And so she had had to go, to a grumbling husband who was very displeased with her, and she hadn’t even been right in her prophecy that on Saturday evening, after the paying of all the many employees, the office would again look like a pigsty. No, it still looked spotless, for that ass from Berlin had placed a table and two chairs on the grass outside the door, and had paid out the wages there. The men, who were always ready to be impressed by anything new, had thought it wonderful.
“But what will he do when it rains? And in the winter?” Frau Hartig had screamed.
“Be quiet, Frieda,” said the men. “You’re just jealous. He’s ten times cleverer than you. He’s already kicked out Black Meier, and if you scream too much he’ll kick you out as well!”
“He ordered the poultry maid to come to him in the office at midnight!” she cried angrily.
“You’d like to cut her out again, as you did with little Meier, wouldn’t you?” the men had laughed. “Ah, Hartig, you’re silly. He’s really a fine gentleman, like the Rittmeister, and he doesn’t think of you or Amanda. Just be quiet!”
II
And now it was Sunday, a Sunday afternoon after a really busy week, and Herr von Studmann and Pagel were sitting in the spick-and-span office. Studmann was smoking a fine smooth Havana from the Rittmeister’s special box, for they had both been invited “over there” to lunch; young Pagel was smoking one of his own cigarettes.
Yes, both men, to the great awe of the Neulohe employees, had been invited to lunch in the Villa, having already been there twice for supper. This had never yet happened with farm officials, and it added to the rumors about their unusual mission. The elder of the two gentlemen, the one with the somewhat egg-shaped head and brown eyes, had even lived in the Villa until the nocturnal disappearance of little Meier. Then, of course, he had at once moved over to the staff-house—to be sure, against the Rittmeister’s will, who had actually asked him, as was learned from Armgard the cook, to stay. But no, the gentleman had said: “I’m sorry, Prackwitz, but I want to live where my work is. You can see me as often as you like!” And now the younger gentleman, Herr Pagel, lived in the bailiff’s room and the older in the gable room. What work they had in Neulohe would also be discovered in time—for they understood nothing about farming, that much was certain!
Von Studmann, then, was smoking at his desk, going through the lists of specifications. This he did but superficially, for in the first place it was warm, and then the lunch had been excellent. One ate much too much here now that one was so often in the fresh air. Violently Studmann shut his corn account and said to Pagel, who was sitting at the window, blinking with half-closed eyes at the Geheimrat’s sunlit park: “Well, what shall we do? Shall we hit the hay for a bit? God, I’m tired!”
Pagel must have been just as tired, for he did not even open his mouth. But he pointed to the ceiling from which hung a fly-catcher with flies buzzing and humming around it. Studmann looked thoughtfully at the joyful summer dances of these tormenters and then said: “You are right, they wouldn’t let us sleep for a moment. Well, what then?”
“I haven’t seen the forest properly yet,” said Pagel. “Shall we go along and look it over? They say there are ponds there, crayfish ponds, icy cold. We could take our bathing suits with us.”
“Fine!” agreed Studmann, and five minutes later the two left the staff-house.
The first person they met was the old gentleman, Geheimrat Horst-Heinz von Teschow. The cunning old man was plodding along in his shaggy green suit, oak stick in hand; and when the two, who hardly knew him, were passing on with a short greeting, he called to them: “But this is fine, gentlemen, meeting you! I was wondering, thinking, brooding: Have the gentlemen already departed again? Have they had enough of the country and farming?—Why, I haven’t seen you for days!”
As was proper the two smiled at this joke of the Geheimrat’s, Herr von Studmann very coldly, but Pagel with honest pleasure.
“And now the gentlemen want to take a little Sunday afternoon stroll, for recreation, eh? The village beauties walk along over there, young man—I don’t dare bring that to Herr von Tutmann’s notice.”
“Studmann,” corrected the one-time first lieutenant.
“Yes, of course, please excuse me, of course, dear sir. Of course I know. It just slipped out, because people around here call you that. ‘Tut Du Man,’ one of the drivers said yesterday, someone you must have ticked off for his driving. Many around here call you that.”
“Yesterday,” said Studmann.
“Why say yesterday? Or wasn’t it yesterday? Of course it was yesterday. My head’s still screwed on, Herr von Studmann.”
Pagel burst out laughing.
The old man was still for a moment, puzzled. Then he laughed, too. Still laughing, he gave Pagel a very hefty pat on the shoulder. Pagel was tempted to reciprocate, but he didn’t know the jolly old fellow very well yet, so he let it go.
“Magnificent,” cried the Geheimrat. “He got me there. Cunning fellow, Herr von Studmann. No slouch he!” And suddenly the Geheimrat was serious, which convinced Studmann that the whole thing was an act put on for Pagel and himself for some temporarily inexplicable reason. Ready for battle, Studmann thought, “I’ll catch you again.”
“Yes, of course, please excuse me, of course.” Suddenly the old gentleman became serious. “Have you gentlemen a moment to spare?” he asked. “I’ve a letter here for my son-in-law, had it for days; haven’t been able to send it over; had so much to do recently.… If you would deliver it at the Villa when you pass by?”
“I can …” began Pagel, whom Herr von Teschow had chiefly been looking at.
But Studmann interrupted him. “Certainly, Herr Geheimrat. We shall tell the servant at the Villa to fetch it.”
“Excellent! Fine!” cried the master of Neulohe, but his tone was no longer good-natured. “Besides, it occurs to me that my old Elias can stretch his legs for once. I’ll send him.” He nodded to the two men and stamped on through the bushes toward the Manor.
“Lord, Studmann,” said Pagel a little breathlessly, “you’ve got into his bad books, I must say! Why so crusty with the gay old boy?”
“I’ll give you the lease contract to read sometime,” said Studmann, passing his hand over his sweating forehead, “which this gay old boy made his son-in-law sign. Only a child as completely devoid of business instincts as the Rittmeister could have put his name to such a thing. It comes pretty close to the Treaty of Versailles. Bound hand and foot!”
“But the jolly old chap makes such an honest impression.”
“Don’t trust him. Never tell him anything. Don’t do anything he tells you. We are employed by the Rittmeister—the old man has nothing to do with us.”
“Ah, Studmann, you’re a pessimist—I’m convinced that he is a jolly old fellow.”
“And I’m convinced that even the letter he wanted us to deliver has its own peculiarities. Well, we shall see. Let’s get on.”
In the meantime the old gentleman was standing in his study. He was ringing up the forester. At last he heard the quaking voice.
“Are you sitting on your ears, Kniebusch? Is sleeping the only thing you can do? Well, just wait, I’ll soon see that you have a rest—without any money from me! Can you still hear there, Kniebusch?”
“Yes, Herr Geheimrat!”
“Well, praise be to God you can still hear. Then listen to me now! I’ve just seen those two idlers from Berlin, whom my beloved son-in-law has freshly imported, lounging round the farm with bathing suits under their arms. They undoubtedly want to go bathing in our forest, in the crayfish ponds. Stalk them quietly, and when the gentlemen are in the water, but not before, give them to understand that they are my ponds, and that they’ve got no damn business to be bathing there. And you can confiscate their clothes, that’ll raise a laugh. I’ll be responsible, Kniebusch, I’ll protect you.”