Wolf Among Wolves

Chapter Fifteen

The Last Does Not Remain Alone

I

Soon it would be December. With storms of ice, snow and sleet the year was approaching its end. The last of the potato diggers had fled—a great blow—ten thousand hundredweight and more were still in the earth. Angry shame seized Pagel when he saw the leaves rotting in the fields and thought that, while people were dying of hunger in the towns, the potatoes themselves were rotting underground.

I have done a lot of things wrong, he thought. But how the devil could I have known better? Nobody told me, and I had so much to do I couldn’t think a day ahead. I ought to have had the potatoes taken straight to the station; then we should now have the little bit of money which is always lacking. Stored in the clamps they are threatened by frost and thieves, and won’t be saleable till spring. And who will have this place then?

The threshing machine hummed outside—but it was too loud, too noticeable. There was a man in Frankfurt who had once furnished a large sum of inflation money, and a car had been purchased with it; now the man wanted his goods. The times were beginning to change. In Berlin they had at last stopped the note presses, so people said, and the mark wouldn’t be falling any lower: it had stopped falling when for one American dollar 4,200 milliard marks were given. And perhaps it would stay at that level.

The threshing machine hummed—sometimes it was busy with rye for the man in Frankfurt; sometimes he went away empty-handed because another had been quicker. Geheimrat von Teschow had left the beautiful region of Nice and now lived in the agreeable town of Dresden—to be more exact, at The White Hart, in Loschwitz. Perhaps he wanted to lose weight, or his gallstones gave him trouble if he thought of Neulohe. Or the old lady was having trouble with her nerves. Emissaries of his frequently visited Neulohe—they were bailiffs: and a certain attorney had become a familiar figure to Wolfgang, for the Geheimrat had a writ of execution—oh, everything was in the best of order. Once again he had snapped up three hundred hundredweights of rye which the man in Frankfurt should have had.…

Pagel sat at his typewriter; it was only half-past eight in the morning and the letter must go by the next post, without fail.

Dear Herr So-and-so, I regret to have to inform you that the wagonload of rye (Baden 326485, 15 tons), concerning which you had already been apprised, was seized at the goods station here by that other creditor of Herr von Prackwitz already known to you. I beg you to be patient a few days longer; as quickly as possible I will send you a delivery in replacement. In the meantime I would beg you to consider whether the grain assigned you could not be fetched direct from the threshing machine by truck. I have already verbally explained to you that there is no lack either of goodwill on our part or of the possibility …

But what did the two people in the Villa say to that? Nothing. The Rittmeister preferred to sit silently beside his wife. “Do just as you think best, Herr Pagel,” she said. “You have the authorization.”

“But your father …”

“Oh, father doesn’t mean it so badly! You will see. When everything’s in a complete muddle, he will come and put everything to rights—beaming because of the chance to be so clever. Isn’t that so, Achim? Papa was always like that.”

The Rittmeister nodded and smiled.

“But I have no money for wages!” cried Pagel despairingly.

“Sell something or other—sell cows, sell horses! What do we need with horses at the beginning of winter, when work’s at an end? Don’t you think so, Achim? In winter one doesn’t need horses.”

“No.” He is of the same opinion; in winter one doesn’t need horses.

“The lease prohibits the sale of livestock. Live and dead stock, madam, does not belong to you; it belongs to the Geheimrat.”

“Have you become Herr von Studmann? Why, you’re already talking of the lease! Dear Herr Pagel, don’t make difficulties for us. You have full authority! It’s only a question of a few days more.…” Pagel looked questioningly at Frau Eva. “Yes,” she went on suddenly fervent, “I am convinced that our search will soon be successful. The fat man has turned up again in his bowler hat.… We hadn’t seen him for a time, and we had almost given up hope.…”

Pagel went. Pagel raised money and paid the wages. Or Pagel could not raise money and he paid the people with grain and potatoes, a sucking pig, butter, a goose …

He sat at the typewriter: “We have still roughly four thousand hundredweights of grain lying unthreshed.…” Is that true or is it a lie? he thought. I don’t know. I haven’t kept the grain books for weeks; I’d never get them right now. Whoever takes over from me can only believe that I’m criminally thoughtless. Nothing balances.… If the Geheimrat gets to see it … He sighed. Oh, life’s no fun, I don’t enjoy it. Even when I think of Petra, I no longer enjoy it. If I ever really do reach her, I’m sure I’ll cry and cry purely because of loss of nerve. But I can’t run away now, though. I can’t leave them in the lurch. They wouldn’t even be able to borrow the petrol for their damned car!

“That’s the third time you’ve sighed, Herr Pagel,” said Amanda Backs from the window, “and it’s only half-past eight in the morning. How are you going to get through the day?”

“That’s what I often ask myself,” replied Wolfgang, grateful for the distraction. “On the whole, however, the day itself sees to it that you get through it, and usually no day is as bad as I feared it would be in the morning, and none so good as I had hoped, either.”

Amanda Backs looked impatiently out of the window; this sententiousness did not please her. Then she screamed, in horror. “Herr Pagel, look!”

Pagel sprang to the window …

He saw something coming across the Geheimrat’s park, creeping on arms and legs.

For a moment he stood transfixed.

Then he shouted: “The forester! Now they’ve killed the forester, too!” and he ran from the room.

II

It had not been very hard for Pagel to get the old forester out of his sickbed again—not half so difficult as the doctor had thought. A man who had passed his whole life in the fresh air felt his head swim when he was always shut up in a stuffy room. “I’m afraid the walls will collapse on me,” he complained to Pagel. “It’s all so small—and she won’t have a window open.”

Perhaps it was not the confinement or the lack of air, or the bees who had to be prepared for the winter, or the hunting dog who wanted to be fed every day, that brought the forester so quickly out of his bed—perhaps it was “she,” his wife, who more than anything sickened him of his room. They had spent a whole lifetime side by side—till they couldn’t bear the sight of each other. Day after day they passed by one another without exchanging a word. He would go into the kitchen, make his coffee and butter his bread, and then, when he had left, she came and made her coffee and buttered her bread. They had long passed beyond disgust, hate and aversion; now they did not exist for one another at all. For a very long time. Before he opened his mouth she knew what he would say, and he knew everything about his wife; how peas agreed with her, and that when the wind was in the south she couldn’t hear with the left ear, and that lampreys tasted much better with than without a bay leaf.

“Move into another room,” proposed Pagel. “There are enough empty rooms in the house.”

“But my bed has always stood in this room! I can’t move it about at my time of life. I would never get to sleep.”

“Then go for a little walk,” replied Pagel. “Fresh air and a little exercise can only do you good, the doctor says.”

“Yes? Does he really think so?” asked the forester anxiously. “Then I’ll do it.” He was very willing to do whatever was ordered by the doctor who had procured so many good things for him: rest from work, sick benefit, splendid medicine that brought a man tranquil sleep. And he had promised even better things: the end of inflation, a pension, a peaceful evening to his life. So the forester went for a walk. But that again was a difficult matter. At no price would he go into the forest, which came right up to his house. He had seen enough forest in his life, much too much. Actually he couldn’t see the wood for the trees. He saw only so-and-so many cubic feet of timber, railway sleepers, wood for fellies, shafts for the wheelwright, stakes … And if he took a walk in the forest it would look, not as if he were ill, but as if he were on duty again. It would have been the same as for a sick clerk to go to his office for recreation.

In the other direction, however—toward the village—he also did not go. All his life the people had kept repeating that he was merely a lazybones who did nothing but walk about. He didn’t intend now to go for real walks under their very eyes; that would look as if they had been right in the end.

There remained then only one way for him, that which led past the potato clamps fairly directly to Neulohe Farm and the staff-house. Kniebusch therefore went only this way, with great regularity, several times a day; and with the greatest regularity he arrived several times a day in the staff-house.

With the forester it had come to pass that he, a very old man, had at last found a real friend—and Pagel did not want to disappoint this simple faith. Yet he sighed whenever he saw the old man approaching, to sit down and not take his eyes off him for half an hour at a time. He did not exactly intrude; he never spoke if Pagel was busy—at the most he let himself be carried away into a rare exclamation of rapture when Pagel was typing, such as: “Oh, how fast he does that! Like machine-gun fire! Splendid!” No, he did not intrude, but it was a little disturbing to have those seal-like eyes fixed upon one in a glance of unbounded devotion, enthusiastic friendship. Perhaps it was disturbing precisely because Pagel did not in any way return this emotion. He had no particular love for the aged, timorous forester. And what had he done to earn such friendship, after all? Practically nothing: a talk on the telephone with the doctor, a little charity, two or three short sickbed visits.…

When things got too bad Pagel would interrupt his work. “Come along, Herr Kniebusch; I must see if there are any more mouse holes in my potato clamps: I’ll accompany you the little distance.”

The forester always got up at once and came away willingly. It never entered his head that his friend wanted to get rid of him. When this had happened three or four times, however, it occurred to the old man that at least he could take one job off this friend’s hands, and now on his morning walk to the office he would go from one clamp to the other. “Stacks six, seven, eleven each have a hole,” he would report. “At the north end, middle, south end.” He was very exact.

“Yes, you sigh, Herr Pagel,” said Amanda exasperated, “but you could easily tell him that the constant sitting around and staring is no good to you in the office. That Kniebusch is certainly no soft touch, and if he lays into someone, that someone definitely knows it. And if you don’t like to tell him, then I will.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort, Amanda.” And Pagel spoke with such emphasis that Amanda did nothing of the sort.

When the forester had left his house that morning there was a very fine rain falling and no breath of wind. It was one of those mournful autumn days which lie on the hearts of young people like a nightmare, but the weather pleased the old forester, certain that his young friend could be found in the office, under shelter. Throwing a rain cape round his shoulders, he set forth.

Slowly and comfortably he shuffled toward the farm. His hands, clasped over his belly, were dry and warm under the cape. If he weighed up things closely, he had never been better off in his life, or felt better. He hadn’t even to fear the Geheimrat’s return. At Pagel’s instigation the doctor had written to the old gentleman, who had sent an amiable note to Kniebusch—he should see if he couldn’t get about a little again, so as to initiate his successor in the hiding places of the game, the ins and outs of the forest, and the artfulness of the population. But he shouldn’t bother himself any more about his work.

A fat lot the old gentleman knew! The forester wasn’t bothering himself or worrying a bit—least of all about the forest. But was he not perhaps a trifle sorry when he found holes in the potato clamps? That vexed and troubled his best and only friend, Pagel, as he knew; but it delighted him, because when there were holes he had something to report and was of use.

So he walked quite contentedly up one side of the clamps and down the other. Unfortunately, however, as he might almost have imagined, the people hadn’t, in this beastly weather, the heart even to steal; clothing was so scarce that men didn’t like to expose to rain the single gray uniform they had brought back with them from the war.

It looked then as if there would be nothing to report today, and that was annoying—till old Kniebusch came to the very last clamp, on the other side of which, next to the forest, he found the wished-for hole; and a splendid one, too. Six or eight hundredweights of potatoes had been taken out of it at least.

Satisfied, he might now have made his report. Instead, he looked thoughtfully at a small path trodden out from the hole into the pine plantation. The soft ground betrayed clearly that the potatoes had not been taken straight on a handcart to the road and thus to the village—the still quite fresh marks showed that they had been taken into the plantation and were probably still there.

The inquisitiveness of old men, as tormenting as an eczema, plagued him, and the hunter’s instinct urged him on—one doesn’t track game a whole lifetime to pass heedlessly over a trail in one’s old age. The thought of being able to report something very special to his friend Pagel also encouraged him. Not for a moment did he think that this investigation could prove dangerous. Potato thieves were harmless people; their theft was merely of food and was punished with a paper fine, so that they had little to dread if caught. If anything caused the forester to hesitate, it was his firm decision not to bother about other things. However, he wanted to do Pagel a favor, so gently, on tiptoe, he took up the trail. Over the years people had provided themselves with so many poles and faggots from the plantation that the place had become thinned out, and the forester arrived very quickly at the spot where a small mound of potatoes lay. They were Red Professor Wohltmanns. Wanted, no doubt, to fatten his pigs with them!

Kniebusch, feeling that he was not alone, raised his eyes and saw a man squatting under the pines. His trousers were down and he looked calmly at the forester.

“Hi! What are you doing here?” shouted the surprised Kniebusch.

“I’m shitting,” replied the man with a friendly grin.

“I can see that,” said the forester, amused. Oh, what a lot he would have to tell Pagel! “Was it you who pinched the potatoes?”

“Of course,” declared the man, taking his time.

“But who are you? I don’t know you at all!” The forester thought he knew every soul for twenty kilometers round, but he had certainly never seen this man before.

“Take a good look at me,” said the man, standing and pulling up his trousers. “You’ll know me next time.”

It was all so friendly and good-tempered—and potato theft was, after all, not really a capital crime—that the forester continued to stand with his hands clasped under the cape, and saw without misgiving the man saunter toward him. If there was no apprehension in his mind, there was certainly astonishment. He was familiar with that jacket and knickerbockers of gray-patterned cloth. “But you are wearing a suit of the Rittmeister’s!” he exclaimed bewildered.

“You miss nothing, forester,” said the man grinning. “It fits me, don’t you think?” He was now standing right in front, laughing. But something in this laughter, in the tone of his words, in his nearness, displeased old Kniebusch. “Well, tell me your name,” he ordered. “I certainly don’t know you.”

“Then you shall,” cried the other. In a flash his expression changed into one of hate; in a flash he had his arms round the forester—who couldn’t move under his cape.

“What’s the meaning of this?” exclaimed the helpless Kniebusch, still not thinking it serious.

“Here’s a greeting from your old friend Bäumer!” the man shouted right in his face. And in the same moment the forester heard a terrible crack, right in his skull, a blinding whiteness.… There must have been two of them, he thought. One has knocked me on the head from behind.…

All became red and then gradually black—he felt himself falling—he lost consciousness.

Slowly memory returned to his brain. It attached itself to what he had last thought. There were two of them, he told himself. One I don’t know, but the other who hit me on the head from behind must have been Bäumer.… It’s not so bad to be killed like this—all my life I’ve gone in fear of it, and now it’s not so terrible at all.…

Not for a moment did he believe that he would escape with his life. That villain must have broken his skull. So the fellow had got him in the end! But it was not very painful. The warmth running over his skull was troublesome, though. That was the blood welling out. He was getting giddy from it. Had the fellows gone?

He listened, he heard nothing. No step, no rustling; not a twig snapped.

Painfully he moved his head to and fro; he could not move his eyes properly; he must move the whole head. He saw no one. Thought I was already done for; but it hasn’t been as quick as all that.

In truth he was lying there comfortably, old Forester Kniebusch; he had lain worse than that in his life. His limbs were getting heavy, but his head and something in his breast were getting lighter and lighter. For a moment he considered whether he should do something, and what he should do.… But why do anything?

The cold was increasing, that icy cold which was creeping up from the extremities of his limbs, but one could endure that; sooner or later in the morning people would come to the clamps; he was close by, he had only to shout. Then they would find him, carry him home, put him to bed—he had always wished to die in his bed.

The old forester, whose vital strength was slowly trickling from the terrible skull wound, pushed an arm under his head. It isn’t so bad at all, he thought again. If only one knew how little unpleasant even the most unpleasant thing is, one wouldn’t need to have any fears in life.

He tried to reckon out when the laborers would be likely to come. Potatoes had to be fetched for the pigs. At the most it would be another two hours; he would remain alive as long as that, surely, so that he could die in his own bed.…

But Pagel! he thought suddenly. My friend Pagel will be waiting for me. Every morning I’ve been there early and informed him of the holes—and today I don’t turn up! He’ll miss me!

Kniebusch shut his eyes. It was pleasant to feel that someone would miss him. He could hear that youthful, invariably friendly voice asking the Backs: “Where’s our old Kniebusch got to this morning? Why, he hasn’t made his report yet, Amanda!”

He smiled.

But an agonized feeling began to stir in him; he hadn’t yet made his report! Today he really had something to report, and today he failed to appear. They would soon find him, though. But this didn’t comfort him. I’m getting weaker all the time, he thought. I’m getting colder and colder. Perhaps I won’t be able to call out later on—they will find me too late.

He tried to move his head forward. He wanted to estimate, from the quantity of blood he had lost, the quantity of life which still remained to him; but he could not, it was too difficult.

A terrible struggle starts in him: the dying man wants only to lie quietly, to feel himself gently flowing away, to be at peace.… And something else tells him that he must get up and make his report. Bäumer is back again and someone else, a stranger—two dangerous people, two ravenous wolves.

I can’t get there! he groaned. I can’t walk even!

If you can’t walk, you must crawl, spoke the pitiless voice.

I never had any peace in my life; let me at least die in peace.

You will have peace in the grave—now make your report! said the voice without pity.

And the worn-out old man, the coward, the babbler, rolled over on his belly and drew up his icy limbs. Will-power, the ruthless will-power of duty—it was this which had always strengthened him against his entire nature. Now once more it drove him to a last extreme effort; old Kniebusch crawled on all fours across the forest and, coming to a sack, he took hold of it and dragged it with him, in the obscure feeling that he had snatched up some evidence.

He crawled up to the potato clamps and hopefully raised his head. No one was to be seen. “Oh, my God, my God! Will no one help me?” he wailed.

But he crawled onward. He crawled down from the clamps onto the path, and when he was alongside the park he saw in the hedge a hole and squeezed through this, to shorten his journey.… He did everything correctly, exactly, as if his brain were still functioning. But his brain was only in its twilight. Everything his mind and body could give was made possible by the massive will that forced him constantly to crawl forward. He no longer thought of Pagel, of Bäumer, of icy coldness, of wounds. He had forgotten the sack which, in the midst of torments, he went on dragging with him—he thought of nothing but that he must crawl on. Crawl—till he collapsed.

And collapse he did, in that moment when Pagel shouted to him: “My God, Kniebusch, dear Kniebusch—what have they done to you?” At that moment, hearing that familiar voice, his will gave way, his body failed him, and he stopped crawling forward. Together Amanda and he dragged the old man indoors. But they couldn’t get the sack out of his hand; it was as if his fingers had grown into the material.

III

It would certainly have been the bitterest irony in the world had Forester Kniebusch died in a strange bed without being able to make that report for which he had suffered so heroically. But Death was not so severe. Once again he was to open his eyes and see close above him his friend’s pale face and hear his kind voice. “Old Kniebusch, what a fright you gave us! Just wait a bit, the doctor will be here in a moment. He’ll patch you up again. Are you in bad pain?”

The forester moved his head angrily. Doctors and pain didn’t concern him any longer. He had been plunged into the darkness and only returned from it because he had something to settle, his report. And in disjointed words he whispered into Pagel’s ear, and Pagel nodded again and again and said: “Good, Kniebusch, good. Quietly—don’t tax yourself, I can understand everything.”

The forester went on whispering. Every word hurt him, but every word was necessary. When, however, he at last finished, he looked at Pagel with such imploring eyes that even the most callous would have understood the urgent question in that glance. And Pagel was by no means the most callous. “Good man,” he said, and gently pressed the forester’s hand. “Very good man.” Like one set free, the old forester smiled as he perhaps had never smiled in his life before. And then he seemed to sleep.

Holding the limp hand Pagel reflected on what he had heard; it was little enough, for the forester hadn’t seen one of the men, and the other he hadn’t known.

Sitting there dolefully, however, Pagel’s eye now alighted on the dirty old potato sack at his feet. For the dying man had let it fall as he groped for his friend’s hand. With his foot Pagel pushed at the sack and turned it about, and it looked to him as if, under all the dirt, there were black characters forming a name. Of course forage sacks were marked with their owner’s name.

He bent down and with his free hand laid the sack across his knee and wiped away the dirt—not letting go of the dying man’s hand. Letter by letter the writing became legible—legible with difficulty, but legible: Kowalewski.

Pagel stared dejectedly at this name. What could the old and honest overseer have to do with potato thieves and murderers? Undoubtedly it was a stolen sack.

In this moment the office door opened, and Amanda Backs came in. She had been telephoning; the doctor would come in a quarter of an hour and the police perhaps in half an hour.…

In reply Pagel lifted the sack, showed her the name and said: “They all come too late. He didn’t see his murderer and didn’t recognize the one who held him. And the name on this sack doesn’t help us further.…”

Amanda turned very pale, looked at him with large terrified eyes and began to tremble.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Do you understand what the name Kowalewski is doing on the sack?”

Amanda had laid her hand on her breast and was looking from the dying man to the sack, and from the sack to Pagel.

“Speak, Amanda! What do you know about it?”

“I know,” she whispered, “that the runaway convict is living in Sophie Kowalewski’s room.”

With a white face Pagel regarded the trembling girl.

“Yes, and I know that Liebschner has been out stealing, together with Bäumer, and so one of the pair held the forester fast, while the other hit—”

“Amanda!” he shouted.

“Yes, Amanda!” she repeated and burst into tears. “And now I’ve become an accomplice of murderers just when I thought I was quite out of the dirt.”

He listened to her sobbing. “You ought certainly to have told me about that, Amanda.”

“Yes,” she cried in despair, “I know that now. But at the time she gave me so many good words. And I couldn’t help thinking of my Hans, of Bailiff Meier, and what I should have felt like if someone had betrayed him to the police. I already helped him away from here as soon as he shot at me! You can’t let down a friend. And she told me, Sophie told me, her Liebschner is good to her and they were going away at once as soon as the fare money had been saved, that means stolen. He’s good to her! That’s why it was; because she told me he was good to her, that’s why I held my tongue.”

“But you ought to have felt, Amanda,” insisted Pagel, “that it was wrong to keep silent.”

“Yes, you may say that now!” she cried wildly. “Sometimes it almost broke my heart, especially when Sophie acted so despicably against you. But how do I know what’s right and not right in the world? You’ve always said: ‘Amanda, that won’t do!’ and ‘Amanda, please don’t do that!’ And when you turned up your nose without a word, that was even worse. And you’ve always done that whenever I start to talk about someone else. In the end I thought: Hold your tongue, he’s the only person who is decent to you, and he’ll think that treachery is treachery, and even a convict shouldn’t be betrayed. I didn’t know where I was any longer.”

“I’m very sorry, Amanda. You are right, I ought to have talked with you differently. And before everything, I ought not to have stopped you from talking. I am certainly the more guilty. But I must go at once! Sit down and hold his hand. He won’t notice the difference, and when he wakes up, tell him that I hadn’t wanted to wait for the police. Perhaps I’ll catch the fellows.…”

And Pagel ran out into the farmyard and drummed together a few sturdy fellows. Softly they entered the Kowalewski home and in the upper story they seized Bäumer and Liebschner, at that moment engaged in packing their things. They had believed there was no need to hurry, for they were certain they had killed the forester and that he would not be found so quickly. Thus they were caught, overcome, manacled and handed over to the police. And thus they were prosecuted and sentenced to life imprisonment, because they couldn’t avoid the charge of murder.

Pagel, however, left to others the arrest of the still-unsuspecting Sophie and went back to the forester. But in his room there was only the doctor—the forester had already departed.

IV

It was not, however, on the evening of this day, it was not till the evening of the next, that Wolfgang learned beyond any doubt who the Prackwitzes were and who the Pagels, and what was actually the part he was playing on this estate and the value of all he had done there. Not only must mankind ponder its good deeds a while, before resolving for them; its basenesses great and small also require time. Frau Eva had required a good thirty-six hours.

When the large car stopped in front of the staff-house it was dark. But of course it was dark; mankind sins by night rather than by day, seeming to think that it need not be ashamed of an unseen iniquity. The car stopped—but neither Frau Eva nor the Rittmeister got out.

They waited.

“Sound your horn again, Oskar!” she cried, vexed. “He must have heard us stop. Why doesn’t he come out?”

Pagel had heard the car stop; he had heard the horn, too. But he did not go out. He was depressed and angry. He had sacrificed his relaxed happiness. Life no longer tasted good to him. It was as if he were grinding dust and ashes between his teeth. Yesterday and today he had knocked ten times at the Villa, twenty times had asked for Frau Eva on the telephone; he wanted to know what was to be done about the forester’s funeral, and what help given the destitute widow. But madam was not to be spoken with. Perhaps she resented his having taken away Sophie so inconsiderately, which meant that once again Black Minna was working in the Villa, that dirty wench with her heap of illegitimate brats.

Oh, let them all go to the devil. Probably Frau Eva was not so bad. Earlier he had found her really nice. Maternal, sensible, also friendly, and thoughtful towards others—as long as she was all right herself. But no doubt wealth had spoiled her; she had always had what she wanted, and now that things went badly for her she thought only of herself. She blamed the whole world, and let the world know it.

Let them hoot away, he wasn’t going out. In reality she was excellently suited to the Rittmeister. Both were made of the same stuff. Before the war they were on top, they were of the nobility, they had money. Let the so-called people see for themselves how they got on! … Undoubtedly a damned similarity with her husband. Naturally she didn’t behave so badly; she was a woman, after all, and could be amiable if she wanted something; feminine charm, a leg stretched out, a melodious voice—smiles. But in the end it came to the same thing. If she wanted a motor car she bought it, and the young bailiff, without money for wages, must do the best he could to get fifty families enough to eat.

“You will arrange that for me, won’t you? I don’t need to worry myself about it, then? You are so capable!” Yes, they wouldn’t be able to arrange it themselves, didn’t even want to—they had people to see to such things. Between Wolfgang Pagel and Black Minna there was (for madam) not such a great difference, by a long way, as between herself and him—the disparity was simply enormous!

I am unjust, he thought, and the car hooted again peremptorily. Unjust. She genuinely has a heavy affliction—and if wealth makes people selfish, if happiness makes them selfish, affliction does it so much the more. Ought I not to go out, after all?

It was no longer necessary to decide this. The chauffeur Oskar entered the office. “Herr Pagel, would you come outside to madam?”

Pagel stood up and looked thoughtfully at him. “All right.”

Oskar, made by the grace of Frau von Prackwitz chauffeur to the gentility, whispered: “Be careful, Herr Pagel, she’s going to slip off! But don’t give me away.” And went. Pagel smiled. There you were! Oskar, who only four weeks ago had beamed on Frau Eva as on a blessed angel, no longer appreciated the sweet cake of daily intercourse with gentlepeople. He felt that he was a hundred times closer to this almost unknown Herr Pagel than to the lady he saw daily.

“Good evening, madam,” said Pagel. “I was wanting to speak to you.”

“We’ve been hooting in front of your window for five minutes!” she cried, invisible in the dark car. “Were you sleeping? Do you go to sleep at eight in the evening?”

“Yesterday,” replied Pagel unmoved, “I tried twenty times to get in touch with you, madam. Arrangements must be made about the forester.…”

“My husband is quite ill! Both of us are ill from all these terrible excitements. I must beg you not to speak to me about these things now.” Her voice became gentler. “You have always been so considerate otherwise, Herr Pagel.”

Unbribed, he said: “I should have been glad of fifteen minutes’ talk, madam.” He was looking at the back of the car, enormously swollen. Oskar had spoken the truth. That monstrous heap of trunks was clear evidence of flight.

“I haven’t possibly got time this evening!”

“And when will you have time?” he inquired inexorably.

“I can’t tell you any exact hour.” The reply was evasive. “You know how irregularly I come and go. Oh, God, Herr Pagel, are you going to make difficulties for me, too? Do be independent. You have full authority!”

Of course he had full authority. He was authorized to settle everything independently (in the way madam wished) and to be landed because of it in a mess (in the way the Geheimrat wished). But he said nothing. One must not attribute too much baseness to a person. In the last resort she wouldn’t leave him in the lurch. Or would she?

“Herr Pagel,” said Frau von Prackwitz, “for a week you have given me no money. I need money.”

“There’s hardly anything in the cashbox,” he replied, understanding now why the car had stopped at the staff-house.

“Then give me a check,” she cried impatiently. “Oh, God, what a fuss! I must have money.”

“Neither in the bank nor elsewhere have we a balance,” he protested. “I’m sorry, I can’t make out a check.”

“But I must have money. You can’t leave me without! I don’t know how you can think so!”

“I’ll see about selling something tomorrow.… Then I can give you some money, if it needn’t be a lot, madam.”

“But it must be a lot! And this evening!” she cried angrily.

Pagel was silent for a time. Then he asked casually: “Are you leaving?”

“No! Who told you such a thing? Are you having me spied on? I won’t have that!”

“The trunks,” explained Pagel, pointing to the rear of the car.

There was a long silence. Then Frau Eva spoke in a very different tone. “Dear Herr Pagel, how can you find me some money?”

“May I have a talk with you for ten minutes?”

“But there’s nothing to talk about. We shall be back tomorrow, or the day after at the latest. I know, Herr Pagel, give me a postdated check. Start selling tomorrow and the day after, pay the money into the bank, and I won’t present the check till the end of the week.”

“Madam was going to be back at the latest the day after tomorrow. I am not an employee here; there was no agreement between me and the Rittmeister when I came—no period of notice. I therefore will also leave Neulohe tomorrow.”

“Achim! Wait here. Oskar, turn out the headlights. Herr Pagel, help me out of the car.” She led the way to the office. She looked magnificent in her rage. “So you want to desert, Herr Pagel, you want to leave me in the lurch—after all we’ve gone through together?”

“We haven’t gone through anything together, madam,” said Pagel somberly. “When you needed me you sent for me. And when you didn’t need me you forgot me on the spot. You have never cared an atom whether I was sad or happy.”

“I have been pleased about you so often, Herr Pagel. In all my worries and troubles I always thought: There’s someone here on whom you can absolutely depend. Decent, honest …”

“Thank you, madam,” he said with a slight bow. “But when a Sophie Kowalewski came and told you the decent, honest fellow was having affairs with women, then you immediately credited him with them.”

“Why are you so nasty to me, Herr Pagel? What have I done? All right, I’m a woman and no doubt I’m like most women—I listen to gossip. But I also admit it when I’m wrong. Very well, then, I beg your pardon for that.”

“I don’t want you to beg my pardon, madam,” he called out in despair. “Don’t humiliate yourself so. I’m not asking to see you on your knees before me! It’s not that at all. But now, for the first time since we know one another, you are thinking about me, about my feelings, and would like to see me in a good humor.… And why? Because you need me, because only I can find the money which you require for your flight from Neulohe.”

“And don’t you call that humiliation? You don’t call that forcing someone on their knees? Yes, Herr Pagel, we are running away.… We hate Neulohe. Neulohe has brought us only bad luck.… And if I’m not to come to grief like my husband, I must go away this moment! Every second I tremble at the thought, What’s coming next? If I hear someone shouting, my knees give way at once. What’s the matter now? I think.… I must go away! And you must give me the money for that, Herr Pagel. You can’t let me die here!”

“I must go, too,” he said. “Life doesn’t please me anymore. I’m at the end, too. Let me go tomorrow, madam. Why should I stay?”

She wasn’t listening. Only one thought occupied her. “I must have money,” she cried despairingly.

“There’s none in the cashbox. And I won’t make out any uncovered checks, it’s too—dangerous. Madam, I can’t get you the money for any lengthy stay at a distance from Neulohe, not in two days. Money has become scarce since the note presses stopped. Even if I stayed a few days more, however, I still couldn’t satisfy your wishes.”

“But I must have money,” she repeated with unshakable obstinacy. “My God, money was always found when we really needed it! Think hard, Herr Pagel, you must manage it somehow.… I can’t let myself be ruined just because a few marks aren’t there!”

Many are ruined because a few marks are lacking, he thought. There was no point in saying such a thing, because it naturally didn’t apply to her. “Madam, you have a rich brother in Birnbaum—he’ll be sure to help you.”

“I’m to ask my brother for money?” she cried angrily. “I’m to humiliate myself before my brother? Never!”

He took a quick, furious step forward. “But you can humiliate yourself before me, eh? A queen shows herself naked before the slaves, doesn’t she? A slave is not human, what?”

She fell back before his indignation, deathly pale, trembling.

“There!” cried Pagel and pointed. “There in my bed in the next room the forester Kniebusch died yesterday morning, in your service, madam. You must have known him since your childhood; since you could speak the man ran about for you and your few marks, was frightened, worked himself to death—did you ever bother yourself at all about his sufferings, how he died, how he labored? Even by one word? Neulohe has become hell for you? Have you ever thought what sort of a hell it was for that old man? And he—he couldn’t clear off—and neither did he! Almost crawling on his stomach, he did his duty right up to the last moment.…”

She stood against the wall, trembling.

“Desert? Be a coward?” His speech was more and more violent; he was increasingly aware that his nerves were giving way. Without wishing to, he yet had to speak, speak at last, once and for all. “What do you know of cowardice and courage? I also thought I knew something about it once. I used to think that courage meant standing up straight when a shell exploded and taking your share of the shrapnel. Now I know that’s mere stupidity and bravado; Courage means keeping going when something becomes completely unbearable. Courage? That old coward who died in there had courage.” He threw a sharp glance at her. “But it must be something which is worth it. There must be a flag there for which it is worth fighting. Where is your flag, madam? Why, you are the first to flee.”

There was a long and gloomy silence. Then he walked slowly to his desk, sat down and propped his head in his hand. Everything which had accumulated these last weeks had been poured out—and what now?

Gently she laid her hand on his shoulder. “Herr Pagel,” she said in a low voice, “Herr Pagel—what you said is certainly true. I’m selfish and cowardly and thoughtless.… I don’t know if I have become so only recently, but you are right, I am like that. But you yourself are not. You are different, Herr Pagel, aren’t you?”

She waited a long time, but he did not reply.

“Be once again what you were formerly; young, trusting, self-sacrificing. Not for me, Herr Pagel; I have indeed no flag for you, but I have the hope that you will remain here in Neulohe till my parents come back. I should like to ask you to move over into the Villa. Herr Pagel—I still have the hope that Violet will knock on the door there some day.… Don’t you go away, too! Don’t let the farm be utterly friendless if she comes.…”

Again a long silence, but of another sort—expectant. She took her hand from his shoulder and made a step to the door. He said nothing. She had her hand on the latch.… “When will your father come?” he asked.

“I have a letter to him in the car. I will post it today in Frankfurt. I take it my father will come immediately, once he learns that we’ve gone away. That’s to say, in about three or four days.”

“I will stay till then.”

“Thank you. I knew you would.” But she did not go; she waited.

He made it easy for her. He was tired of all beating about the bush. “And then there’s the business of your money,” he said abruptly. “I have about a hundred Rentenmarks in cash here, which I will give you. In the next few days I will sell everything which is saleable—do you know where you will be staying?”

“In Berlin.”

“Where?”

“At first in a hotel.”

“Studmann’s hotel. Hotel Regina,” he said. “I will telegraph you the money every day to the hotel.… What was the amount you had in mind?”

“Oh, a few thousand marks—just so that we can make a start.”

He did not wince. “You know, of course, that I mustn’t sell anything of the stock. That’s forbidden. Since it’s not your property I should render myself open to prosecution. You must now, madam, sign a declaration which will cover me as regards your father. You must testify that all illegal sales have arisen through your instigation. You must further testify that you know about the irregular, defective and also often incorrect way in which the books have been kept; in short, that all my proceedings have your full approval.”

“You are very hard on me, Herr Pagel,” she said. “Do you mistrust me so much?”

“It’s possible that your father may say I’ve embezzled money, that I’ve engaged in underhand dealings. My God!” he said impatiently, “why a lot of talk? Yes, I mistrust you! I have lost all trust.”

“Then write out the declaration,” she said.

While he was typing she walked to and fro. Suddenly an idea struck her, she turned briskly to him, about to say something.… But when she saw his gloomy, unfriendly face she sat down at the desk and wrote, too. Her face was smiling. She had thought of something; she was no egoist, there he was wrong—she was thinking of him, doing him a kindness.…

That declaration which a moment ago she had found so shaming she now merely glanced through and carelessly signed. Then she took up her note.… “Here, Herr Pagel, I have something for you. See, I forget nothing. As soon as I can I’ll settle it. Au revoir, Herr Pagel, and once again many thanks.”

She went.

He stood in the middle of the office, staring at the scrawl in his hand. He felt that never in his life had he looked such an ass. He held an acknowledgment in which Frau Eva von Prackwitz, also in the name of her husband, testified to the receipt of a loan of 2,000 gold marks, in full letters, two thousand gold marks, from Wolfgang Pagel. Pagel appeared ludicrous to himself. He screwed up the note furiously. But then he thought again. He smoothed it out carefully and laid it together with the Declaration of Honor in his briefcase. Valuable travel momento! he grinned. Now he was almost pleased.

V

What friendship and respect young Pagel had gained in the four months of his Neulohe labors were utterly lost in the last four days. For a long time afterwards people told one another that little Black Meier had been bad enough, but such an unfeeling hypocrite as Pagel!—no, they certainly wouldn’t see something like that again, for the lad was ashamed of nothing. He stole publicly—in broad daylight!

“I’m not going to lose my temper,” he said to Amanda Backs the second evening, “but I’d like to explode sometimes. That old idiot Kowalewski actually has the cheek to say, when I’m selling the five hogs to the butcher: ‘You oughtn’t to be doing that, Herr Pagel. Supposing the police heard!’ That’s fine, from him!”

“Yes, lose your temper, lose your temper thoroughly,” she said. “Why have you always been so nice and friendly to all of them? That’s your thanks! They asked me in the village today what it’s like sleeping in madam’s bed, and if I won’t soon be wearing her clothes, too.”

“It’s a trusting world!” he complained bitterly. “Everything bad is believed of one on the spot. They think I’m selling the livestock for my own account behind the owner’s back, and that our moving over into the Villa is done on the quiet, an impudence. Doesn’t it occur to any of the blackguards that I may by chance be acting on instructions? I can’t stick my authorization under the nose of every washerwoman, surely?”

“They don’t want to know anything different,” said Amanda triumphantly. “If you’re doing just what madam told you to, then that’s merely a matter of course and boring. But if in broad daylight you’re making away with half the estate, then that’s something grand—something to talk about.”

“Amanda!” said Pagel prophetically, “I’ve a damned rotten feeling. If the old Geheimrat comes and sees what I’ve been doing, and his wife hears what the women are saying, I don’t know whether the scrawl in my pocket will be very effective. I’m afraid I shall leave Neulohe amid thunder and lightning.”

“Just let things take their course, Herr Pagel. Up till now it’s always been you who had the most trouble—and why should it be any different toward the end?”

“You’re right. She rang up twice today from Berlin to ask where the money was—she says she needs a lot more. I think she wants to buy a business, although I find it hard to imagine the business in which Frau von Prackwitz stands behind the counter. I’m very much afraid I shall have to make up my mind to dispose of the threshing machine. And what the old gentleman will say then …”

But someone else said something first. Next day the local gendarme came stumbling into the threshing-machine negotiations. He was so awkwardly polite and so falsely amiable that it was not hard for Pagel to be aware that something was up. And when at last the gendarme came out with it, saying he would be glad to have the address of the owners, Pagel flatly refused it. “Herr and Frau von Prackwitz do not wish to be disturbed. I am their representative; anything you have to tell them you can please tell me.”

Which was what the gendarme did not wish to do. Very annoyed, he retired, and Pagel went back to his negotiations. The dealer from the local town would not offer the tenth part of the threshing machine’s real value, first because money was unbelievably scarce these days, and secondly because word was going round that a crazy rascal was selling Neulohe, lock, stock and barrel, for a song.

“A moment, you!” said a very indignant voice. “You want to sell the threshing mill?”

“Do you want to buy it?” Pagel looked with interest at the newcomer, a gentleman in reed linen and leggings. He could more or less guess who it was. In the distance stood a racing car which had once been much discussed.

“Allow me,” cried the gentleman. “I am the son of Geheimrat von Teschow!”

“Then you must be the brother of Frau von Prackwitz.” Pagel turned again to the dealer. “Well, say a reasonable word, Herr Bertram, or the mill stays here.”

“Indeed it will stay here,” cried the heir angrily.

“If you say a word, Herr Bertram, I’ll never do any more business with you.”

Intimidated, the dealer looked from one to the other. Pagel smiled. And so the confused Herr Bertram murmured the illuminating sentence: “Oh, if it’s like that,” and disappeared.

“Eight hundred Rentenmarks chucked away!” said Pagel regretfully. “I would have got him up to eight hundred. Your sister will regret that very much.”

“Like hell she will!” shouted the other. “Eight hundred Rentenmarks for an almost new Schütte-Lanz, which, as it stands here, is worth its six thousand? Why, you’re …”

“I hope it’s not me you’re shouting at, Herr von Teschow,” said Pagel amiably. “Otherwise I shan’t give you those explanations for which you have undoubtedly come, but will have to turn you off the farm.”

“Turn me off my father’s farm?” There was something in Pagel’s eye which made the other lower his voice, however. “Well then, where can we speak about the mill? But I’m not to be made a fool of by words, Herr …”

Pagel led the way to the office.

“Well, if it’s like that!” said young Herr von Teschow, and examined once more the two documents, authorization and declaration. “Then you are fully covered, and I beg your pardon. But my sister and my brother-in-law must be mad. My father will never forgive them the damage they have done here. Why does she need so much money? A few hundred marks would be enough for the first weeks, and by then she’ll be reconciled to my father somehow or other. It’s not as if he would leave her without a penny.”

“If I understood your sister rightly on the telephone yesterday,” said Pagel cautiously, “she seems to have the intention of purchasing a business.”

“A business! Why, does Eva want to be a shopgirl?”

“I don’t know. But at all events she seems to want to have a small capital to begin with. Of course, it’s clear to me that what I am doing now for Frau von Prackwitz is legally not permissible, but it’s her firm determination not to return to Neulohe. She’s, so to speak, foregoing her share of the inheritance, and for that reason I thought one could answer for this irregularity.”

“You mean,” burst out the younger Herr von Teschow, “she will renounce Neulohe?”

“I think so. After her recent experiences …”

“I understand. Very sad indeed. Any news of my niece Violet?”

“No.”

“Yes, yes,” said the other lost in thought. “Yes, yes.” He stood up. “Well, once again I beg your pardon. A false alarm—someone whispered something in my ear. Between us, I think as you do; see if you can’t still squeeze out a tidy sum of money for my sister. It won’t make any difference now; my father’ll be in a rage in any case, whether the threshing machine’s there or not. Eight hundred Rentenmarks. I could take it for that,” he added thoughtfully. “But no, I can’t, unfortunately. You’ll understand, of course, Herr Pagel, that I can’t take my sister’s part in front of my father—her behavior is, in any case, incorrect.”

With almost unconcealed disgust Pagel looked into the other’s eyes. He thought he had never heard anything so hateful as the question: “Any news of my niece Violet?”—young Herr von Tesechow having understood how much there might be to inherit now. But this disgust was unnoticed. The younger von Teschow was much too busy to worry about Pagel. “So see then that you squeeze something more out,” he said absently. “I think my father won’t come for three or four days.”

“Good.”

“Well, I don’t know whether it will be exactly good for you. But, anyway, you are covered against the worst. You don’t know my father when he’s really upset.”

“Well, I shall get to know him then,” said Pagel, smiling. “I will await him in calm.”

But he was wrong there. He had already gone when the Geheimrat came.

“Hopped it, the cunning rogue!” laughed the people.

VI

It began with the telephone ringing in the office.

At that moment Wolfgang Pagel was filling out a telegraphic money order to Frau Eva, and upstairs Amanda Backs was wrapping herself up to cycle through winter winds and autumn rains to the local town. For the money order had to be given in at the post office there, and the pair knew no one else to whom they cared to entrust a good two thousand Rentenmarks.…

The telephone rings variously, sometimes loud, sometimes low, now indifferent, then peremptory.… And accordingly we have our presentiments what kind of conversation will follow.

That’s something, thought Pagel, lifting the receiver.

A rather rough voice demanded to speak to Frau von Prackwitz.

“That is not possible. Frau von Prackwitz is away.”

“Oh.” The rough voice seemed somewhat disappointed. “She would be away now, of course! When is she coming back?”

“I couldn’t say. Not this week. Can I deliver a message for her? This is the bailiff at Neulohe speaking.”

“So you’re still there?”

“I don’t know what you want,” cried Pagel a little annoyed. “Who are you?”

“Then stay on there!” said the rough voice.

“Wait!” yelled Pagel. “I want to know who you are.”

But the other had rung off.

“Listen, Amanda.” And Pagel related what had just happened.

“That’s someone who may have wanted to play a joke on you.”

“No, no,” he said in an absent-minded way. “I think …”

“Well, what do you think?”

“I think it might be in connection with Fräulein Violet.”

“But how? Why should anyone behave so stupidly on the telephone about her? Well, give me the two thousand marks; you’ve finished the money order, I suppose? I must be off. I don’t want to have to pedal back in complete darkness in this weather.”

“I’ll be finished in a moment.”

The telephone rang. It rang loud and long, monotonously.

“A dealer,” said Pagel.

But it was from Berlin …

“Frau Eva,” he whispered to Amanda.

It was a dealer, however, a great businessman. “Are you there, young man?” asked the familiar screech.

“Oh yes, Herr Geheimrat,” said Pagel, grinning and throwing Amanda an amused glance. “My name’s Pagel, by the way.”

“Oh, that’s all right then.… You see, I’ve quite forgotten it again. Impolite, but what can we do? Now give me your full attention, young man.…”

“Pagel’s my name.”

“Of course, I know that by now!” The Geheimrat was a little irritated. “There’s no need for me to learn it by heart on the telephone! Don’t forget that this talk’s costing one mark twenty. And my money, unfortunately. So give me your full attention.…”

“I’m giving it, Herr Geheimrat.”

“I shall come by the ten o’clock train this evening. Send Hartig to the station with the two old bays.…”

Pagel wanted to say: “But they’re sold.”

Better not; he would soon find that out for himself.

“And send covers along, horse-covers—so that they are properly covered at the station. Hartig’s only a fool—he’s doubtless divided up all his brains among the numerous children.” Pagel burst into a laugh. “There, you see, now you’re laughing,” said the Geheimrat, pleased. “Let’s hope you’ll laugh tomorrow, too, when I’m there. I’m bringing an auditor along. It’s not a vote of censure on you, but since my good son-in-law’s cleared off on the quiet, we’ve got to make some kind of stock-taking and transfer of funds and books. You understand that, don’t you, young man?”

“I understand completely, Herr Geheimrat. My name is Pagel.”

“Is everything in order, man?” asked the Geheimrat, suddenly anxious.

“Everything in order,” said Pagel, grinning. “You will see for yourself, Herr Geheimrat.”

“There you are! Yes, miss, I’ve had good news, I’ll go on another three minutes. Well, and now look sharp, young man. Have two rooms heated, my bedroom and the little guest room. My wife will be staying here for the moment. She wants to know first whether the coast is clear again with you people in Neulohe.” His voice was anxious again: “There’s nothing more happened to you?”

“Oh, yes, all sorts of things, Herr Geheimrat.”

“Well, don’t tell me about them on the telephone, man; I shall hear soon enough tomorrow. Amanda, the fat girl with the rosy cheeks, y’know.… She can turn into a general servant for once. Yes, and let her heat my study. But not the dining room. We’ve got to economize; there’s less and less money. Tell me, Herr Pagel, have you a little money or so in the cashbox?”

“Very little, Herr Geheimrat. To speak more exactly—nothing!”

“But what are you all thinking of, then? I suppose you’ve raked together a little rent? You can’t just simply … Oh, well, we’ll talk that over seriously tomorrow. Hey, and something else, Herr Pagel! The forester, old Kniebusch, is he still shamming sick in bed?”

“No, Herr Geheimrat. I thought that your daughter had written to you about that. The forester is dead, the forester is—”

“Stop!” shouted the furious Geheimrat. “Stop! I wish I hadn’t had the other three minutes now. Nothing but bad news … Well, then, at ten—ten o’clock at the station. Good-by.”

“And not an inquiry after his granddaughter!” said Pagel, hanging up the receiver. “Like son, like father—both wretches.”

“Ah, well,” said Amanda, “what do you expect? All he thinks about is getting his farm back again. But how am I to go to the post office now and get the rooms ready in the Manor?”

“Give me back the money,” said Pagel, putting it in his pocketbook. “I have a kind of feeling that I shall be turned out tomorrow, and in that case I can, after all, hand it over to madam personally. Let us save the postage.”

“Good,” said Amanda. “I will get hold of a few women in the village. There will have to be something to eat there as well.”

“Go to it then! I’ll sit down for a little while with my books; it won’t help, of course, I’ll never get them in order, but I can try anyway to arrive at something like a balance in hand.” Pagel’s good temper had evaporated. When he remembered how the old Geheimrat became red with fury and gave no quarter, and how he shouted down every contradiction, and how he spluttered in one’s face when in a rage … Curse it all, tomorrow wasn’t going to be much of a day, with himself as the scapegoat. What was worse, he wasn’t altogether sure of his nerves any longer; and he hated to lose self-control.

But to back out because of that?

Never!

In the meantime the news that the old gentleman was coming back that evening spread through the village like wildfire.… And twenty villagers, male and female, pretended to have some business, and passed by the Manor, and when they saw the old gentleman’s room lit up they nodded their heads in satisfaction, and looked forward very happily to what would take place the next morning. They had all forgotten how warmly they had once greeted the young Pagel, how much they had liked him and called him “Little Junker,” and how happy they had been to have gotten decent Pagel instead of the indecent Black Meier. They strolled by the office window also, and attempted to peep in, and the most curious thought out a request; never before had Pagel been so often and so senselessly disturbed.

And when the spies came out again, the others would ask: “Is he still there?” And on the reply: “He’s sitting and writing,” then they shook their heads and said: “Why, he is utterly shameless! Isn’t he packing at least?” “Why should he pack?” the spies in turn inquired. “You can be certain he’s got his stuff in safety, going to town as often as he’s done the last few days!”

And they could not agree on what they actually ought to wish for now, whether Pagel should remain and be sent to prison after a gigantic row, or whether he should run away and leave the old gentleman to burst with rage. Both were good!

“You watch, he won’t be here in the morning!” said some.

“Rubbish,” declared the others. “He’s so cunning, even the old gentleman won’t get the better of him. He’s the smartest one we’ve ever had on the farm.”

“Of course. And that’s why he won’t be here in the morning.”

Neither was he.

VII

At seven o’clock that evening Pagel closed his books for the last time, sighing: “It’s no good at all!” He cast a glance round the office, at the safe, the clumsy pigeonholes, the law volumes, the local newspaper files. The typewriter was covered over. He’d written many letters to his mother on it—for Petra. I’ll be fired tomorrow, he thought, downcast. Not a glorious end, actually—on the whole I liked the work. It would have been nicer to have had someone standing here tomorrow and saying: “Thank you, Herr Pagel, you did your job well.” Instead of that the Geheimrat will be screaming for the police and justice.

He turned the light out, locked up, put the key in his pocket and went through the pitch-dark night over to the Villa. It was influenza weather. The doctor had told him that people were dying like flies, young and old. Undernourished too long, first the war, then this inflation.… Poor devils. Will it really be any better with the new money?

In the Villa Amanda had food ready and a thousand bits of gossip passed on to her by the women. “Just think, Herr Pagel, what they’ve imagined now! They say you were hand in glove with Sophie—as for the forester dying in your room, you only did that so that he shouldn’t talk.”

“Amanda,” said Pagel bored, “all that is so stupid and dirty. Can’t you think of something nice to tell me, say, from your youth?”

“Something nice? From my youth?” The amazed Amanda was on the point of setting to with a will and telling him what sort of a childhood she had had …

Then the doorbell rang—and over their supper the pair looked at one another like detected criminals.

“That can’t be the Geheimrat yet?” she whispered.

“Rot! It’s not yet half-past seven—it’ll be something in the stables. Open the door.” However, growing impatient, he followed her, and arrived just as the violently protesting Amanda was pushed aside by a man, thick-set, with a bowler hat on a head like a bull’s—his glance, icy and unforgettable, met young Pagel’s. “I have a word to say to you,” said the fat detective. “But send this girl away. Hold your tongue, you clacker!” And Amanda was silent at once.

“Wait in the hall, Amanda,” begged Pagel. “Come along, please.” And, with beating heart, he led the way into the dining room.

The man shot a glance at the table laid for two. “Is that your girl outside?” he asked.

“No. That was Bailiff Meier’s girl. But she is a decent girl.”

“Another swine I’d like to catch,” said the fat man, sitting down at the table. “Don’t waste any time laying a place for me; I’m hungry and have to go on immediately. Tell me what’s up here, why Frau Eva is away, why you are staying in the Villa—all. Clear, brief, and to the point.” He ate as was his nature—ruthlessly, greedily. And Pagel talked.

“So she let you down in the end, your employer; I might have known it. Give me a cigar now. Did you notice that it was me who rang you up this afternoon?”

“I thought so. And?”

“And you yourself are now in a tight place, eh? Show me the two statements Frau von Prackwitz scribbled for you.”

Pagel did so.

The fat man read them. “In order,” he said. “You’ve only forgotten to safeguard yourself about selling after her departure as well.”

“Damnation!”

“Doesn’t matter. You can get that later.”

“But the Geheimrat will be here this evening.”

“You won’t see the Geheimrat any more. This evening you will go to Berlin and get Frau von Prackwitz to set down in writing that she’s in agreement with recent sales. This very night. Promise me that! You are flippant about such things!”

“You have news of Fräulein Violet?” cried Pagel.

“Sitting in the taxi below,” said the fat man.

“What!” Pagel jumped up, trembling. “And you let me sit here and her wait there?”

“Stop!” The fat man laid his hand, like a shackle not to be thrown off, on Pagel’s shoulder. “Stop, young man!” Pagel tried to free himself, furious. “What I just told you is not quite correct. She who is sitting in the car is not the Fräulein Violet you remember. Don’t forget that for two whole months she has been systematically terrified out of her mind. Out of her mind! You understand? I don’t know,” he said darkly, “if I’m doing her mother a service in bringing her back. But I haven’t gone out of my way to seek her—don’t you think that. If you travel round as much as I do, however, you hear a lot; old colleagues still count me in with them, even if the bigwigs have lopped me off. I just ran into her. What am I to do with the girl? As it is, I don’t even know whether you can take her to the mother; you must decide that for yourself. Only she mustn’t remain here with the old people. Get her away in a car within an hour.… Any place which is quiet and safe. Why let yourself be snapped at here by that old clodhopper? Get away!”

“Yes,” said Pagel thoughtfully.

“Take that fat wench in the hall, if only to have a woman’s help during the journey and not give people something else to say about you.”

“Good.”

“Don’t speak kindly or strictly to the girl. Say only what is essential. ‘Sit down. Eat. Go to sleep.’ She does everything like a lamb. Not a trace of her own will. And don’t call her Violet—otherwise she’ll be frightened. He never called her anything but whore.”

“And he?” asked Pagel in a low voice.

“He? Who? Who do you mean?” said the fat man and clapped Pagel on the shoulder so that he swayed. “That’s all,” said he more calmly. “Pack your things; you can go in the taxi outside. I will come as far as Frankfurt. And one other thing, young man; have you money?”

“Yes.” It was some time since Pagel had admitted that willingly.

“My expenses have been eighty-two marks. Give me them back now.… Thanks. I won’t give you a receipt; I haven’t a name which I care to sign any longer. But if the mother asks, say I had to dress her out—she was pretty tattered—and then a little money for fares and traveling expenses. And now off with you! Hurry up that fat girl—in half an hour I shall stop with the taxi between here and the wood. We don’t want people to notice.”

“But can’t I see Fräulein Violet now?”

“Young fellow, don’t be in such a hurry. That won’t be a very cheerful meeting. It’ll come soon enough. March! I give you half an hour.”

And he went.

VIII

Of the thirty minutes granted Pagel, eight were lost in letting Amanda Backs know what had happened and in convincing her that for Violet’s sake she would have to abandon her poultry to a completely uncertain future. Going to the staff-house took another five minutes. And since the same time must be allowed to get to the car, only twelve minutes remained for the packing. Thus there could only be two suitcases, one for Amanda, one for himself. Wolfgang Pagel, who had arrived in Neulohe with a monster of a trunk, went away with almost nothing. Should he leave behind a few explanatory lines for the Geheimrat? He very much disliked to think that next morning he would be torn to pieces by every tongue as an unfaithful employee and miserable coward. He consulted Amanda.

“Write? Why do you want to write to him? He won’t believe a word when he sees the mess here. No, you leave that to madam to settle later.… But, Herr Pagel,” she said tearfully, “for you to ask me to leave my best things lying around, and then some wench like Black Minna comes and turns everything over and very likely puts my clean linen on her filthy body …”

“Oh, don’t worry yourself about your things, Amanda,” said Pagel abstractedly. “One can always buy some more.”

“Oh!” Amanda was indignant. “Perhaps you can go on buying new clothes, but not me! And how pleased one is to have an extra pair of silk stockings in the cupboard for special occasions, you have absolutely no idea! And let me tell you that if the old grumbler doesn’t pay to have my things sent on at once, then I shall come here myself and tell him off.”

“Amanda, only three minutes more!”

“Oh, only three minutes more! And you tell me that so casually! What about my wages? Yes, Herr Pagel, you’ve thought of everyone, but these last months you’ve completely forgotten that I too would like to get something for my work. We don’t suffer from the same disease, however, Herr Pagel. If you’re silly in money matters there’s no need for me to be, and I want my wages for the last three months, with a receipt, all done properly—and you enter it in your cash book too! I like everything done fairly.”

“Oh, dear, Amanda,” sighed Pagel. But he did what she wanted.

Then for the last time he locked his office door and threw the key into the small tin letter box. And now they hurried away, suitcases in their hands, through the pitch-dark night, though in the village there were lights in almost all the houses—it must be pretty close to nine o’clock now. Neulohe was tensely awaiting the Geheimrat’s arrival.

“Careful!” said Pagel and pulled Amanda into a dark corner.

Someone came down Dorfstrasse and they stood anxiously in the dark like real criminals, and only walked on after hearing a front door close behind the nocturnal wanderer. Then they passed by the Villa—dark standing in the darkness.

The taxi was standing with dimmed lights by the forest. “Eight minutes late!” growled the fat man. “If I’d had any idea what to do with her I should have cleared off! … You, girl, sit beside her, and let me tell you you’ll get something on the snout if you start jabbering.”

With this he opened the door. The moment had come—and nothing happened. Something dark stirred in the corner, but the fat man merely said: “Don’t move. Go on sleeping.” And the darkness did not stir again. “Off!” he shouted to the driver. “As fast as you can to Frankfurt. If we’re there by eleven the young man will give you a tip.”

The car shot into the night. The Villa glided by again. Then came the lights of the apartment blocks. Pagel strained to make out the office building, but it wasn’t recognizable in the dark. Now came the castle.…

“That’s a light,” cried Amanda, excited. “Black Minna is waiting for me. How she’s going to set things right alone with the Geheimrat”—“Schnabel,” said the fat man, but it didn’t sound nasty.

“You may smoke without worry, young man. It won’t disturb her. I’m going to smoke, too.”

Not far from the local town they came very near to having an accident, almost running into a coach. That, however, was because the coachman Hartig had given the horses the rein while he kept his head turned round to his employer, telling him something of the lively events which had taken place at home.

“That was the Geheimrat,” explained Pagel as the raging abuse of coachman and master died away behind them.

“Well, well,” said the fat man, pondering, “I wouldn’t like to be that man’s bed tonight!”

After the Kreisstadt they entered Staatstrasse. After the bumps and stops and starts of the minor roads, the car went easily and ever faster over the smooth metal road—farther and farther. Troubled, Pagel thought what an odd crew they were—each completely for himself. He was wondering what he was to do with the girl, that night.…

The fat man spoke. “You will hardly get to Berlin before two. Have you decided where you will take her? To the mother?”

The dark form in the corner did not stir.

“I don’t know,” Pagel whispered. “The mother’s in a hotel. Ought I to go there in the middle of the night with a—an invalid? Or to my mother? It will be upsetting enough for her as it is, my blowing in without warning.”

The fat man said nothing.

“I also thought of a sanatorium. I have an old acquaintance who is employed in one. But tonight I should never get so far.”

“Sanatoriums cost a lot of money. And money’s scarce with you people.”

“Well, where shall I take her?”

“To madam,” said Amanda. “To her mother.”

“Yes,” said the fat man. “What you said about hotels and midnight is complete nonsense. She’s the mother after all. And even if she is clapped out and has acted like a slattern, she is a mother, and now she won’t be a slattern.”

“Good,” said Pagel. But he began to think once more what answers he should give to all Frau von Prackwitz’s questions, because he knew absolutely nothing, and the fat man would certainly not give him any more information.

The detective tapped on the glass in front, on which the street lamps of Frankfurt shone. “I’m getting out here,” he said. “Listen, driver. The young man here will pay all the fare. You get eighty pfennigs a kilometer—a lot, young man, but that includes the return empty. When we started your meter was at 43,750. Make a note of that, lad.”

“All correct,” said the driver. “And you will have enough money, sir? It’ll come to over three hundred marks.”

“Got enough,” said Pagel.

“Then it’s all right,” said the driver. “I was a bit leery, though.”

“Get her a cup of coffee here in Frankfurt and something to eat, but not in an inn. Fetch it out to her in the car. Good night.” And with this the fat man turned away.…

Strangely excited, Pagel shouted after him. The other made a sign with his hand, and turned a corner—never to be seen again.

“Driver,” said Pagel, “once we’re more or less through the town, stop at some little public-house. We want to eat something.”

It was now lighter in the taxi but the dark figure, its face pressed in the cushions, did not stir.

“Fräulein—Fräulein Violet, would you like to eat something?” said Pagel, oppressed. He had forgotten about it—no, he hadn’t forgotten about it, but he hadn’t wanted to talk to her as one talks to a stupid child or a simple dog.

She trembled in her corner. Did she understand? Or did she not want to understand? Or could she not?

The trembling increased, a moan of grief was heard, nothing articulate—as a bird in the night sometimes laments alone.

Amanda made a movement. Warningly Pagel laid his hand on hers and endeavored to strike the fat man’s cold passionless tones. “Keep quiet now. Sleep.…”

Later they stopped.

Amanda went inside and brought out what was necessary. “Eat—drink now,” said Pagel.

The taxi drove on again. “Go to sleep now.”

They drove a long way. It was dark and quiet. Was not Pagel also a son who had been lost and was now going home? She was also going home! Stranger—estranged, children don’t know their parents anymore. Is that you? asks a mother. Oh, life, life! We can’t hang on to it, whether we want to or not. We glide through it, we rush—restless, always changing. Of yesterday we ask, is that you? I no longer know you! Stop, oh, stop! Now, go on!

The car drives on. Sometimes the walls of the sleeping villages magnify the noise of the engine, which alternates with the purring quiet of the country roads.

Had Pagel believed that he would bring back a daughter to her mother, joyfully? He was merely tired and low-spirited, carrying on with Amanda a conversation drowsy and often a little irritable. What was she really going to do in Berlin if madam didn’t want her assistance? “I don’t know, Amanda. You are quite right; it was thoughtless.”

Then even that conversation died away, as if there were nobody special in the taxi, no daughter who was restored to life, but rather some indifferent, almost troublesome, occupant. Nothing more.…

At last he stood in the hotel lobby. It was half-past two in the morning. Only with trouble had he got the night porter to connect him with Frau van Prackwitz’s room.

“Yes, what is it then?” inquired the startled woman’s voice.

“This is Pagel—I am below in the lobby—I am bringing Fräulein Violet.” He broke off. He didn’t know what else to say.

A long, long silence.

Then came a distant low voice. “I’m—coming.”

And—only a few minutes could have passed—Frau Eva came down the stairs, those same red-carpeted stairs down which Herr von Studmann had once fallen. (But Pagel did not think of that now—although that fall, and a few other things, had taken him to Neulohe.)

She advanced, pale, very calm. She hardly looked at him. “Where?” was all she asked.

“In the taxi.” He led the way. Oh, he would have had so much to say and he had believed she would have had so much to ask—but no, nothing. Only this single “Where?”

He opened the door.

The woman pushed him aside. “Come, Violet.”

The figure stood up, came out of the taxi. For a moment Pagel saw the profile, the shut mouth, the lowered eyelids.…

“Come, child,” said the woman and gave her her arm. They went into the hotel, went out of Pagel’s life—he stood forgotten in the street.

“And where now, sir?” asked the driver.

“What?” said Pagel coming to himself. “Oh, yes. Some small hotel in the neighborhood. It doesn’t matter.”

And softly, taking Amanda’s hand: “But don’t cry, Amanda. Why are you crying?” And yet he too felt as though he must weep. And did not know why.