“Sophie, Herr Pagel again asked why you weren’t working.”
“Let him ask! Those who ask a lot, get a lot of answers. I’ll answer him all right if he comes to me.”
“But he says if you aren’t digging potatoes tomorrow, he’ll put Black Minna in the attic here.”
“The fellow can—”
“Yes, Hans. Give him one in his cheeky mug so he won’t be able to open his mouth for six weeks. What does the fool think he is?”
“Not for me, thank you, Sophie, that’s not my sort of job. That’s something for Bäumer. He’ll finish the chap with pleasure, so that he won’t even know he’s dead.”
“If anything happens to Herr Pagel, I’ll denounce you,” said the old man quietly.
“What does Pagel matter to you, father?” began Sophie. “You’re mad.”
“I’ve held my tongue because you’re my only daughter and because you’ve kept on promising to go away soon. It’s almost broken my heart, to see you here with such a—”
“Drivel on as much as you like, old gentleman!” cried the man in bed. “Don’t put yourself out among relatives. Convict, eh?”
“Yes, convict!” repeated old Kowalewski defiantly. “But it doesn’t mean I think all in prison are as low as you. And the stealing! Always stealing.… Does a man do that merely out of pleasure in doing mischief? You don’t gain anything by it. The money you get in Frankfurt and Ostade for the stolen things is worth nothing.”
“Be patient, old fellow. Times will change again. As soon as I’ve collected the fare and some working funds we’ll dash off. D’you think I’m so fond of your cottage? Or that I can’t bear to part from your whining face?”
“Yes,” cried the old man eagerly. “Go off. Go to Berlin.”
“Father-in-law, you’ve just told me that we’ve got no money. Or will you give me the dowry for your daughter in cash? What, my dear man, go to Berlin without money and be arrested at once! No, thanks. We’ve waited so long that a few days or weeks till we—”
“But what will happen if he really does put Minna in here?” said Sophie angrily. “You’ve let us in for this, father, so as to get rid of us!”
Herr Liebschner whistled and exchanged a glance with the girl, who fell silent.
Kowalewski had noticed this glance. “As true as I stand here, and hope that God will forgive me my weakness—if anything happens to Herr Pagel I’ll bring the gendarmes here myself!” There was such energy in the old man’s outburst that the other two were convinced he would do it.
“And you always pretend you are something like a father!” said the girl contemptuously.
“It’s no good talking, Sophie,” said Liebschner, resigned. “The old fellow’s taken a passion for the lout. There are things like that. Listen, Sophie. You shove off to the young man at once. He’ll be alone now, at midday. Be a little nice to him, Sophie; you know I’m not jealous. Then he’ll give way.… You’ll be able to manage that, eh, Sophie?”
“That lout! He’ll go on his knees if I want it. But the Backs will be there. He’s got her!”
“The fat one with the hens? If you can’t cut out that gawk, you can lose your job with me, too, Sophie.”
“Go away! Please. Better go away before everything is discovered,” pleaded Kowalewski.
“Before you catch on to something, the pastor’s got to preach three times on Sunday, I suppose, eh? Money, I say! You won’t get rid of us sooner. So set your mind at rest, father-in-law; we’ll wangle it. We shall keep on our lodgings; we still like them. And nothing will happen to your young chap—agreed?”
“You should go away,” said the old man obstinately.
“Show him the door, Sophie. Let him go away first! If I wasn’t too lazy, I’d show you how to travel down the stairs, father-in-law. Good morning, it’s been a pleasure. Give my regards to your friend Herr Pagel.”
The old man stood wretchedly on the stairs. “Oh, Sophie,” he muttered, “you were such a good child.”
III
Amanda had been right; things went well with the pair of them. No, more than that, things went excellently. To his astonishment Pagel discovered that this female who he thought would get on his nerves within a week, did, on the contrary, help him over many difficulties. That she was cleanly, industrious, quick and skillful he had more or less known. But this young thing with the tongue of an old fishwife knew very well when to be silent, and could tolerate other points of view. This illegitimate child, the sport of adversity, who had in one year received more hard words and blows than most people in an entire lifetime, and whose experience of people and of men in particular had filled her whole existence with a grinding pessimism, had a sensitiveness to every kind word, every slight hint, that never failed to move him.
“My God!” he exclaimed the third day on seeing the desk covered with a tablecloth and respectable china and cutlery which must have been fetched from the Manor—she had divined how much he detested the chipped earthenware and the stained knives and forks.
Yes, she said provocatively. So what’s wrong now? To each his own! What I always say is that I couldn’t give a damn about the packaging. It’s what’s inside that counts. But if you want to do it differently, help yourself!
The two young people lived as on an island, without any company or friends. They were completely dependent on one another. When Pagel, worn down by the rush and scramble of his work, wished for a little private life, he had to find it at “home,” that is, in the office. And when Amanda wished to hear a kind, a personal word, it had to be from Pagel.
So each became the savior of the other. Without her Pagel might have deserted like a Geheimrat von Teschow, a Herr von Studmann, or even a Rittmeister. That he should keep his flag flying—therein had Amanda Backs no little merit.
And who knows if she herself would have got over her experience with Meier if she had not had Wolfgang Pagel constantly before her eyes? There were, then, other men, decent men, men who did not run after every skirt or goggle at every bosom! It was foolish to be at odds with all the world because Meier had been a rascal. She ought to be angry only with herself, for such a bad choice. In the beginning almost everyone had it a little in his power to choose whom he would love—later, to be sure, it was usually too late. She had adored her little Hans after a time.
And so, as each of these two received something good from the other, it stood to reason that they were also good to each other. When Wolfgang, washed and changed, re-entered the office, he saw that the food was ready but the soup not yet served. “Well?” he smiled. “Aren’t we starting?”
“Post for you, too, Herr Pagel,” she said, holding out two letters, and went into the bedroom to remove the wet clothes and tidy up.
That’s what one could call being good to one another. Pagel didn’t think of it again, but felt it was true. He leaned against the pleasantly warm stove, put Studmann’s letter unread in his pocket, and tore open his mother’s. But before he began to read, he lit another cigarette. He knew he would be able to read in peace and complete comfort—that no cry of “your soup’s getting cold!” would disturb him.
Amanda always sorted out the post into little heaps: farm management, forest management, the occupants of the Villa, the land steward (also represented by Pagel), and finally, sometimes, a letter for Pagel himself. That letter, however, she did not place on the table, but kept secret somewhere, waiting till he had washed himself and felt a little fresher; then she said: “Post for you, too, Herr Pagel,” and disappeared. However, it was by no means the case that this had been agreed between them. Amanda had thought it up all by herself. It was astonishing that so blunt a woman could be so sensitive. Pagel had never told her about his home or sweetheart, yet she had guessed how it was with him, without having the slightest fact to go on; there was no bulky correspondence with a lady—except with a Frau Pagel who, from the writing and the name, could only be his mother. Yet Amanda could have sworn any oath that Herr Pagel, in her words, was “in firm hands.” And that, however firmly those hands held him, there was something in this affair not quite in order.