“Yes, Herr Rittmeister.”
“And you must do what I order?”
“Yes, Herr Rittmeister.”
“Then”—there was a pause, till he said all the more haughtily—“then bring me up a bottle of cognac at once.”
Yes, Wolfgang Pagel, here no amiability can help, no compliance, no avoidance; the Rittmeister looks at you tensely, with hatred. He wants his cognac, and if you are not firm he will get it.
“You are ill, Herr Rittmeister. You must sleep first. You shall have some cognac tomorrow morning.”
“I want it now. I order you!”
“It’s not possible, Herr Rittmeister. Madam has forbidden it.”
“My wife has not to forbid anything. Fetch the cognac or …”
The two gazed at each other.
Ah, how naked the world had become, how the gilt came off! Within the home, the make-up is wiped off and the hollow skull of egotism grins at you with its black eye-sockets. Pagel suddenly saw himself lying next to Peter in Madam Po’s room, the dingy curtains hanging in the sultry air. It seemed like a symbol to him now. No! Like the prelude to a difficult test or examination. In those days he could have picked up his suitcase and slunk away like a coward; that was impossible here. Gone were the blessed lies that had tasted so sweet, up and away had gone the tender image of love. Man against man, wolf against wolves, he must make his decision if he was to respect himself.
“No, Herr Rittmeister. I am sorry, but …”
“Then I’ll get my cognac myself. You are dismissed.” In one jump the Rittmeister was out of bed. Never would Wolfgang have thought that the sick man, whom the two of them had only just managed to lift from the bath, could develop such mobility.
“Herr Rittmeister!” he begged.
“You’ll not dare to lay hands on your employer, what?” screamed the Rittmeister with distorted face, running in his pajamas to the door.
It was the decisive moment. “Yes,” replied Pagel, seizing him.
“Leave me alone!” Rage, the unprecedented indignity, the lust for alcohol, gave the Rittmeister strength.
“Achim, Achim! What’s all this?” The noise of the struggle had fetched in Frau von Prackwitz from that sickbed which she had not intended to leave, her daughter’s.
“You! You!” shouted the Rittmeister, struggling all the more fiercely to tear himself from Pagel’s arms. “You’ve set this young fool against me. What do you mean, I’m not to have any cognac? Am I the master here or you? I …” It seemed as though he intended to throw himself on his wife.
“Put him to bed, Herr Pagel!” angrily ordered Frau Eva. “Don’t be over-nice; get hold of him properly. Achim! Achim! Violet’s lying there ill, pull yourself together, be a man for once. She’s so ill!”
“I’m going,” said the Rittmeister, suddenly almost in tears. “When it’s I who am ill you don’t make any fuss about it. I only want a cognac, one small cognac.”
“Give him another tablet. Give him two tablets, Herr Pagel, so that he’ll keep quiet,” cried Frau Eva in despair. “I must go back to Violet.” And, driven by fear, she hurried away. And as she ran across the passage, her heart beat so wildly. What was she going to see next?
But nothing had changed. Her daughter was sleeping peacefully, very pale, her face a trifle swollen and as if brooding. She felt the pulse. It was beating slowly but powerfully. No reason for fear. Violet would wake up; one could talk with her or not, whichever was indicated; she would be restored to health, and they would leave Neulohe and live in some quiet corner. As for money, her father would listen to reason. No one needed to despair because of a defeat—not even Violet. In reality life, looked at properly, was nothing but defeats. Man, however, survived and enjoyed life—man, this most tenacious, most resistant of all creatures.…
It was five minutes past twelve. The decisive, the fateful, hour had begun. Although the room was oppressively hot she shivered.
She opened the window. There was a gentle wind in the dark night, gently the raindrops fell from the trees, and she could perceive only shadows within shadows. Was the danger which threatened her family to come from out of that shadow world?
She shivered again. What am I doing? she thought, alarmed. I’m cold and I open the window. I’m mad, too. It’s all too much for one person.
Carefully she put up the hook between the casements, so that they would not bang in the wind.
At this moment the bell in the hall rang loudly.
X
Across the passage, each in the doorway of a sickroom, Frau Eva and Pagel looked at one another. The young man could not account for the fear on the woman’s face. “That was a ring,” she murmured.
“It will be the chauffeur,” he reassured her. “He’s had supper somewhere in the village and now …”
“No, no,” she cried in distress.
The bell rang loudly again.
“Don’t open, please, Herr Pagel. An evil will come.”
“Or it’s Lotte. Lotte also went. We can’t shut the girl out. Herr Rittmeister is quiet now; let me quickly open the door.”
“Please don’t, Herr Pagel,” she pleaded, as if one could keep out the misfortune invited by a wrongly conducted life. But he was already running downstairs, prepared for any danger. It was foolish, but something like pleasure was his; he was not useless, he had a task in the world, even if it was only the trifling one of demonstrating to the woman upstairs that she had no need to be frightened. For the first time he understood with heart and soul that life brought happiness only to him who fulfilled a task unswervingly, whether large or small. Satisfaction could come only from oneself.
The bell rang for the third time.
From upstairs Frau Eva shouted something incomprehensible.
As Pagel passed the hat stand in the hall he saw a stout oak stick which the Rittmeister used to take with him on his forest excursions. He seized it, swung it round—thereby endangering the hall lamp—and, holding it ready, opened the door just as the bell rang once more.
Outside stood Herr von Studmann with a flushed rather angry face, and an obviously heavy suitcase in his hand.
“You, Herr von Studmann?” cried Pagel disconcerted, lowering his ridiculous weapon.
“Yes, indeed,” said Studmann, as angry as he possibly could be. “I really don’t know what’s the matter today in Neulohe. I thought I should be expected with impatience and eagerness, bringing as I do what is after all a not inconsiderable sum of money—yet there’s no vehicle at the station, the office is shut and in darkness, the Manor also in darkness but full of uproar, just as if there was an immense party on, although no one came to the door.… And here I’ve got to stand ten minutes in a downpour, ringing!” His voice had become more and more reproachful as the inconveniences caused him by the unreliability of others grew clearer in their recitation.
“Listen, Herr von Studmann,” whispered Pagel hurriedly, drawing the startled man into the hall and carefully locking the door behind him. “Here, or rather in Ostade, there appears to have been an accident. Fräulein Violet was brought back from Ostade very ill, and the Rittmeister—badly drunk. That’s all I know. The worst is that his wife is terribly upset and seems to fear a greater calamity, though I don’t know what.… And I’m quite alone with them. Oh, and the Commission of Control was also here and dug up an arms dump in the forest. Did you know about it?”
“I?” cried Studmann indignantly, putting down his suitcase. “I should …”
“Yes, madam,” Pagel shouted upstairs. “It’s quite all right. Herr von Studmann’s here. Shall he come up?”
“Herr von Studmann! Yes. At once. Thank God, Herr von Studmann, you’re back. I need assistance so much.… I can’t come down.”
Pagel returned to the Rittmeister’s room. His employer seemed asleep; he had managed to keep down two tablets of veronal this time. But he couldn’t be trusted. His eyes were shut, his breathing regular; but Pagel felt that there was something wrong. Something told
him that in the meantime the Rittmeister had been out of bed. His face bore a sullen, malicious expression, and Pagel resolved to be on his guard. The prison officer, Marofke, had not given him a tip or two for nothing.
And all this while his ear was aware of the voices in Violet’s room. Studmann’s voice was unmistakably a trifle offended, which was not surprising. He had run around, he had negotiated, he had shown his efficiency and his success, he had brought back a heap of money, very necessary and very eagerly awaited—and there was no vehicle at the station, no one to receive him, the money was unimportant, his success was unimportant! For there has been illness in the meantime; people are occupied with other matters; accidents, for example—one that has happened and one that is to come—more important matters.… Poor Studmann. Pagel could so clearly see him standing in front of the gloomy office, carrying the heavy case which he would not set down for a moment. A good nursemaid, experiencing the eternal disappointment of all nursemaids. He had obtained the wished-for toy, but the child did not even look at it; something else had been found long ago.
In this quiet hour of the night, a bit sleepily because he’d been on his feet since half past four in the morning, young Pagel understood why Studmann, friendly, capable, and ready to help others, had remained an elderly solitary bachelor. People do not love their saviors. Once out of danger they resent that superiority.
The voices came and went in the next room. Pagel looked at his wrist-watch—nearly half-past twelve. I shouldn’t mind going to bed at all, he thought drowsily. The Rittmeister hasn’t stirred in the last fifteen minutes; he’s off at last. But I can’t leave the women there in the lurch, and Studmann won’t be staying much longer; Frau Eva’s voice sounds more and more irritated.… If only I could have a coffee at least, a good thick black coffee! And he saw himself go down to the kitchen in the house.… They’ve got an immersion heater there. He saw it that afternoon. It works fast. He would grind himself a good portion of coffee—a good few grams—put them staight in the cup, pour boiling water over the them, let it draw for three minutes, put a bit of cold in, and then drink the lot, boiling hot, coffee grounds and all. Oh! I’ll be as fresh as a fish in water!
But he had to stay up with this idiot who was certainly not asleep. Why was he keeping his hands like that under the bedclothes? Pagel, worn out, even believed it possible that the Rittmeister had got out of bed to fetch a knife. But had he really got out of bed?
Wolfgang’s sleepy mind stoutly refused to interest itself in this question; he could not withstand the vision of a coffee cup—there it was, as if real! It was steaming, the brownish silvery surface made by fine ground, strained coffee in boiling water.… How good a thing like that is against tiredness! With deep relief it occurred to him that he wouldn’t need to go downstairs at all to make coffee—Lotte would be coming. She’d make him some. Where on earth was the girl? It was half-past twelve. Well, she’d have to make him some coffee all the same.…
Pagel started. Perhaps it was a rustle of the bedclothes. Had it not seemed as if a bare foot had been thrust out of bed? No, the Rittmeister lay quite still, and the voices opposite were also still. Oh, yes, what was it Studmann had said? The Manor in darkness but full of uproar and no one at the door.… He’d not thought of it at the time, but it had remained in his mind, like a hook, to pull him suddenly out of his drowsiness. Lotte not back yet, and the Manor in darkness but full of uproar …
There would be nothing wrong, though. Old Elias was trustworthy, and the mice play when the cat’s away. All the same, he would have to jog Studmann about it; for he couldn’t help feeling a little uneasy. His experience with the Oberwachtmeister Marofke had awoken Pagel a little. He no longer ambled about the landscape among its people. He felt responsible. But for what? Responsible for his actions! For himself! No, he wouldn’t forget to jog von Studmann.
It was twenty to one when von Studmann entered the room and said somewhat abruptly: “Will you please let me out, Pagel? And give me the key to the office? You’re staying here, I suppose?”
Pagel threw a glance at his patient. “Do you think that the Rittmeister is sleeping? Fast asleep?” he whispered.
Studmann gave the Rittmeister a fleeting and very unfriendly glance. “Of course he’s asleep,” he said crossly. “Why?”
“It seems to me he’s only pretending,” Pagel whispered.
Studmann looked at Pagel very suspiciously. “Pagel, have you some understanding with Frau von Prackwitz? I don’t understand it.”
“Understanding? How?”
“Because she asked me at least a dozen times if I thought Fräulein Violet was really asleep. She had the impression the girl had been awake a long time and was only pretending.… And you ask the same thing.”
The two men looked hard at one another for a moment. Then Pagel laughed with all his youthful amiability. “Well, let’s go down, Studmann,” he said. “You are over-tired and I can imagine that you haven’t been greatly thanked for all your pains.” He put his arm through von Studmann’s. “Come along, I’ll let you out now. You really must go to bed.”
Slowly they went downstairs.
“I assure you it’s pure chance that Frau von Prackwitz and I asked you the same question. Word of honor, Studmann.… There’s a peculiar atmosphere in the house now. The daughter’s a little ill—well, daughters sometimes are ill. The father’s had a drink too much. Well, fathers often do that, too. Nothing out of the way then; but there’s an atmosphere here as if all the fates were attacking the house.”
“And do you understand that, Pagel?” Studmann stood in the hall, no longer angry but distressed. “I am enthusiastically received, but nobody worries a bit about what I’ve accomplished, and it was really difficult. I ask what’s the matter, I’m told the situation—which doesn’t strike me as alarming—I say a few calming words and am coolly rebuffed. Because I’m without understanding! Do you understand it? Do you know anything?”
“I understand nothing and I know nothing,” said Pagel, smiling. “Since it appears to reassure the lady, I am sitting up with the Rittmeister and trying not to fall asleep. That’s all.”
Studmann scrutinized him, but young Pagel’s eye was without guile. “Well, good night then, Pagel. Perhaps it will be cleared up in the morning.”
“Good night, Studmann,” Pagel replied mechanically. There was something else he had wanted to say, and he looked after the other carrying his heavy suitcase into the darkness. Then he remembered. “Herr von Studmann, one moment please!”
“Yes?” Studmann turned round.
The two men approached each other and met about ten paces from the door. “What is it?” asked Studmann somewhat peevishly.
“Yes, it just occurred to me.… Tell me, Herr von Studmann, are you very tired? Must you go to bed at once?”
“If there is anything I can do,” began Studmann, immediately ready to assist.
“I can’t help thinking about what you told me when you arrived. You remember? The Manor in darkness but full of uproar. That was what you said, wasn’t it?” Pagel paused, then added: “You know that the owners are traveling?”
“That’s right,” said the astonished Studmann. “I never thought about that.”
“It won’t be anything much,” said Pagel reassuringly. “Some little celebration of the servants. Old Elias will see to it that things don’t get too bad.… But I’d make certain, Studmann; that is, of course, if you’re not too tired.”
“Lord, not a bit,” declared Studmann, pleased at the prospect of something to do. “I’ll have to put the money in the safe first, naturally.”
“I wouldn’t ring. Or call out. I’ve thought it over, Studmann.” And Pagel was astonished to find that he had done so without knowing it. “Outside your window there’s the tarred roof, and from there you can get without difficulty onto the veranda of the Manor. That will take you practically round the house, on the first floor, and you can look in all the windows without being seen.… Yes, that’s the
way I’d do it,” he concluded with a certain emphasis.
Studmann gazed at him. “For Heaven’s sake, why? What’s your idea there? What do you think I shall see?”
“Listen, Studmann.” Pagel was suddenly very serious. “I can’t tell you. I know nothing. But that’s what I’d do.”
“This sort of spying round at night …” protested Studmann.
“Do you remember that night we met at Lutter and Wegner’s? Then also I had the feeling that it was a very special night, a night of destiny, if I may say so. Why shouldn’t there be something like that, after all? A night during which everything is decided? Now I have this feeling again. A bad night, a wicked …” He peered into the darkness as though he could somehow discover its face, its evilly lurking face. But that, of course, was absurd. He perceived only a gently rustling, dripping darkness.
“Well then, Herr von Studmann,” Pagel ended suddenly, “so long now. I must get back to my Rittmeister. Good night.”
“Good night.” Studmann stared after Pagel, for such mystical fits meant nothing to him. He could hear the door being shut and locked; then the outside light was turned off and he was in darkness. With a little sigh he picked up his heavy bag and set out for the office, determined to scout round the Manor first and keep both his ears open before taking Pagel’s advice. Climbing by night over someone else’s property struck him as more than questionable.
In the hall young Pagel was standing, listening to the quiet house. He couldn’t shake off the strange mood which had been his since the doze by the sickbed. A glance at the clock showed that he had not been with Studmann more than five minutes. It was a quarter to one. Nothing could have happened; he had kept his eye on the front door all the time and stood quite near it. No one could have slipped in there. The house was quiet.
Yet he had the feeling that something had happened.
Slowly, soundlessly—as slowly and soundlessly as in a dream—he went up the stairs. At the door of Violet’s room appeared Frau Eva’s pale, worried face. He nodded to her and said softly: “Everything is all right.”