“Papa, the people ought to be warned!”
“What’s that? Believe an old man, my child—no one’s pleased if you try to interfere with his stupidities. There may be a bit of fighting—all right! They just can’t stop fighting; they don’t see that Messieurs Clemenceau and Poincaré are laughing fit to split at us killing one another here. So, Evchen, you talk your husband round cunningly and go away, too! If you remain here you will have to take sides one way or the other and be dragged into the mess. Better go away.”
“He wants to join in, though,” she said softly.
“Have I got to tell you, girl, how to get round a man? Say that you have to go to Frankfurt this evening, appendicitis if you like. But go away!”
“Let him join in, Papa.”
The old man looked up. “I’ll be damned!” he cried astonished. “So it’s like that, is it? Well, Evchen, you’ve taken a damned long time about it. I always thought I had a clever daughter.…”
“Oh, Papa.”
“All right, then. Let him join in. For all I care, the car can be lost, too.” He stopped, alarmed by his own generosity. “Well, that’s not altogether necessary. You must try and arrange somehow, Evchen, that the car can’t be taken out tomorrow. Speak to Herr von Studmann. He’s pretty wide awake, certainly.”
“Oh, and Papa! you’re going away—to whom are we to pay the rent tomorrow?”
“Oh, the rent! Have you got it then? Well, leave it till I get back.”
“No, Papa, that won’t do. Herr von Studmann is bringing the money back this afternoon. We can’t risk any devaluation.”
“I’ll be damned!” cried the old gentleman, looking at his daughter nonplussed. “I didn’t think for a moment that you’d have the money by tomorrow. What am I to do now?”
“Tell me whom we shall pay it to, Papa. I shan’t let the money wait beyond October the first.”
“And tomorrow there’s the Putsch. Tomorrow the mark may fall and fall. I tell you what, Evchen, pay for the car with the money.”
“Will you take it instead of the rent, then, Papa? You would have to give me that in writing.”
“Eh? What will the car look like tomorrow, perhaps? There’s no family feeling in money matters. I tell you what, I’ll go to some expense about it. Send your young man—Pagel, isn’t it?—send him to me in the Kaiserhof. I’ll pay the fare, third class, of course, and a little for expenses.”
“That won’t do either, Papa. For particular reasons I want Achim to give you the money himself.”
“Damnation!” cried the old gentleman in a rage. “I wish I had gone away without talking to you. Then you could all of you see for yourselves how to get rid of your money. Achim will have to follow me, that’s all.”
“Achim won’t do that, Papa. You know what he has on hand tomorrow.”
“He will have to. Debts come first.”
“That’s what we think, too. But here!”
“Oh, so you’d like me to stay here? No, my child, your father is not such a fool. Elias, come here. Now, Elias, you’ll get from my son-in-law either this evening or tomorrow morning a mass of paper, what they call money nowadays. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Herr Geheimrat.”
“Put it in my old brown leather money bag, go at once to the station and take the next train to me in the Hotel Kaiserhof. Do you know it, Elias?”
“In the Wilhelmplatz, Herr Geheimrat.”
“Correct, Elias. Don’t say a word to anyone. Take a taxi at Friedrichstrasse Station. But don’t let go of the bag for a moment.”
“That I would never do, Herr Geheimrat.”
“Elias, plenty can cut away the bag in a crowd and then you turn up at the Kaiserhof with the handle.…”
“I shall come with the bag.”
“Well, all right, Elias. Listen, put a stone in at the bottom so you can tell by the weight.…”
“Certainly, Herr Geheimrat.”
“Good. Everything in order now, Evchen?”
“Only the receipt for the rent, Papa.”
“This is the limit. Here’s a trusting daughter for you. I can’t give the receipt till I’ve counted if the money is correct.”
“And we can’t give Elias the money without a receipt.”
“You hear, Elias, she doesn’t trust you. How often have you put a pacifier in her mouth, when she was crying in her pram—and now she doesn’t trust you! Very well, Elias, I’ll scribble a receipt for you now. And you must write in the exact sum you get, milliards and millions, exactly, Elias!”
“For certain, Herr Geheimrat.”
“And then the time, to the minute. Notice, for example, if it’s round about twelve, when the dollar changes. Wait a moment. Does your old watch go properly?”
With exactitude the watches were compared, and Elias was given the receipt. From the landau Frau von Teschow had been crying for the last five minutes: “We shan’t get the train, Horst-Heinz! Eva, how can you delay your father like that?”
The Geheimrat shook his daughter’s hand, hesitated a second, then kissed her on the cheek.
Frau von Prackwitz walked back to the farm, to the Villa.… Everyone was fleeing from Neulohe as though it were accursed.
IV
Rittmeister von Prackwitz had that sense of gain which suddenly emerges in those who know nothing of business. When his brother-in-law in Birnbaum admired greatly the Horch car, although thinking it very expensive, it had occurred to him that he might achieve in fact what he had falsely boasted of to his wife. That is, have the car paid for by the rebel gentlemen at Ostade. With a superior air he had assured his brother-in-law that, in the case of those who really knew their way about, cars didn’t cost as much as was supposed. Indeed, almost nothing—in fact, absolutely nothing. And by hints, winks and confidential disclosures he ended by creating in his brother-in-law’s mind a connection between the new car and the coming Putsch. Egon had naturally already heard of that. Everyone seemed to have known about it for a long time; the Rittmeister, if anything, last of all. Even though his brother-in-law did not appear to think the Putsch very hopeful, as a true son of his father young Teschow considered that no undertaking could be totally bad which had brought to light such a motor car.
Driving home in high spirits, with Vi no less cheerful beside him, the Rittmeister was already firmly convinced that the Reichswehr was under an obligation to pay for his car. What did that little Major mean by ordering him to appear with one? His life was at the service of his country day and night, but with his fortune he had to be more prudent. The croakings of disaster coming from Eva and his brother-in-law had not been altogether in vain; the Rittmeister resolved to drive to Ostade tomorrow, before the Putsch, and sound the comrades in the Reichswehr about squeezing a small installment out of them. Punctually on October the second the first payment for the car would be demanded, and he hadn’t the slightest notion where he was to get the money. But it was superfluous to worry about that. He would see to it in Ostade tomorrow.
He turned and inquired of his daughter, humming happily to herself, what she thought of making a trip there. Violet, naturally, was enthusiastic, embracing and kissing him with such warmth that the Rittmeister almost became suspicious. But it was the alcohol, of course, the delightful drive and the long monotonous weeks, now at an end, when she had been confined to her room. Nevertheless he had, for one moment, got on to the right scent. It was not the father but the sweetheart who was kissed. What did she care for the car or the trip? Ostade meant the Lieutenant. It was impossible to motor to Ostade and not see him. But the thought of her mother gave her some anxiety and she asked cautiously: “And Mamma?”
Her father was suitably annoyed. “Military enterprises are not for your Mamma. It would be as well not to trouble her with them. The best thing would be to do our job properly and surprise her later with its success.”
“But perhaps Mamma would like to go as well.” Violet was very anxious. She certainly didn’t want her mother present a
t her reunion with the Lieutenant. “Perhaps otherwise she won’t allow me to go.”
“If I allow you, yes, Violet!” It sounded very much the master of the house. In his heart, however, the Rittmeister was not quite so certain of his right to decide about his daughter. He didn’t understand much about young girls; the way in which Violet had just kissed him was really alarming. But Eva, no doubt, understood little more. That confinement to her room about absolutely nothing at all had been a ridiculous blunder, though fortunately Violet did not bear grudges. All the same—to make amends—Eva might well have been a little nicer to her recently. Yes, Violet had honestly earned this excursion to Ostade.
“I will speak to your mother this evening. But, as I said, it is not possible to take her with us. Be downstairs on time. We’ll have coffee at seven and be off by half-past. And don’t make a noise on the stairs. You know your mother likes to have a good sleep.” Again a gibe, even though it sounded solicitous. Actually, in undermining the mother in her daughter’s eyes, the Rittmeister did not feel altogether comfortable. Unfortunately, Eva did not want it otherwise. If she could treat him like a fool, send him to a sanatorium, exclude him from the management of his estate, then he had the right to show his daughter what sort of a man he was, and that her mother also was not without her little weaknesses. He went about things with the utmost discretion, however!
And then that evening there had been the quarrel, and Frau Eva hadn’t been invited to go with them, or even informed. That was forgotten. But the appointment between father and daughter, and not making a noise—that was remembered. Vi had been up first, and down the stairs like a cat, without a sound.
In the dining room the servant was laying the breakfast. What more natural than for her to call him to account at last? For a long time she had avoided him, he was too creepy; and she was glad when she did not have to speak to him. She never again forgot to lock the door to her room, night and day. Her love affair with the Lieutenant had become so hopeless—even she had to admit he had given up on her. Not because of her, but because the question of the letter that had come into the hands of the little Meier had so angered him. Everything was changed now, however. She was going with her father to Ostade; she would see her Fritz again this morning. He was face to face with great events and his cause would be victorious. Tomorrow he would no longer be a conspirator, having to conceal himself from the world; tomorrow he would be an important man, and her father said so, too. A hero who could openly acknowledge his love, and her. There must be then no more secrecy, nothing which she would have to hide from him; there must be no servant like Räder, knowing things about her.
She demanded her letter back.
He knew nothing about a letter.
Very agitated, she told him he should not be so low.
He replied that he was only a low servant and no fine Lieutenant.
She said she was going to Ostade now to meet him, and she would send him back. “You will see then!”
Räder looked at her with his melancholy dead eyes. Too late she realized that she had set about it wrongly. Too late she began to plead, to offer, to promise money; promised him indeed old Elias’s situation at the Manor. She could obtain that for him through her grandparents!
He only smiled.
She considered a long time, very pale. She must have the letter back. She knew that her Fritz would not forgive such thoughtlessness a second time. Speaking in a low voice, flaggingly, she promised to allow once more … what he before … he knew … in her room.… She gave him her word of honor. But he must hand over the letter at once.…
She got further than had her mother; she could see him begin to waver, as the memory of that dark hour and the highest gratification of his life rose in his thin cheeks, leaving red circular patches there. He gulped. Then he changed his mind. He had calculated for a long time, weeks and weeks. He had a definite plan in which this letter played a definite rôle. Violet was not enough. She alone was nothing, only a female a little better-looking than Armgard. No, it was the Lieutenant who was concerned. Anguish for the Lieutenant, her love for the fellow, her disgust for him the servant—all that was concerned in it.
“Is the Fräulein motoring today to Ostade?” he asked.
She was sure now of her victory. “You know that, Hubert! At once. Fetch the letter quickly—before Papa comes down.”
“If the Fräulein doesn’t go to Ostade today and this evening allows what has been promised, I will give up the letter then.”
She almost laughed in his face. Not to make the trip to Ostade, for his sake! He was a fool. Anger overwhelmed her. “If you don’t give me the letter at once, I shall tell Papa everything, and then out you’ll go and never get another situation in your life!”
“As the Fräulein wishes,” said he, quite unshaken.
And then the Rittmeister had entered. He would never have noticed anything about his servant, who was, as usual, like a block of wood. But Violet was seething with rage. Within three minutes she boiled over. That, perhaps, was what Räder wanted. Impassively he had passed her dripping when she asked for butter; and sugar instead of salt. Bursting into tears, Violet shouted that unless her father turned out that scoundrel on the spot she couldn’t stand it any longer. For weeks he had tormented and provoked her. He had stolen a letter of hers.…
Immovable and fishlike, the servant offered her father the tray with the fried eggs. The Rittmeister, who had had a very bad night, was at once exasperated. With his fork he gave the egg dish a good hit and, shouting at his daughter, demanded to know what was this about a letter. What letters, in Heaven’s name, did she have to write, even to the good manservant? He turned round and glared at Räder.
Violet’s explanation was hurried and disconnected. She had believed that the arms dump was endangered by the forester’s babbling, and so thought to send the Lieutenant a few warning lines through Räder. But the letter had been purloined by the man and he refused to give it back.
The Rittmeister stood up in fury. “You have intercepted a military communication from my daughter!” he shouted. “The buried weapons are in your power!”
Hubert set down the tray of fried eggs on the sideboard. Coldly he looked at the Rittmeister; and nothing more provokes anger than another’s composure.
“Excuse me, Herr Rittmeister,” he said, “but they are illegal arms.…”
The Rittmeister seized his servant by the lapels of his dark-gray jacket and shook him. Hubert offered no opposition. The Rittmeister shouted; Hubert kept silent. (Armgard’s statement that the Rittmeister had been threatened by his servant was, therefore, a lie. But then, she had never been able to support Räder’s arrogance.)
“Traitors against the wall!” cried the Rittmeister. Then a minute later: “If you hand over the letter now, it shall be forgiven and forgotten.”
“Turn him out, Papa,” said Violet.
The Rittmeister let go of his servant and spoke grimly. “Have you anything to say in your defense? Otherwise you are dismissed on the spot.”
Violet trembled. She knew that Hubert had only to open his mouth, say a few words to her father, and she was lost. But she had taken the risk, since she felt that he wouldn’t talk, that he had no interest at all in exposing her secrets to her father. And she was right. Hubert said only: “Then I am dismissed on the spot!”
He looked round the dining room once more and laid his napkin, which he had kept under his arm throughout the scene, on the sideboard. His eye lit on the fried eggs. “Shall I have them warmed up again?” he coolly asked.
There was no reply.
He went to the door, made a slight bow and said imperturbably: “A pleasant drive, Herr Rittmeister!” Then he was gone, without one glance at Violet.
Plunged in thought, the Rittmeister turned to his meal, for anger did not destroy his appetite. Then he had two cognacs and got into the car. All he said was: “To Ostade then, Finger.”
Herr von Prackwitz was so constituted that after the int
erval of action came inevitably that of reflection concerning his action. He had got rid of his servant; now he began to consider why he had, in fact, done so. On this question it was not so easy to shed light. Much that had seemed lucid in his rage was now rather obscure. Had the fellow been merely impertinent? Of course he had; the Rittmeister remembered it distinctly. But in what way impertinent? What had he actually said?
Violet sat beside him, careful not to interrupt his reflections with one of those girlish nonsensicalities which, because they could always put him in the best of humor, she usually had ready. A child knows the faults of its parents better than the parents know the faults of their children. A child’s observation is mercilessly sharp. Its first voyage of discovery to the new world is not encumbered by love or sympathy. She saw that her father was thinking about her; any word that sought to distract him would only make for suspicion. She had to wait till he began to speak, to question. He was one of those who pass without effort from this question to that and so lose sight of their original goal completely.
Moreover she had done something, the idea of which had come on seeing her father drink the two cognacs. The afternoon before, at her uncle’s, she had had quite a lot of liqueurs; how many she didn’t know and neither did her father. But the drink had done her good. It had given her courage to defy her mother, which she would never otherwise have dared; it had made her combative and cheerful. And when her father after breakfast went out to put on his coat, she had swiftly poured herself a cognac in his glass, while watching the door. She had filled it to the brim and emptied it at a gulp. Almost automatically she had, like her father, let a second drink follow the first.
And now she was curled up comfortably in the car, warmly covered, while the country glided slowly across the windows—an endless expanse of fields deserted except for a few plow teams in the distance or the long rows of potato diggers shifting forward on their knees, the three-pronged hoe in hand. A moment they raised their heads and looked after the car speeding by. Next the almost unending woodlands, where trees were often so close to the road that branches rustled across the windows, startling the motorists, who then laughed at their fright and saw that the glass was bedewed with drops of water from the branch.