I write out the words slowly with chalk. A shuffling and rustling begins behind me. I expect to find that they are laughing at me and turn round. But it is only the notebooks being opened and the slates put in readiness. The forty heads are bent obediently over their task.—I am almost surprised. The slate-pencils are squeaking, the pens scratching. I pass to and fro between the forms.
On the wall hangs a crucifix, a stuffed barn-owl and a map of Germany. Outside the windows the clouds drive steadily by, swift and low.
The map of Germany is coloured in brown and green. I stop before it. The frontiers are hatched in red, and make a curious zig-zag from top to bottom. Cologne—Aachen, there are the thin black lines marking the railways—Herbesthal, Liège, Brussels, Lille—I stand on tiptoe—Roubaix —Arras—Ostend—where is Mount Kemmel, then? It isn't marked at all—but there is Langemarck, Ypres, Bixschoote, Staden—how small they are on the map! tiny points only, secluded, tiny points—and yet how the heavens thundered and the earth raged there on the 31st July when the Big Offensive began, and before nightfall we had lost every officer.
I turn away and survey the fair and dark heads bending zealously over the words, Lina and Larch. Strange—for them those tiny points on the map will be no more than just so much stuff to be learnt—a few new place names, and a number of dates to be learned by rote in the history lesson —like the Seven Years' War or some battle against the Romans.
A little Tom Thumb in the second row jumps up and waves his notebook in the air. He has done his twenty lines. I go over and point out that he has made the bottom stroke of the L a trifle too long. He looks up at me so radiantly with his liquid blue eyes that I must drop my gaze a moment. I go hastily to the blackboard to write two more words with another capital letter. Karl and—I pause for a second; but I can do no other, an invisible hand guides the chalk—Mount Kemmel.
"'Karl,' what is that?" I ask.
Every hand goes up. "A man," shouts the little Tom Thumb of before.
"And Mount Kemmel?" I ask after a short pause, almost choking.
Silence. At last a little girl puts up her hand. "Out of the Bible," she says, hesitatingly.
I look at her a while. "No," I then say, "that is not right. You mean the Mount of Olives, or Lebanon, perhaps, do you?"
The girl nods, crestfallen. I stroke her hair. "Then we shall write that this time. Lebanon is a very pretty word."
Thoughtfully I resume my patrolling to and fro between the benches. Now and again I catch a searching glance above the edge of a copy-book. I stand still near the stove and look at the young faces. Most of them are good-natured and ordinary, some are sly, others stupid—but in a few there is a flicker of something brighter. For these life will not be so obvious, and all things will not go so smoothly.
Suddenly a great sense of despondency comes over me.—Tomorrow we shall take the prepositions, I think to myself—and next week we shall have a dictation—In a year's time you will have by heart fifty questions from the Catechism—in four years you will start the larger multiplication tables.—And so you will grow up, and Time will take you in bis pincers—one dumbly, another savagely, or gently or shatteringly.—Each will have his own destiny, and thus or thus it will overtake you. What help shall I be to you then with my conjugations and enumeration of all the rivers of Germany? Forty of you—forty different lives are standing behind you and waiting. How gladly would I help you, if I could.—But who can really help another here? Have I even been able to help Adolf Bethke?
The bell rings. The first lesson is over.
Next day we don our swallow-tailed coats. Mine was only just ready in time—and go to call on the parson. This is matter of breviary.
We are quite well received, though with a certain reserve—our insubordination at college having won for us a rather doubtful reputation in respectable circles. In the evening we propose to visit the Mayor, that also being part of our duties. We encounter him, however, in the village pub, which does service also as post office.
He is a shrewd-looking old farmer with a wrinkled face, who at once invites us to a round of double schnapps. We accept. Then two or three more farmers come in, wink at one another, greet us, and also invite us to a glass.—They are winking and mouthing at each other behind their hands, the poor fools. We realise at once what they would be at—they mean to try and get us tight, by way of having a little joke among themselves. They have worked it often before, so it would seem, for with a knowing smirk they now begin to tell us of certain other young teachers who have been here. There are three reasons why they think they should soon get the better of us: First, because, so they imagine, no townsman could possibly carry so much liquor as they; second, because schoolmasters are educated and therefore must a priori be weaker than they; and third, because lads so young as ourselves cannot really have had any practice. And that may well have been so with the other probationers who have been here, but in our case they are reckoning without one thing, namely, that we have been soldiers for a few years, and so understand very well how to drink schnapps by the mess-tin-full. We accept the challenge. The farmers merely want to make us look a little bit foolish—but we, on the other hand, are undertaking to uphold a threefold honour, which, of course, multiplies our strength.
The Mayor, the Village Clerk and a couple more tough-looking farmers sit down over against us. These are apparently their most confirmed topers. With a faintly sly farmers' grin they touch glasses with us. Willy is already acting as if he were a bit merry. The grin broadens.
Willy and I stand a round of beer-with-schnapps. That draws a broadside of seven more rounds from the others. They count on that to see us under. A little astonished, they watch us empty our glasses. A certain mild approbation is discernible in the way that they eye us. Willy imperturbably orders a fresh round. "But no beer this time, mind you; only double schnapps!" he calls to the barman.
"'Struth! neat schnapps?" says the Mayor.
"Why, sure," says Willy calmly, "else we'll be sitting here till early morning—Beer only makes a man sober."
The astonishment in the eyes of the Mayor is waxing visibly. One of the farmers admits in an unsteady voice that we certainly can swill pretty well. Two others rise up silently and go off. Already one or two of our antagonists are trying to empty out their glasses furtively under the table. But Willy watches that none gets away with it. "Hands above the table!" he insists, forcing the glasses to their lips. The smile has vanished. We are gaining ground.
Within an hour most of them are lying about the room with cheese-like faces, or else have staggered out humiliated. The group about the table has dwindled to the Mayor and the Village Clerk. Now begins a duel between these two and ourselves. Already we are seeing double, but the others have been lisping for some time now, and that renews our heart.
After another half-hour, when we are all as red as turkeys, Willy delivers the coup de grâce.
"Four beer-mugs of cognac!" he booms across the counter. The Mayor starts back in his chair. The glasses come. Willy pushes two into their hands. "Cheero!"
They stare at us. "Now, all in one go!" cries Willy, his face glowing. The Village Clerk tries to back out, but Willy is inflexible. "In four gulps!" pleads the Mayor, much humbled. "In one gulp!" insists Willy, getting up and touching glasses with the Clerk. I stand up likewise. "Well! Cheero! To your very good healths! Here goes!" we shout at our two befuddled opponents.
They look at us like a couple of calves about to be slaughtered, and take a gulp. "No, on with it! Or do you want to go down?" yells Willy. "Stand up to it!" They stagger to their feet and drink. In various ways they try to take a breather, but we jeer at them and show our empty glasses. "Your very best health!" "No, all of it!" "Mop it up!" They gulp it down. Then slowly, but surely, they sink to the floor. We have won.—At slow drinking they might perhaps have seen us out; but we have had special training in the express method, and to make them take it at our pace was our salvation.
Swaying and tottering
we survey the field with pride. Beside ourselves not a man is left standing. The postman, who at the same time is the bartender, is resting his head on the counter and wailing intermittently for a wife who died in child-bed while he was away at the war. "Martha, Martha," he sobs in a weird, high-pitched voice. "Don't mind him," says the barmaid, "he always does that at these times." The lamentation offends our ears; and anyway, it is time to be going.
Willy picks up the Mayor, and I take the lighter, more wizened Village Clerk, and so we trundle them home. That is the final touch to our triumph. We deposit the Clerk outside his own door and knock until a light appears. But someone is awaiting the Mayor. His wife is already standing in the door.
"Herr Jesus!" she cries. "The new school teachers! So young, and such topers! A nice beginning, I must say!"
Willy tries to explain that it was an affair of honour, but gets sadly mixed.
"Where would you like us to put him?" I ask at last.
"Let the old pig lie!" she snaps. We dump him down on a sofa. Then Willy, with a smile like a child, asks if we might have some coffee. The woman looks at him as if he were a Hottentot.
"But we brought your husband home for you!" explains Willy beaming. Not even this hard-baked old body can withstand such sublimely unwitting impudence. Shaking her head solemnly, she pours out a couple of large cups of coffee, meantime giving us a good scolding. We say "Yes" to everything. It is always best at such times.
From this day on we are regarded as men of standing in the village and everywhere are saluted with respect.
2.
Uniformly, monotonously the days follow each other—in the morning four hours' teaching, in the afternoon two. But between, all the hours of sitting about, running around, alone with oneself and one's thoughts.
Sundays are worst of all. When one does not want merely to sit in the pub, it is simply unbearable. The headmaster, the only other male teacher besides myself, has been here thirty years, and has made use of his time to become an expert breeder of pigs. He has won many prizes. But beyond that there is nothing one can talk to him about. When I look at him I want to clear out at once; so dreadful is the thought that some day I shall be like him. There is one woman teacher as well, a worthy, middle-aged creature, but she would have a fit if one were to say "Damn and blast!" Also not exactly inspiriting.
Willy has settled in much better. He goes as an official personage to all weddings and christenings. When the horses get colic or the cows won't calve, he helps the farmers with his advice and support. And in the evenings he will sit with them in the taverns and fleece them at skat.
But I have no wish now to lounge in the pubs, I preferto stay in my room. But the hours are long, and strangethoughts often creep out of the corners—pale, wasted hands,beckoning, threatening; ghostly shadows of things past,but strangely changed; memories that rise up again, grey,sightless faces, cries and accusations——
One dismal Sunday morning I get up early, put on my things and go to the station to visit Adolf Bethke. This is a good idea—for so I shall sit again with a human being really dear to me, and by the time I get back the dreary Sunday will be over.
I arrive there in the afternoon. The gate creaks, and the dog in his kennel begins to bark. I walk quickly down the path between the fruit trees. Adolf is at home. His wife is there too, but as I enter and shake hands with Adolf she leaves the room. I sit down. We talk, and after a while Adolf says: "You're surprised, I suppose, Ernst, eh?"
"How do you mean, Adolf?"
"Finding her back again."
"No—seems to me that's your affair, Adolf."
He pushes a dish of fruit toward me. "Have an apple?"I take one and offer him a cigar. He bites off the end, and goes on: "Well, it was this way, Ernst—I sat and sathere, and pretty soon I began to go crazy. When you're alone as I was alone, a house is an awful place. You go around the room. There is one of her blouses still hanging—those are her sewing things—that's the chair she used to sit in and sew—And then at night, the other bed, so whiteand deserted beside you; you look across there every few minutes, you toss and turn over and over, you can't get to sleep—all kinds of things begin to go through your head,Ernst——"
"I can well believe it, Adolf "
"And then at last you clear out and get tight and do something silly——"
I nod. The clock is ticking. The stove crackles. His wife comes in quietly, puts bread and butter on the table, and goes away again. Bethke smooths his hand over the tablecloth.
"Yes, Ernst. And that's how it was here for her, too. She had to sit about here just like that, all those years. She would lie there, in fear and uncertainty, she brooded and listened—then at last it came. She didn't want it at first, no doubt, but then when once it was there—well, she didn't know how to help herself any more, and so one thing led on to another."
His wife enters bringing coffee. I would like to say Good-day to her, but she does not look at me.
"Won't you bring a cup for yourself, too?" asks Adolf.
"There is something I must do in the kitchen," she says. She has a soft, deep voice.
"I sat here," resumes Adolf, "and said to myself: 'Well, you've fired her out. You've vindicated your honour.' Then I would think: 'And what comfort does your honour bring you?—You know it's only a tag. You're alone; and honour or no honour, it doesn't make that any better.'—So then I told her she could come back—What the hell does it all matter, anyway? A man is tired and will only live a few years. If he'd never known, things would have gone on as before. And who can say what would happen if one always knew everything?"
Adolf plays nervously with his fingers on the arm of his chair. "Have some coffee, Ernst; and there's butter too."
I fill the cups and we drink.
"You see, Ernst," he says gently, "it's so much easier for you.—You've your books and your education and all therest of it. But I—I have nothing else, only my wife——"
I say nothing to that, I could not explain it to him. He is no longer the man he was at the Front—nor am I.
"And what does she say about it?" I ask after a pause.
Adolf lets his hands fall. "She says very little, and one can't get much out of her either—she just sits there and looks at you. At most she only cries. She hardly ever speaks."
He pushes his cup aside. "Once she said it was just to have somebody here. And then again, she says she did not realise—she didn't know she was doing me any harm by it; it was as if I were there—But one can't believe that— Surely it must be possible to discriminate in things of that sort—She's quite all right otherwise."
I think a while. "Perhaps she means she wasn't quite sure what she was doing at the time—as if she dreamed it, you know. One does dream queer things sometimes, Adolf."
"Maybe," he replies, "but I don't understand it.—It certainly did not go on for long."
"And she doesn't want to have anything more to do with the other fellow?" I ask.
"She belongs here, that's what she says."
I think it over awhile. What else should one ask?
"And are things any better with you now, Adolf?"
He looks at me. "Not much, Ernst—but then that's not to be wondered at—not as yet. That will all come in time, don't you think so, too?"
He doesn't look as if he quite believes it himself.
"Sure, it'll all come right again some day," I say, and put a few more cigars on the table. We continue to talk a while still, then I go. In the passage I encounter his wife, who makes to pass by me hastily. "Good-bye, Frau Bethke," I say offering to shake hands. "Good-bye," she answers, turning her face away as she gives me her hand.
Adolf comes with me to the station. The wind is blustering. I steal sidelong glances at him as we walk, and remember how he would smile wistfully to himself whenever we would speak of peace out in the trenches there. Now what has come of it all?
The train starts. "Adolf," I say quickly from the window, "I understand you all right—you don't kno
w how well I do understand."
He is going back alone over the fields to his house.
The bell sounds for the ten o'clock play interval. I have just given an hour's lesson to the upper form. The fourteen-year-olds are now charging past me out into the open. I watch them from the window. Within a few seconds they have altered completely; they have stripped off the discipline of the schoolroom and put on again the freshness and untamedness of their youth.
Seated here on their forms in front of me they are not true to themselves; there is something either of sneaks and suckers about them, or of shammers and rebels. Seven years of teaching it has needed to bring them to this. Unspoiled by education, frank and unsuspecting as young animals, they came up to school from their meadows, their games and their dreams. The simple law of life was alone valid for them; the most vital, the most forceful among them was leader, the rest followed him. But little by little with the weekly portions of tuition another, artificial set of values was foisted upon them—he who knew his lesson best was termed excellent and ranked foremost, and the rest must emulate him. Little wonder indeed, if the more vital of them resist it! But they have to knuckle under, for the ideal of the school is the good scholar. But what an ideal I What ever came of the good scholars in the world? In the hot-house of the school they do enjoy a short semblance of life, but only the more surely to sink back afterwards into mediocrity and insignificance. The world has been bettered only by the bad scholars.