“Yes, yes, Kniebusch,” said the Rittmeister, very pleased that others also had their troubles, “that is just how the world is today, but you don’t understand it. We were victorious throughout the whole war and now we are the defeated. And you have been honest your whole life and are now going to prison. It’s all quite normal—take me, for instance. My father-in-law …” And for the remainder of the journey, the Rittmeister spoke consoling words to the old forester.
X
It was dark when Herr von Prackwitz arrived home with his daughter, but in spite of that his wife had not yet returned from the Manor. Vi went up to her room, while the Rittmeister paced angrily up and down. He had returned from the forest in the best of moods. He had caught a glimpse of secret military operations which pointed to the coming overthrow of the present hated Government, and even if he was going to exercise discretion in all circumstances, he could still give Eva an inkling of his new knowledge, by delicate hints.
But no Eva was there. Instead, the gun he had fired stood in his study by the window, reminding him of the silly, irritating incident. His wife had been in the Manor for five or six hours on account of an affair in which he had been clearly in the right, and his efficient friend Studmann was bound to be with her, too. It was ridiculous, it was childish, it was intolerable. The Rittmeister rang for his manservant and inquired whether his wife had left any instructions regarding supper. In a reproachful, annoyed tone he said he was hungry. Madam had left no instructions, reported Räder. Should he lay supper for the Rittmeister and the young Fräulein?
The Rittmeister decided to become a martyr and said no, he would wait. But, as the servant was going out of the door, he blurted out the question he had wanted to suppress—had the geese been delivered at the Manor?
“No, Herr Studmann would not allow me to.” The servant went.
Herr von Prackwitz found his life gray. He had been in the forest, seen interesting things, become cheerful. But hardly had he returned home when a gray pall fell over everything again. There was no escape. It was like a powerful, merciless bog which sucked him down deeper every day. He rested his head in his hands. He longed for another world in which not everything, even wife and friend, made difficulties for him. He would gladly have left Neulohe. Like all weak people, he accused an imaginary Fate: Why must all this happen to me? I don’t hurt anyone. I’m a little quick-tempered, but I don’t mean it badly, I always recover at once. I don’t make any really great demands of life; I am quite modest. Others have big cars, go to Berlin every week, have affairs with women! I live decently and am always in difficulties.…
He groaned. He was very sorry for himself. He was also very hungry. But no one bothered. No one cared what happened to him. He might be dying; no one would pay any attention, not even his wife. Supposing, in his utter desperation, he put a bullet through his head—a weaker man than he would be quite capable of doing so in this situation. Then she would come home and find him lying there. She would pull a pretty face; then, when it was too late, she would be sorry. She would realize too late what he meant to her.
The picture of his lonely death, the thought of his despairing widow, affected the Rittmeister so much that he got up, put on the light and poured himself out a vodka. Then he lit a cigarette and extinguished the light again. Huddled in a chair, his long legs stretched in front of him, he tried once again to imagine his death. But to his regret he had to admit that the picture did not have such a strong effect the second time.
Räder, this wily diplomat of the servants’ quarters, whose conduct was guided by no understandable motive, yet who had a very definite object which he pursued by thousands of stratagems and artifices—this man ascended quietly to the young Fräulein’s room, after firing the arrow designed for Herr von Studmann into the heart of his employer. She sat at the table, writing furiously.
“Well, what did Papa want?” she asked.
“The Rittmeister did not know what was happening about supper.”
“And what is happening?”
“The Rittmeister will wait.”
“If Mamma should still be at the Manor, I could take the letter myself,” she said hesitatingly.
“As the young Fräulein wishes,” said Räder coldly.
Vi folded the letter and surveyed him. That morning she had planned to hand him over to young Pagel for a good thrashing, but one couldn’t free oneself so easily from a fellow conspirator and confidant—she kept finding that she needed him. She was convinced that the Lieutenant would come to the village this evening, after burying the weapons. He hadn’t shown his face in the village for a fortnight. He’d never been away so long. Unlike the others, he hadn’t been wearing a steel helmet. Proof that he still intended to go somewhere. He would look into the tree for her message, but it would be still safer to hand him the letter personally. But she could not get away, Räder was the best messenger … and at present he was not at all impudent.…
Poor little misguided Vi! She had forgotten she had sworn to her Fritz never again to write a letter. She had forgotten she had sworn to Pagel that this affair was over. She had forgotten she had sworn to herself never again to get mixed up with Räder, who was becoming more and more uncanny. She had forgotten that she would endanger her father and her Fritz if she mentioned the buried weapons in a letter of this sort. Her heart made her forget everything, her heart prevailed over her common sense and understanding. All she thought was that she loved him, that she must justify herself to him, that she wanted to see him again at all costs, that he ought not to put her aside so coldly, that she could not wait any longer, that she needed him.
She handed the letter to the servant. “See that he gets it safely, Hubert.”
Räder’s leaden eyelids, almost violet at the corners, were lowered as he observed the young girl. He took the letter. “ ‘I can’t promise that I will find the Lieutenant.”
“Oh, you will find him, Hubert!”
“I can’t run around the whole night, Fräulein. Perhaps he won’t come. When shall I put it in the tree?”
“If you haven’t found him by twelve or one o’clock.”
“But I can’t run around as long as that, Fräulein. I have to get some sleep. I shall put it in the tree at ten.”
“No, Hubert, that’s much too early. It’s nine now already and we haven’t yet had supper. You won’t get out of the house before ten.”
“The doctors say, Fräulein, that the sleep before midnight is the healthiest sleep.”
“Hubert, don’t be so silly. You just want to annoy me again.”
“I don’t want to annoy the young Fräulein.… It’s true about the sleep. And I’d like to know, anyway, what I’m to get for this. If your parents find out I shall be dismissed, and then I won’t get a testimonial or reference.”
“How should they find out, Hubert? And what can I give you? I never get any money.”
“It needn’t be money, Fräulein.”
Hubert spoke in a low voice, and involuntarily Violet did the same. Between each quiet sentence the summer evening could be heard gliding into night with a cry from the village, with the clattering of a pail, with the buzzing amorous dance of the midges over the garden bushes.
“What do you want, then, Hubert? I really don’t know …” She avoided looking into his face. She glanced round the room as if looking for something that she could give him.… He, however, watched her more and more intently. His dead eyes came to life, a red spot appeared on his cheekbones.… “Since I am risking my reputation and my job for the young Fräulein, there’s something I should like to ask of her.”