He sat quietly for a while, his face alert. His eyes saw nothing on the desk. But he saw something else. He saw the little dried-up woman with her sharp bird’s face and swift eyes; she drove the servants from one task to another; she was empty but she could make up for this with the life of others, any life, it didn’t matter which. She used her religion to worm herself into people. She was like a maggot, living on the decomposed offal of other existences.
He saw the fierce Geheimrat with his false heartiness, sweating enormously, dressed in worsted. And though he wouldn’t be wearing worsted down there on the Côte d’Azure, nothing would be changed by that. He would still sit and calculate, drawing up crafty agreements and writing business letters with catches in them. Everything he looked at was transformed into profit. Certainly people said that he loved his woods, and he did—but in his own fashion. He loved with his sense of gain, he loved so-and-so many cubic feet of timber. A thicket of young pines was not a green and golden mystery, but meant that at the thinning out, so-and-so many bean poles could be cut.
But one would have thought that at least they loved their daughter, their grandchild. One now saw what this love was worth. Fearing to be dragged into a disgraceful business, they fled, offering no help, showing neither kindliness nor charity—fled into the other corner of Europe, into that France which, still occupying the Ruhr, continued to refuse negotiations with a German Government.
So that’s what they were like, the old people, or as they say, the retired people. But the woman never found a home for her shallowness, or the man for his money, which he didn’t know how to use.…
Young Pagel, after he had thought enough, while still sitting by the telephone, did something remarkable: He took a mark note out of his pocket, lit a match, and burned it. Such was the action of the young Pagel, the very young Pagel. It was symbolic, as if to say: Oh Lord, let me never be so in love with money that I can’t part with it.
Besides, in doing this, he was depriving himself of something. It was Saturday evening. Paying the wages had completely emptied the estate coffers. That had been his last note, with which he wanted to get some cigarettes. Now he couldn’t smoke until Monday. Yes, despite all his recent experiences, he was still juvenile! But then again, didn’t it show how strong he was, too! He just whistled nonchalantly when he considered that he only had three or four cigarettes left.
And still whistling, he drummed up a crowd of women and fetched the maintenance man.
That same evening he had what was essential done in the Manor, the broken panes replaced, the doors locked. “Now we’ve finished with the Teschows! And you, Amanda, move over with your things into Herr von Studmann’s room. That is, if you’ve no misgivings.”
“Because of gossip, Herr Pagel? A fat lot I care! Talk and let talk, I say.”
“That’s right. And if at the same time you’d take pity on my food and laundry! They’ve looked somewhat woeful of late.”
“Black Minna …”
“Black Minna has to help in the kitchen at the Villa, besides which she’s the only one of the women who’s not afraid of the Rittmeister. The attendant has to take the air sometimes, and she takes his place.”
“As it should be!” said Amanda, deeply satisfied. “That’s what suits her. She afraid of men! She’s never been afraid enough of men, and you can hear any day you pass the almshouse, Herr Pagel, the squealing that comes from too little fear.”
“You’ve a scandalous gift of gab, Amanda,” Pagel said, half laughing. “The dangerously ill Rittmeister and Black Minna! No, I really don’t know if the two of us will get on well for long.”
“I’ll let you talk and you let me talk,” Amanda had replied, very contented. “That’s simple enough. Why shouldn’t we get on well, Herr Pagel?”
II
The bloated woman, who had no other job in life but to eat, was ladling soup from a tureen when Kowalewski came home tired and wet through. He looked into the tureen, knitted his brows, but restrained himself. Spreading lard on a crust of bread, he began to eat.
The woman, chewing, gave him a malicious look from her small eyes. In her case it was gluttony which kept her from talking. So the two old people sat silent, both eating; he the bread, she the chicken soup.
Only when her hunger was stilled did she open her mouth. “A fine fool you are!” she scolded. “The good chicken soup! It won’t make it any different you not touching a morsel.” She dipped the ladle in the soup and found a leg, at which she almost forgot to be angry. “What a fat hen it was, this! Yes, the Haases feed them well. It weighed over five pounds; and the beautiful pure yellow fat, that makes a rich soup!” She smacked her lips.
“Is our Sophie upstairs?” asked the dejected old man.
“Where should she be? They’re still sleeping.” Satiated, she was already luxuriating in the prospect of further meals. “Tonight we’re going to have a joint of venison. I’m fond of venison when it’s well done. And he’s also going to bring us a fat pig.”
“I don’t need a pig, I won’t have it!” cried old Kowalewski in despair. “We’ve always been honest. But now! Thieves and associates of thieves! We can’t look people in the face anymore.”
“Don’t excite yourself,” said his wife indifferently. “You know that he won’t put up with anything from you. Thieves! It’s only theft if one’s caught; he’s too clever for that. He’s ten times cleverer than you. A hundred times!”
“I don’t want him here anymore,” he mumbled.
“Yes, that’s like you!” shouted the glutton. “Someone at last who provides for us—and you want him to leave! But I tell you, if you start a row with him, I—” She waved the ladle, not knowing with what she should threaten him, while her little eyes, drowned in fat, searched the room. “I’ll eat up everything, and you can starve!” This was the worst threat she could contrive.
Her husband looked at her gloomily. Like mother, like daughter, he thought. Selfish and greedy. Greedy!
He turned across the room to the stairs.
“Don’t you go up! Don’t start a row!” she screamed after him.
Kowalewski was already climbing the stairs. For a moment he stood breathing quickly outside his daughter’s room, and almost lost his courage. Then he knocked.
“Who’s there?” asked Sophie’s angry voice after a while.
“Me—father!” he murmured.
There was whispering inside; the door was unlocked. Sophie looked into her father’s face. “What do you want?” she complained. “You know that Hans needs his sleep. First you make such a row downstairs that one can’t get a wink of sleep, then you come up here. What’s the matter?”
“Come in, father-in-law!” shouted a falsely cordial voice. “An enormous pleasure. Sophie, shut up! Company has come. Our respected father-in-law! Sit down, please, old gentleman. Give him a chair, Sophie, so he can sit down. Do excuse us, father-in-law, that we’re still in bed. Had I guessed the honor to be done us, I would have put on my frock coat.” The speaker grinned at the intimidated old man. “That’s to say, looked at strictly, it’s not mine. But it fits me perfectly, Herr Rittmeister’s frock coat. Herr von Prackwitz was so kind as to come to my aid. My wardrobe was a little empty.”
Kowalewski had been so often and so thoroughly mocked and scolded in his life that, although it perhaps never ceased to hurt him, he never let this appear. He stood behind the chair, not looking at the bed or Hans Liebschner. “You, Sophie,” he said in low tones. “Well, what, father? Go on! More grumbling, I suppose, because something’s disappeared! Is Haase making such a row about the few hens that you can’t sleep? He can have something quite different happen!”