She spoke very pertly. “I knew all morning that you would come today.”
“Oh-ho?” The Lieutenant aped astonishment. “Have you presentiments nowadays? Were you dreaming about me, eh, Frieda? Well, I felt that … I thought, see what’s happening to Friedel …” It was frightful, but he could not get into swing. He observed the girl, observed her with deliberation. Yes, a girl; she had a pleasant bosom, powerful hips, fine legs and ankles just a little too heavy … oh, it was no good, he couldn’t get going. Just a female, quite unimportant—and Friedel was not so stupid that she couldn’t notice that.
“Oh, so you felt like that, Fritz?” she said derisively. “But perhaps you’ve also heard what’s being noised around, that you’ve all slipped up on your Putsch—and now you want to hear what your Friedel’s got to say, eh?”
“Slipped up? How?” he asked, hoping she would start talking.
“Yes, pretend to be stupid!” she cried out furiously. “You know very well indeed. You’re in a funk, that’s why you’ve come. You’re a rotter. When I heard what the colonel was saying to madam this morning I thought at once, well, we’ll see now. If he comes today then it’s not because of you, Friedel; it’ll be to get you to talk, and you are only his spy. And you see, just a couple of hours, and here you are already. And you try to tell me you felt like that!” She snorted; her sturdy bosom moved vehemently. Seeing this the Lieutenant thought helplessly: It’s no good going on talking—I’ve got to find out what the colonel told his wife.
Suddenly without a word he passed by her and entered her bedroom. The bed was not yet made. There she had lain, there she had slept …
“Now I’ll show you how I feel,” he said, seizing the girl in his arms without worrying about her resistance; he never paid any attention to feminine opposition—that was only maidenly primness, affectation. With her fists she was pushing against his chest, against the painful chest, but he covered her face with his, mouth to mouth, hers closed firmly in denial. But he kissed and kissed her.… Now I am kissing her, he thought. Soon she will give way, her lips will open—and then I shall have to die. Because of my kisses she will blab, she will tell me everything. And then I shall have to go to the Black Dale and do what I told Violet—damned Violet!
Unaware the Lieutenant had spoken the hateful name aloud. He’d already forgotten he was kissing a girl. He only held her lightly in his arms.
He felt himself pushed back with savage energy. He crashed into the wardrobe.
“Get out,” the girl panted. “You liar! So I’m to spy for you while you are thinking about others!”
He stood with a helpless, embarrassed smile near the wardrobe. He made no further attempt to explain or justify himself.
“Oh, well, Friedel,” he said at last, with the same embarrassed expression, “it’s a funny world. You are quite right. We already learned that at schooclass="underline" nemo ante mortem beatus, or something like that, I don’t remember exactly. That means: No one is to be esteemed happy before his death, and no one knows before his death what he’s really like. You are quite right. I’m a liar. Cheerio, Friedelchen, and no offense.”
He held out his hand and she took it hesitatingly. Her anger had died down; his embarrassment infected her. “Oh, God, Fritz,” she said, and did not at all know what she should reply to his unintelligible mottoes. “You are so queer. I was only angry because you don’t think anything of me.…”
He made a gesture of denial.
“All right, I won’t speak about that. But if you would like to know what the colonel said this morning …”
He dropped her hand. “No, Friedel, thanks. That’s no longer necessary. It’s all really damned funny,” he reflected again. “It’s nothing to do with me anymore now. Well, cheerio, Friedel. See that you get married soon; that would be best for you.” And with that he went, even forgetting to look at her in farewell again. Frieda too had vanished for him, and he did not hear what she called out. Lost in thought, he went along the corridor, up the little staircase, and down the tiled path onto the street. His cap was in his hand, and he was completely indifferent to being seen and recognized. At the moment he was not conscious of the existence of others; he had enough to do with himself.
All the same, at the first corner he had once again to return from the quiet world of his thoughts back to this venturesome and dangerous planet, for a hand was laid on his shoulder and a voice said: “A moment please, Herr Lieutenant.”
He looked up into the icy gaze of the fat detective.
VII
Had it not been for the waiter in The Golden Hat, Violet would have remained a long time where she had fallen in the coffee room. Rittmeister von Prackwitz was of no assistance. First he wanted to rush after the Lieutenant and shoot it out with him, then he called the guests to witness how shamefully the man had treated his daughter.… Kneeling beside Violet, he wiped her mouth with his handkerchief and wailed: “Violet, pull yourself together—you’re an officer’s daughter!”
Springing up he demanded port wine for himself. But not in that glass. That glass had been dirtied and must be smashed. He smashed it. “Where is my wife? My wife’s never there when she’s really needed. I call you to witness, gentlemen, that my wife is not here.”
The waiter sent for the chauffeur. The three of them lifted Violet up, to carry her outside, put her in the car and let her go home. But as she was being lifted she began to moan loudly—moaned without a pause or a word, a confused plaint, like an animal. The men nearly let her fall. She was laid on one of those horrible waxed fabric sofas, with recessed buttons, from which everything slides off. There they and a guest attempted to pull her dress down over her knees. Her eyes were closed. She was no longer a young girl. She was nothing but a thing of flesh that moaned, moaned terribly.…
Incoherent, the Rittmeister sat at a table, his almost white head in his hands. He had stopped his ears. “Take her away,” he murmured. “Stop her moaning. I can’t bear it. Take her to a hospital. Send for my wife.”
The last wish was the only realizable one. In the glittering Horch, the latest and already forgotten toy, Finger the chauffeur drove off to fetch the mother.
The proprietors of the hotel appeared. On the second floor a room was got ready, a doctor was telephoned for, and Violet was carried up, still moaning. The Rittmeister refused to accompany her. “I can’t bear the moaning,” he said. He had so managed it that there was now a whole bottle of port in front of him. He had found the salvation of those unfit for life. Alcohol, the escape from worries, that brings forgetfulness—and an awakening the next day which is a thousand times worse.
The landlady with the help of a chambermaid undressed Violet. She moaned. Nor did she stop moaning in bed.
“Dora,” said the landlady, “I must get back to my dishes; the gentlemen will be coming for lunch soon. You stay here for the moment and call me when the doctor comes.”
Down below, the gentlemen were in agreement that, although one would never have thought so to look at her, it was labor pains which caused the girl to moan so. Tomorrow all the district would know what was the matter with the daughter of Rittmeister von Prackwitz, the heiress. And what a cad of a fellow!
The Rittmeister was paying no attention to the chatter. He had something to drink, and he drank.
Upstairs Violet was moaning. Once or twice the chambermaid had said to her: “Fräulein, don’t do that. No one is harming you.… Why do you moan like that? Are you in pain?” Without success. With a shrug of her shoulders: “All right then, don’t.” And feeling that ingratitude had rewarded her friendliness, the chambermaid sat down beside the bed, but not before she had fetched her knitting. As Dora sat, knitting her pullover, in the bar room beneath Herr von Prackwitz sat and drank. Violet, mortally wounded at heart, could only cry. No one is born immune to misery: Young and playful Violet, a girl, still half a child, was used up, without any idea of real life. And now she had looked into the abyss. Only twilight and darkness remained, and out of that darkness only the repeated cry: Help me, I’m desperate.