“Oh, nobody knows what will happen here.”
Both were silent a moment. “But those miserable potato thieves—that’s a matter for the police,” said Kowalewski. “The young gentleman ought to apply to them.”
“The police! Oh, no. We’re not in favor with them anymore, Kowalewski. We’ve made too much work for them in the last six months.” Both were silent. Each new load of potatoes seemed to emerge like a yellowish brown blessing from the darkness into the dawn. Now Pagel could leave again, having established how far the work had proceeded. He had something else to say, and he was no longer too weak to say something which might be unpleasant. It had to be said, and he would say it. “By the way, I saw your Sophie this morning in the village. So she’s still at home?”
The old man grew very embarrassed. “She has to look after her mother—my wife is ill,” he stuttered.
“You told me last time she was taking up a situation on the first of October. Now you say she has to look after her mother. You’re not telling me the truth, Kowalewski. That won’t do. If you occupy one of our cottages, she’s got to work.”
Kowalewski looked very pale. “I have no authority over the lass, young gentleman,” he said in excuse. “She takes no notice of what I say.”
“Kowalewski, old fellow, don’t be so flabby! You know yourself how much we need every hand, and you know too that if the overseer’s daughter is lazy, then those of the laborers will certainly be.”
“I’ll tell her what you say, young gentleman,” said Kowalewski, distressed.
“Yes, do, and tell her that otherwise I’ll put another family into your house as well. Then you’ll only have a parlor, bedroom and kitchen. Good day, Kowalewski, I’m damned hungry.”
Young Pagel got on his bicycle. He was satisfied that he’d finally brought the business with Sophie in order—one way or another. He’d rather let her get away with things lately, he had had so much to do. But whenever he saw the girl in the village it had occurred to him that such an example of laziness was intolerable. It was difficult enough to retain one’s workers at that time—they never considered they were paid enough. However, they didn’t only get their wretched money, they got extras, too. Nobody in the village lived the life of the lilies in the field—the good Lord fed them! On the contrary, my good Sophie, on the contrary, these were not the times to rely on God in heaven. These were times to work yourself until you drop.
He could not deny that he was extremely angry with Sophie. He had liked her in the beginning. He dimly recalled a certain scene at the crab pool. She boldly defended the men’s clothes against the war, like Kniebusch. But either he had been mistaken in his liking or the girl had changed. She had such a confounded slovenly way of lounging about the village. Yes, she had once had the cheek to call after him as he sped by on his bicycle: “Always busy, Herr Pagel?”
When a thing was overdone it was time to stop it. If she wasn’t digging potatoes tomorrow, he would put Black Minna with all her screaming, quarrelsome retinue in Kowalewski’s attic.
He came into the farmyard. In the sheds the head carter spoke to him. It was too wet, he declared, to drill rye—the drills would foul. For Pagel, who understood nothing of farming and stock-raising, and yet had to supervise and decide, this sort of thing was difficult. In general the older people gladly helped him; had he passed himself off as experienced, then they would have taken pleasure in playing him trick after trick. But because he never behaved as though he knew something when he did not, they were helpful. The experience and perceptions of these old people was hardly appreciated. But Pagel liked to listen to them—he always just fell asleep over his thick textbooks.
“What shall we do then?” he asked, and the man suggested that plowing was possible on the lighter outfields. “Good,” said Pagel. “We’ll plow then.”
And went to his lunch.
Lunch he always took in the office, which was his living room, work room, smoke room and study. Although Studmann was no longer in Neulohe, his meals were not solitary. He had a companion, Amanda Backs. “Thank God,” she said, “that you’re punctual for once, Herr Pagel. Put on some dry clothes quickly. I’ll bring in the food at once.”
“Fine.” He went into his bedroom.
It was very likely, indeed it was almost certain, that the village scandalmongers, bearing in mind what was known of the girl’s earlier life, misrepresented this table fellowship of Pagel and Backs as a bed fellowship. Actually it had all come about quite naturally after the arrest of the convicts. The girls at the Manor had, without notice, wage or reference, fled in fear of prosecution for abetting escaped prisoners, not to mention the dreaded mockery of the villagers—leaving behind the single irreproachable—that Amanda Backs once publicly reproached at evening prayers. And old Elias also, of course. He, however, left next day to report no doubt to his employers, for he had no rent to take them. And did not return.
Pagel, those first days in October, had his mind too much occupied with a multitude of affairs to worry overmuch about the Manor. One day, however, he ran into Amanda Backs, and she inquired very forcibly what he was really thinking about, what did he imagine? Even if she didn’t actually shudder at being the sole occupant of that enormous old dungeon, all the same it wasn’t pleasant. And something would have to be done upstairs before the old people came back; the convicts’ party had left everything in a terrible mess, and two windows had been broken in the drawing room. Now the rain came in, and there had been puddles on the floor for a week.
Pagel, tired out and a little disheartened, not having had ten hours’ sleep in three days, looked at the rosy-cheeked Amanda, rubbed his exceedingly unshaven chin, and asked: “Yes, don’t you want to clear out as well, Amanda?”
“And who’ll look after my poultry?” she indignantly demanded. “Especially now, with winter coming, when the ducks and geese ought to be fattened and one can’t feed them enough! I clear out! Not on your life.”
“In the Villa they’re wringing their hands for a sensible housemaid,” he said. “You’ve no doubt heard that Lotte has also gone off. Wouldn’t you like to go there?”
“No.” Amanda Backs was clear on that point. “I’m used to the stupidity of my poultry, but I’ll never get used to that of my fellow-beings. They always make me boil with rage and then I’m not fit for anything.”
“All right,” Pagel had said hurriedly. “I’ll let you know this evening.”
He had intended to discuss this matter with Frau von Prackwitz; but she was out again in the car, and it was uncertain when she would return. The Rittmeister was withdrawn from all inquiries; he lay in bed, watched over by an attendant. There was no one in all populous Neulohe whom he could ask for advice.
And so, after some reflection, he rang up the Hotel Kaiserhof and asked to speak with Geheimrat von Teschow-Neulohe.
“We are very sorry. They have left.”
“Left?” It was something of a blow. “When, please?”
“On the third of October.” Immediately after the arrival of old Elias, that is!
“Will you give me his address, please?”
“We are very sorry, we were strictly forbidden to do so.”
“This is the Management of Neulohe Estate speaking—the Management of the Geheimrat himself,” said Pagel with all his self-control. “His address is indispensable for a very important decision. I must make you responsible for all damages arising out of your refusal.”
“A moment, please. I’ll inquire. Please hold on.”
And after some hesitation the clerk gave him the address. He was interested to know where these people had gone to, when their daughter was in despair and their grandchild lost. The address was Hotel Imperial, Côte d’Azure, Nice, France.