets, cigarette in mouth.

“Disgusting!” exclaimed the Rittmeister. “Undressed women, watery champagne, nude dancers! I said it the moment I saw you! Come along, Studmann!”

“Well, Pagel?” asked Studmann, paying no attention to the Rittmeister. “Is that so?”

“Not at all! Roulette. Just a little roulette.”

The spotter had stopped some five paces away from them under a lamppost. He was looking thoughtfully at the light, whistling “Mucki, call me Schnucki!” Pagel knew that the fellow was listening, knew that he, the worst patron of all gambling clubs, had been recognized, and trembled lest he should be refused admittance. Annoyed at the others’ hesitation he shook the packet of money in his hand.

“Roulette!” cried the Rittmeister in astonishment. He came a step closer. “But is that allowed?”

“Roulette!” Von Studmann, too, was surprised. “And with that sort of swindle you put questions to Fate, Pagel?”

“The game’s played fair,” murmured Pagel in protest, his eye on the spotter.

“There has never yet been anyone who admitted that he lets himself be cheated,” Studmann objected.

“I once used to play roulette, as a very young lieutenant,” the Rittmeister said dreamily. “Perhaps we can just have a look at it, Studmann. Of course, I won’t risk a penny.”

“I don’t know,” said Studmann hesitantly. “It must be crooked. The whole sinister atmosphere. You see, Prackwitz,” he explained with some embarrassment, “I’ve naturally also gambled from time to time. And I don’t like … Hang it, once you’ve tasted blood and are in the mood I’m in today …”

“Yes, of course,” said the Rittmeister, making no move to go, however.

“Well, are we going up?” Pagel asked the two undecided men, who both looked at each other inquiringly, eager and yet not eager, afraid of the swindle, but more afraid of themselves.

“You can take a look at it, gentlemen,” said the spotter, pushing his cap carelessly higher and strolling nearer. “Excuse me for butting in.” He stood there, his pale face lifted to them, his little dark mousy eyes darting critically from one to another. “Won’t cost you anything to look. No charge for playing, gentlemen, no cloak-room fee, no alcohol, no women.… Just pure gambling.”

“Well, I’m going up now,” said Pagel firmly. “I’ve got to play today.”

Unable to wait any longer, he went hastily to the street door, knocked, was let in.

“Wait a minute, Pagel!” the Rittmeister called after him. “We’re also coming.”

“You ought to go with your friend, really,” the spotter said persuasively. “He’s got his head screwed on all right; he knows how to play. Hardly an evening goes by without him clearing off with his winnings. We all know him.”

“Who? Pagel?” cried the Rittmeister, astonished.

“We don’t know what his real name is, of course. With us the gentlemen don’t introduce themselves. We just call him the Pari Panther, because he always gambles only on pari.… And you should see how! He’s a real gambler, he is! All of us knows him. Let him go on ahead; he won’t lose himself in the dark. I’ll show you the way up.”

“So he plays a lot, does he?” von Studmann cautiously inquired, for Pagel’s case was beginning to interest him more and more.

“A lot?” said the spotter with unmistakable respect. “The bloke never misses an evening. And he always skims off the cream! We get infuriated with him sometimes. But he’s cool, I tell you; I could never be as cool as that bloke. It’s a miracle the way he can stop when he’s got enough in his pocket. I really oughtn’t to let him go up at all, they dislike him so much. Still, it doesn’t matter today, since you gents are with him.”

Von Studmann began to laugh heartily. “What are you laughing like that for?” the Rittmeister asked, at a loss.

“Oh, sorry, Prackwitz,” Studmann said, still laughing. “I always like hearing pretty compliments of that sort. Don’t you understand? They let the cool cunning Pagel go up because he is bringing us two idiots with him. Come along. I feel like having a fling now. Let’s see whether we two can’t also be cool and cunning.” And still laughing, he took the Rittmeister by the arm.

The spotter also laughed. “I seem to have put my foot into it proper. Still, you gents ain’t offended. And seeing as you’re not, you might perhaps give us a tip now. I don’t know, but from the looks of both of you, you won’t be coming down them stairs again with a fortune in your pockets.” On the landing he adroitly shone a light on the wallet which Prackwitz was searching for a tip.

“He really believes we won’t have a penny when we come out, Studmann,” the Rittmeister said irritably. “What a bird of ill-omen!”

“Wishing people a bit of bad luck has always helped in gambling,” said the spotter. And in a soft, persuasive tone: “I say, Baron, just another little note. I see you don’t know our rates yet, and me always standing with one leg, so to speak, in Alexanderplatz police station.”

“And me?” The Rittmeister, very angry at being reminded once more of the unlawfulness of this enterprise, was on the verge of exploding.

“You?” said the spotter sympathetically. “Nothing will happen to you. The most that happens to players is to lose their cash. Those who entice them into gambling have to go to jail. You see, I’m enticing you, Baron.”

A dark figure came down the stairs.

“Psst, Emil! These are the two gents with the Pari Panther. Take them upstairs; I’m going to keep a look-out. I’ve got a queer feeling in my stomach as if something might happen!”

The three men ascended. In a hollow whisper the spotter called after them: “Hi, Emil! Listen!”

“What do you want? You know you’re not to make a row!”

“I’ve already touched ’em for a tip! Don’t milk ’em a second time!”

“Oh, get off with you—better keep your eyes skinned!”

“Trust me, Emil. I’ll keep a good look-out, even if the ship sinks!”

He disappeared into the dark regions.

VIII

Wolfgang Pagel was already sitting in the gaming room. In some mysterious way the news of the large sum of money which the Pari Panther had exchanged for counters had made its way from the vestibule to the vulture-like croupier and his two assistants, and had obtained for him a place near the head of the table. Yet Pagel had changed only a quarter of his money with the gloomy sergeant major. Carelessly and hastily he had stuffed away the rest of the notes and had entered with his hand burrowing about in the cool bone counters in his tunic pocket. They rattled softly, with a pleasant dry sound. And this sound at once called up the image of the gaming table: the somewhat indifferently spread green cloth with the embroidered yellow numbers, under electric light that always seemed very peaceful despite all the noise going on around; and the spinning and rattling of the ball, the soft hum of the wheel. Wolfgang sucked in the air with a deep, almost relieved, breath.

The gaming room was already full. Behind those sitting on chairs there stood two crowded rows of players, although it was still early. Wolfgang had only a vague impression of all those tense white faces as he was conducted by one of the croupier’s assistants—a favor never before enjoyed—to the chair which had been vacated for him. Passing a woman, he suddenly became aware of the almost overpowering strength of her perfume, which seemed to him strangely familiar, and to his irritation discovered that, although he would now have liked to concentrate on the game, he was completely distracted, his brain entirely bent on finding out the name of the perfume. Through his head darted a host of words like Houbigant, Mille Fleurs, Patchouli, Ambra, Mysticum. Not till he sat down did it occur to him that he probably didn’t know the name of the perfume at all; that it only seemed familiar to him because it was the perfume of his enemy, the Valuta Vamp. He thought he now remembered this woman smiling at him.

Although he had a seat, Pagel refused to let himself glance at his surroundings or the gaming board. Slowly and deliberately he laid down a packet of Lucky Strikes bought at Lutter and Wegner’s, a box of matches, and a silver cigarette holder—a kind of miniature fork on a ring which slipped over the little finger and was supposed to prevent the fingers from getting yellow. Then he counted out thirty chips and placed them in front of him in piles of five—he still had a whole heap more of them in his pocket. Not looking up yet, he played with them, enjoying their dry rattle as if it were a beautiful music. Then—the resolve had arisen in him just as abruptly as the first flash of lightning darts out of a stormy sky—he suddenly placed a whole handful of counters, as many as he could grasp, on number twenty-two.

The croupier gave him a quick, dark glance, the ball rattled, rattled endlessly—and the sharp voice rang out: “Twenty-one—odd—red.”

Perhaps I’m making a mistake, he thought, strangely relieved. Perhaps Petra is only twenty-one. Suddenly he was in a good mood and no longer distracted. Without regret he saw the croupier drag away his stake. Vaguely he felt as if he had, with these counters, sacrificed in accordance with Petra’s age, bought himself free from her and could now, without taking her into account, play as he liked. He gave a faint smile at the croupier, who was attentively regarding him. The man returned his smile almost imperceptibly, his lips hardly moving beneath his bristly beard.

Pagel looked around him. Directly opposite, on the other side of the table, sat an old gentleman with a face so sharply featured that, in profile, his nose looked like the blade of a knife, its end a threatening point. This stagnant face was terrifyingly pale; in one eye perched a monocle, over the other the paralyzed lid drooped. The man had whole heaps of counters lying in front of him, and little packets of bank notes as well. When the croupier called, his slender well-kept hands hastily seized counters and money and with bent fingertips distributed the stakes over a large variety of numbers. Pagel’s glance followed. Then he looked away quickly and contemptuously; the pallid gentleman with the restrained face had completely lost his head. He was playing against himself, staking on zero and on numbers, on odd and even, simultaneously.

“Eleven—odd—red. First dozen,” called the croupier.

Red again! Pagel was convinced that black would now turn up. With rapid decision he placed all his thirty counters on black and waited.

It seemed an eternity. Someone withdrew his stake at the last moment and then put it back again. A profound, deathly aversion seized Wolf. Everything was going so slowly; this game which had filled his life for the past year suddenly seemed idiotic. There they sat around like children and waited breathlessly for a ball to fall into a hole. Of course it fell into a hole! Into one or into another, it made no difference. There it ran and clattered—oh, if only it would stop rolling, if only it would fall in! The monocle opposite glittered maliciously, the green cloth had something magnetic about it. If only he were rid of his money! What stupidity to have hungered for this game!

Pagel was rid of his money. The thirty counters disappeared under the croupier’s rake. “Seventeen” had been called out. Seventeen—also a very nice number. “Seventeen and Four” was far better than this silly game. For “Seventeen and Four” one needed a little common sense. Here one only had to sit and await sentence. The silliest thing in the world—something for slaves.

With a jerk Pagel stood up, pushed his way out through those standing behind him and lit a cigarette. First Lieutenant von Studmann, who was leaning against a wall, asked with a glance at his face: “Well? Finished?”

“Yes,” said Pagel sullenly.

“How did it go?”

“Moderately.” He puffed his cigarette greedily, then asked: “Shall we go?”

“Certainly! I don’t want to see or hear anything of this business. I’ll go and get von Prackwitz away at once. He wanted to watch for a little, just for amusement.”

“Just for amusement! All right, I’ll wait here.”

Studmann pushed through the players while Pagel took his place against the wall. He felt limp and tired. So this was what the evening, long hoped for, was really like; the evening when, with a great gambling capital, he would be able to stake as he liked! Things never came together. Today, when he could have played as long as he liked, he had no desire to. First there’s no beaker, and then there’s no wine, he thought. He was finished at last with gambling; he felt he would never again have any desire for it. Now he could peaceably travel into the country early tomorrow morning with the Rittmeister, presumably as a kind of slave driver. He would miss nothing here in Berlin. No risk of that! One did this, one could do that: everything was equally meaningless. Interesting to observe how one’s life melted away, rendering itself meaningless, just as the money that was always pouring forth from the presses also became meaningless. In one short day both mother and Petra were lost, and now even gambling, too. It had become completely meaningless.… Really, one might just as well jump from a bridge under the next train—it was just as sensible or senseless as anything else.

Yawning, he lit himself another cigarette. The Valuta Vamp stepped up to him. She seemed to have been waiting for that. “Will you give me one?”

Without a word Pagel offered her the packet.

“English? No, I can’t smoke those; they’re too strong for me. Haven’t you any others?”

Pagel shook his head with a faint smile.

“I can’t understand how you like smoking those! They’ve got opium in them!”

“Opium is no worse than cocaine,” said Pagel provokingly, looking at her nose. She couldn’t have sniffed much today, her nose wasn’t white. Of course, he had to remember the powder; naturally she had powdered herself.… With calm, objective curiosity he looked at her.

“Cocaine! You don’t think I take that, do you?”

Something of the old hostility made her voice shrill, although she was now doing her utmost to please him. And she really looked pleasant. She was tall and slim; her breasts in the low-cut dress seemed small and firm. Only, the woman was wicked; one shouldn’t forget that. Wicked. Greedy, avaricious, quarrelsome, rotten with cocaine, cold. Wicked beyond measure. Peter hadn’t been wicked, or perhaps she had been—yes, Petra had been wicked. But one hadn’t noticed it much; she had been able to hide it for a long time, until he had found her out. No, she too was finished.

“So you don’t take snow? I thought you did!” he said off-handedly to the Valuta Vamp and looked around for Studmann. He would have been glad to get away. This well-built cow of a woman bored him to death.

“Only now and again,” she admitted, “when I’m tired out. And that’s no different from taking pyramidon, is it? You can ruin yourself with pyramidon, too. I once had a girl-friend who took twenty a day. And she—”

“Yes, yes, my dear!” said Pagel. “I’m not interested. Don’t you want to go and play a bit?”

But she was not to be got rid of so easily. Nor was she in the least bit hurt; the only time she was offended was when no one intended it.

“You’ve already finished playing?” she asked.

“Yes. No more cash left. Absolutely broke.”

“You little leg-puller!” she laughed foolishly.

He looked at her. She did not believe him. She had heard something about the contents of his pockets, otherwise she would never have wasted so much time and pleasantness on a shabby fellow in a soldier’s tunic, since she deigned to consider only gentlemen in evening dress.

“Please do me a favor!” she cried suddenly. “Stake once for me!”

“What good will that be?” he asked crossly. This Studmann was taking an eternity, and he couldn’t get rid of the woman. “I think you know the game well enough without me.”

“You are bound to bring me luck.”

“Possibly. But I’m not playing anymore.”

“Oh, please—be nice to me for once!”

“You heard me. I’m not playing anymore.”

“Really not?”

“No!”

She laughed.

“Why do you laugh so stupidly?” said Pagel crossly. “I’m not playing any more!”

“You—and not playing! I don’t think!” She gave her voice a soft persuasive tone. “Come, darling, stake once for me; then I’ll be very nice to you, too.”

“Thanks very much for your favors,” said Pagel gruffly. “God, can’t I get rid of her at all? Go away, I tell you. I’m not playing any more, and as for you, I can’t stand you at any price—you disgust me!” he cried.

She regarded him attentively. “You look attractive now, sonny. I never noticed before how handsome you really are. You always sat at the table like a fool.” She tried to flatter him. “Come, darling, stake once for me! You’ll bring me luck!”

Pagel threw his cigarette away and bent very close to her. “If you speak another word to me, you damned whore, I’ll sock your teeth in!” His whole body trembled with senseless rage. Her eyes were right close to his. They were brown—suffused now with a yielding moistness.

“Hit me, then!” she whispered. “But stake for me once, darling.”

He turned round with a jerk and went quickly to the table. Seizing von Studmann by the elbow and breathing rapidly, he asked: “Are we going or aren’t we?”

“I can’t get the Rittmeister away!” von Studmann whispered back as excitedly. “Just look at him!”

IX

It was with extreme reluctance that Rittmeister von Prackwitz had accompanied young Pagel on his mysterious journey through Berlin at night. Already in Lutter and Wegner’s he had borne his company and provoking chatter only with great repugnance, hardly forgiving him the insult of the proffered money. His friend’s interest in this completely dissipated fellow, whose ample funds seemed to be questionable at the very least, he found completely out of place. If to von Studmann the little incident of the retrieved shell splinter in the skirmish before Tetelmünde appeared a little ridiculous, yet also—and especially in the case of such a young fellow—rather heroic, to von Prackwitz the ridiculous outweighed all the heroic; moreover, a character which was capable of such extravagance could seem only suspicious to him.

The worthy Rittmeister Joachim von Prackwitz found only the extravagances of others suspicious; his own he regarded with perfect benevolence. From the moment he heard that the excursion had nothing to do with some filthy naked-woman business, his pet aversion—but it was merely a little game, or to put it better, a jeu—from that moment the two policemen with their hobnailed boots lost all their terror, the dark house acquired something inviting, the cheeky spotter became enveloped in humor, and Second Lieutenant Pagel changed from a tempter and doubtful character into a decent fellow and an experienced man of the world.

And when the Rittmeister had found himself standing in the little homely anteroom with its overcrowded clothes hooks, and the mustached man behind the small folding table had pleasantly asked: “Counters, gentlemen?” and the Rittmeister, after a scrutinizing glance, had said: “Seen service, eh? Where?” and the mustached fellow, clicking his heels together, had replied: “Nineteenth Saxon Transport Section—Leipzig,” then the Rittmeister had felt himself in the best of moods and completely at home.

No thought of the prohibition of such games had disturbed this good mood. With excited interest he had asked to have explained to him the use and value of the unfamiliar counters—in his time one had played only with cash, or with visiting cards bearing a number scribbled on them. Had he thought of young Pagel at all, it would have been with extreme benevolence. But no thought of this young person crossed his mind. He found the game and the players much too interesting for that. With regret he had to admit that the people here were far from being as distinguished as those in the Officers’ Casino in peace time. Here at the gaming table, for example, sat a fat red-faced man who kept on murmuring aloud to himself, and distributed his stakes with plump, jewel bedecked fingers. When he considered his bull neck with its many folds, there could be no doubt that this was a kind of brother or cousin of that cattle dealer from Frankfurt whom he never cared to admit into his house. What was more, the fellow had also swindled him a few times—the one in Frankfurt, of course. The Rittmeister stared at the fat man with hostility. So it was here that the profits unjustly squeezed from the landowners went—and the man couldn’t even lose with decency! His fear of each loss was clearly noticeable, and yet he renewed it with every fresh stake.

The Rittmeister was also disturbed by the large number of women who thronged round the gaming table; women, in his opinion, had no business gambling, which was purely a man’s affair. Only a man summoned up sufficient cold-bloodedness and intelligence to gamble with success. The women were, indeed, very elegant, but a little too extravagantly dressed, or rather undressed, for his taste. This mode of exhibiting a pair of young breasts in a gaping silk case, so to speak, for the inspection of every onlooker, made him think of the streetwalkers he hated so much. Such women certainly were not allowed admittance here, but even to be reminded of them was painful.

Yet there were also pleasant things to be seen; a fair-skinned old gentleman, for example, with a curiously sharp-pointed nose and monocle. Where this gentleman played, where this gentleman sat, where this gentleman was a guest, there a Rittmeister von Prackwitz could also be present. It was significant that Prackwitz completely failed to see young Pagel, who sat next to him; his eye, usually so sharp, noticed shabbily dressed people only with difficulty.

As far as the roulette was concerned—and the Rittmeister sat down with polite thanks on a chair that was apparently free, but was of course only vacated for him on a sign from the management—as far as the roulette was concerned, it appeared difficult to get used to. There were a surprising number of possibilities—and moreover it was played with such unseemly haste. He had hardly begun to perceive how the stakes were distributed when the wheel already hummed, the ball rolled, the croupier called, here came a rain of counters, there a drought broke out, the game finished, started again, people betting, disk turning, ball rolling, wheel humming, croupier calling—bewildering!

The Rittmeister’s own experience of roulette lay far back in his lieutenant years. Even so, it had been little enough; the game hadn’t been played more than three or four times. That was due to the fact that it had been very strictly forbidden, more strictly, indeed, than all other games of chance, being regarded as particularly dangerous. As a matter of fact the young officers had then known only one gambling game, called “God’s Blessing on Cohen,” which was considered as relatively harmless. All the same it had become so dangerous for the Rittmeister, then unmarried, that after one turbulent night he had had to travel at breakneck speed to his father, a most hot-tempered gentleman holding the rank of general. There, within the space of half an hour’s fury, he was disinherited and cast off, though in the end both of them—after ample shedding of tears—had signed a whole pile of promissory notes with a swarthy gentleman, for which they received so much money that the gambling debt was eventually cleared. Since that time the Rittmeister had not gambled.

And so he now sat confused before the green cloth, looked at the numbers, gently rattled the counters in his pocket, and did not know how to begin, however much he wished to.

But when von Studmann asked: “Well, Prackwitz, do you really want to play?” he answered crossly: “Don’t you? What have we bought counters for?” And he staked on red. Naturally red turned up. Before he had properly collected his thoughts a little heap of counters fell with a dry rattle on to his own. The unpleasant fellow who looked like a ruffled vulture called out something, and the wheel went spinning again. The Rittmeister was still undecided as to what he should stake on next when the ball settled it for him.

Red had turned up again. Now he possessed a whole mountain of counters.

He withdrew them and looked around like a man waking up. The best player at the gaming table was still the gentleman with the monocle. The Rittmeister looked at the long, thin fingers that were bent slightly upwards and which distributed little heaps of counters with incredible rapidity over the various numbers and on the intersections of their fields; and without overmuch reflection he imitated the gentleman. He also placed bets on numbers, on intersections of numbers, but in doing so he avoided out of a feeling of chivalry the areas occupied by the master (so as not to upset him).

Again the croupier called out something, again counters were added to those he had staked, while other little piles disappeared under the rake and fell with a gentle clatter into a bag at the end of the table.

From now on the Rittmeister was as if bewitched. The rolling of the ball, the croupier’s voice, the green cloth with its numbers, inscriptions, squares and rectangles on which multicolored counters were continuously being rearranged—all this held him completely spellbound. He forgot himself, forgot the time and space in which he sat. He no longer thought of Studmann or the questionable Pagel. Neulohe no longer existed. He had to be nimble; the eye, quicker even than the hand, had to spy out free fields onto which counters could be thrown; winnings had to be hurriedly swept up, and as hurriedly he must decide what should be left in.

Once there came a disagreeable pause because the Rittmeister, to his surprise, found himself completely without counters. Crossly he fumbled around in his jacket pocket, irritated at having to miss a game. The fact that he had no more counters did not, however, arouse in him any thought of the loss he had suffered. It was the interruption which upset him. Luckily it turned out that he had been observed; one of the croupier’s assistants was already holding some fresh counters ready for him. And with an absent-mindedness which shut out even the thought that he was now handing over money—indeed, almost all the money he had with him—he took the notes out of his pocket and exchanged them for bone counters.

Shortly after this undesirable interruption of the game, and just when the Rittmeister was beautifully absorbed in placing his stakes, up came von Studmann suddenly and whispered over the player’s shoulder that Pagel, thank Heaven, had now had enough and was wanting to go. What in the world did he care about young Pagel? the Rittmeister asked very testily. He was having a good time here and hadn’t the least intention of going home so soon.

Quite taken aback, von Studmann asked the Rittmeister whether he really wanted to play, then.

Von Prackwitz believed—was almost certain—that that little heap of counters on the intersection of numbers thirteen, fourteen, sixteen and seventeen, which had just won, had been staked by himself—a woman’s hand ornamented with a pearl ring had reached out and taken the little pile away. He encountered the glance of the croupier, who was calmly observing him. Very crossly he requested von Studmann to go away and leave him in peace.

Studmann made no reply and the Rittmeister went on playing, but it was impossible to concentrate on the game now; he felt, without seeing it, that Studmann was standing behind him and was watching his bets. Turning round abruptly he said in a sharp voice: “Lieutenant Studmann, you’re not my nurse!”

This remark, which brought up again an old wartime disparity of rank, was effective. Studmann gave a very slight apologetic bow and withdrew.

The Rittmeister, with a sigh of relief, looked back at the green cloth and saw that in the meantime the very last of his counters had vanished. Throwing an angry glance at the croupier, he thought he noticed a smile hidden somewhere in the bristly mustache. He opened the inner pocket of his wallet, which was secured by a double fastener, and took from it seventy dollars, all that was left to him of foreign currency. With tremendous rapidity the croupier’s assistant heaped up piles and piles of counters in front of him. Hastily the Rittmeister swept them into his pocket without stopping to count them. For a moment, when he noticed that many faces were regarding him critically, he had the vague feeling of something wrong.

Such a lot of counters, however, gave him a feeling of security; pleasure filled him. That idiot of a Studmann, always worried! Almost he smiled as he settled down in his chair and began to stake again.

Yet this good mood did not continue long. With increasing irritation he saw stake after stake vanish under the croupier’s rake; he no longer heard the dry rattle of winning counters on the numbers he had backed. With increasing frequency he had to delve into a pocket which was no longer so full. It was not as yet the thought of his losses which irritated him; it was the incomprehensibly rapid waning of the game.… Already he saw the moment approaching when he would have to stand up and surrender this pleasure which he had but scarcely tasted. The more stakes, the more his prospects of winning, he thought, and with increasing haste he distributed counters over the whole table.

“That’s not the way to play!” said a disapproving voice near him.

“What?” burst forth the Rittmeister, and looked indignantly at young Pagel, who had returned to the neighboring chair. But here young Pagel was neither uncertain nor embarrassed. “No, that’s not the way to play!” he said again. “You’re playing against yourself.”

“What am I doing?” asked the Rittmeister, trying to be angry and wanting to snub the fellow just as thoroughly as he had snubbed Studmann. But to his surprise his anger, which usually was ever ready, failed him and he was seized with embarrassment, as if he had been behaving like a foolish child.

“If you stake on red and black simultaneously then you can’t win,” said Pagel reprovingly. “Either red wins or black—never both!”

“Where have I …?” the Rittmeister asked in confusion and looked at the table, just as the croupier’s rake intervened and the counters rattled.

“Go on, take them,” whispered Pagel sternly. “You’ve had luck. That over there is yours! And that! Madam, if you don’t mind, that is our stake!”

A woman’s voice said something very heatedly, but Pagel paid no attention. He continued giving orders, and the Rittmeister followed his instructions like a child.

“That’s right. And this time we won’t bet at all. We shall first see how the game runs. How many counters have you left? That won’t be enough for a big coup. Wait, I’ll buy some more.”

“You wanted to go, Pagel!” Studmann’s unbearable nursery-governess voice made itself heard.

“One moment, Herr von Studmann,” said Pagel, smiling pleasantly. “I just want to show the Rittmeister quickly how to play in a correct way. Please, fifty counters of five hundred thousand and twenty of a million.”

Studmann made a gesture of despair.…

“Only one moment, really,” said Pagel. “You can take it from me the game doesn’t amuse me at all. I’m no gambler. It’s just for the Rittmeister’s sake.”

But von Studmann was listening no longer. He had turned round angrily and was gone.

“Just watch, Rittmeister,” said Pagel. “Now red will turn up.”

They waited anxiously.

There came—red.

“If we had only staked then!” mourned the Rittmeister.

“Just be patient!” said Pagel comfortingly. “First we must see how the land lies. One can’t yet say anything definite—anyway, it’s very probable that black will turn up.”

But it was red.

“You see!” said Pagel triumphantly. “What a good thing we didn’t. We’ll soon start, though, and you’ll see, in a quarter of an hour …”

The croupier smiled imperceptibly. In a corner von Studmann was cursing the moment that he had spoken to young Pagel in Lutter and Wegner’s.