“Really?” said Frau Eva, examining herself in the shaving mirror. “Of course, that’s quite a new topic for me! Achim discusses it at least every day.”
“Eva, please!” cried the Rittmeister.
“And why does my friend Prackwitz speak of money every day? Because he hasn’t any. Because the smallest bill upsets him. Because the rent due on the first of October weighs on him like a nightmare. Because he is always wondering if he will be able to pay it.”
“Quite right, Studmann, I’m worried. I’m a prudent businessman.”
“Let’s examine your financial position. You have no capital; current expenses are paid from current income—that is to say, by sales of cattle, of early potatoes, the harvest.… You have no capital reserves.…” Studmann rubbed his nose thoughtfully. Frau von Prackwitz gazed at herself in the mirror. The bored Rittmeister leaned against the stove, hoping that Studman (this eternal nursemaid) would at least have sufficient tact not to talk of his gambling debts.
“Then comes the first of October,” went on Studmann. “On that date the annual rent has to be handed over in cash to Geheimrat von Teschow. This, as you ought to know, is equivalent to three thousand hundredweights of rye, and as far as I’ve been able to find out, the price is round about seven or eight gold marks a hundredweight, which would mean a sum of twenty-five thousand gold marks, not to be expressed in milliards—if only because we don’t know what the price of rye will be in paper marks on the first of October.” Von Studmann gazed at his victims, but they were not yet aware of the significance of his words.
“I’m very much obliged to you, Studmann, for bothering with all these things. But, if you’ll pardon me, we know them. The rent is somewhat high, but I’ve got a very nice crop standing in the fields, and now that I’m getting reapers—”
“Excuse me, Prackwitz, you don’t see the problem. On October the first you’ve got to give Herr von Teschow the value of three thousand hundredweights of rye. Since the gold mark is a fictitious standard, the price of rye in paper marks—”
“I understand all that, my dear Studmann, I know that.”
“But,” continued the inexorable Studmann, “you can’t deliver three thousand hundredweights of rye to the dealer in one day. Judging by your books, you require about fourteen days for that. Now suppose you deliver three hundredweights of rye on September the twentieth. The dealer, let us say, will give you three hundred milliards for it. You put the three hundred milliards in your safe ready for payment on October the first. In the period between September the twentieth and thirtieth the mark continues to fall. On September the thirtieth you’ll get from the dealer, let us say, six hundred milliards for the three hundred hundredweights. Then the three hundred milliards in your safe will only represent the value of one hundred and fifty hundredweights. You would have to deliver another one hundred and fifty hundredweights.… That’s clear, isn’t it?”
“Just a minute,” said the Rittmeister, perplexed. “How was that? Three hundred hundredweights are suddenly only one hundred and fifty?”
“Herr von Studmann is quite right,” asserted Frau von Prackwitz. “But it’s terrible. No one can afford that.”
“It’s a fourteen-day race with inflation,” said Studmann. “And it will exhaust us.”
“But the inflation won’t necessarily keep on like this!” exclaimed the Rittmeister indignantly.
“No, of course not. But one can’t tell. It depends on so much: on the French in the Ruhr, on the firmness of the present government, which wants to continue the Ruhr struggle at all costs and so needs more and more money, on the attitude of England and Italy, who still oppose France’s action. That is to say, on thousands of things we can’t influence—yet we have to pay on October the first whatever happens.”
“Can we do it, Herr von Studmann?”
“We can, Frau von Prackwitz.”
“There you are!” cried the Rittmeister, half laughing, half angry. “Just like Studmann! First he frightens us, then he has the solution to hand.”
“There are people,” said Studmann, unperturbed, “who believe in the perpetual depreciation of our currency, who speculate on a fall. They’d be prepared to buy your rye from you today, Prackwitz, payment to be made on October the first, delivery to be made October to November.… I have a few offers here.”
“The fellows will make a mint of money out of it,” said the Rittmeister bitterly.
“But you’ll be able to pay Papa the rent punctually and without loss, Achim! That’s what we have to consider.”
“Give me the offers, Studmann,” said Prackwitz sullenly. “I’ll look them through. Anyway, I’m very grateful to you.”
“The second question is,” went on Studmann, “whether it is any use paying the rent at all.” He said nothing and looked at them both. Fallen from heaven, he thought, like children.
“But why?” asked Frau von Prackwitz, puzzled. “Papa must have his money, mustn’t he?”
“That’s a crazy idea, Studmann,” objected the Rittmeister very crossly. “As if there weren’t enough difficulties without that!”
“The contract states,” said Frau von Prackwitz, “that we would immediately lose the lease if punctual and full payment is not made!”
“I shall fulfill my obligations!” declared the Rittmeister.
“If you can!” said Studmann. “Listen, Prackwitz, now don’t interrupt me. You listen, too—it will be a little painful, as I must speak of your father.… Well, let’s speak of the lessor and lessee. For you are coming in for a few hard things, too, my dear Prackwitz, you, the lessee. The study of this lease is not uninteresting. If you examine it, you will be reminded of the Treaty of Versailles, over which stands the motto: ‘To hell with the conquered’! Over your lease stand the words: ‘Woe to the lessee!’ ”
“My father—”
“The lessor, Frau von Prackwitz, the lessor! I don’t want to speak of all the mean, petty conditions which might lead to disaster. The electric light incident opened my eyes. My dear Prackwitz, if I hadn’t been here you would have come to grief over that, as you were intended to. But the enemy retreated. He’s waiting for you to fall over the rent payment, and you will fall over it.”
“My father-in-law …”
“My father …”
“The lessor,” said von Studmann firmly, “fixed the rent at one and a half hundredweights of rye per acre. Is that a reasonable rent?”
“It is perhaps a little high,” began the Rittmeister.
“The State lands in the neighborhood pay sixty pounds of rye per acre; you pay more than twice that. And remember—the lessees of the State lands had to pay only an installment at the last quarter, and next quarter they’ll probably pay nothing. That won’t lose them their leasehold; but if you don’t pay the full amount punctually, well …”
“My brother in Birnbaum …”
“Quite so, Frau von Prackwitz; your brother in Birnbaum, as he always moans to everyone, pays the lessor the same rent. But what’s right for one child is too dear for the other. That’s to say, one hears everywhere that your brother actually pays only ninety pounds but has had to promise his father to say it’s one hundred and fifty.”
“My dear Studmann, that would be equivalent to fraud. I must ask you …”
“If, then, one can call the rent a very high one, it may be that Neulohe is such an excellent property that even an unusually high rent is justified. I did not find this office”—Studmann let a disapproving glance sweep over it—“a striking model of order. No, excuse me, Prackwitz. But one thing was very striking: there wasn’t a book to be found from the time of your predecessor, nothing which could afford information as to Neulohe’s productivity in previous years. However, there were other ways. The overseer kept threshing lists, there were records at the Treasury office, the dealers kept entry-books. Well, after some trouble I finally came to the conclusion that even in previous years Neulohe produced only an average crop of five to six hundredweights of rye per acre.”