A moment ago she had understood quite well, the cheeky bitch. Had only wanted to exhibit herself and torment him. But wait, I’ll get you yet.
“Why don’t you gather in the harvest?” asked the young girl who was to be eloped with and secretly married.
“Because the laborers have to sheave it first.” Rather surly.
“And if there’s a storm and it all gets wet, Papa will be in a terrible temper.”
“And if I bring in the crop and there’s no storm, he’ll also be in a temper.”
“But there will be a storm.”
“One can’t be certain.”
“But I know.”
“So Fräulein wishes me to get the crop in?”
“Not at all.” She laughed boisterously, her full bosom positively jumping in her bathing dress. “So that you could blame me afterward if it doesn’t suit Papa! No, blunder as much as you like, but don’t put the blame on others.”
She looked at him with an air of benevolent superiority. This flapper of fifteen years was amazingly impudent. Why? Because she happened to be born a von Prackwitz, heiress of Neulohe—for no other reason.
“Then I can go, Fräulein?” asked Black Meier.
“Yes, be sure and don’t neglect your work.” She had rolled on one side and looked at him mockingly.
He moved off.
“Hi, Herr Meier,” she called.
“Yes, Fräulein?” There was nothing he could do about it.
“Are you carting manure?”
“No, Fräulein.”
“Then why do you smell so queer?”
It took him quite a while to grasp that she meant his perfume. Then, without a word, but red with fury, he turned round and descended the ladder as quickly as he could.
What a bitch! One oughtn’t to have anything to do with such a bitch. The Reds were quite right—against the wall with the whole insolent rag, tag, and bobtail! Aristocracy be damned! Insolence, impudence, nothing but arrogance.…
He was down the ladder, walking away with short, furious legs. Then a voice sounded again, a voice from heaven, the voice of the young lady: “Herr Meier!”
He started, full of fury—and again he couldn’t do anything about it. “Yes, Fräulein?”
Her voice was very ungracious. “I’ve told you three times you’re not to shout like that. You’ll wake Mamma.” Then, impatient: “Come up again.”
Meier climbed the ladder once more, full of bile. Yes, hopping up and down like a tree frog, with you calling the weather. But wait till I get you. I’ll jilt you and leave you with a baby, without a penny. Nevertheless he stood smartly upright. “Please, Fräulein?”
She was no longer thinking of showing her body off, but was reflecting, although she had practically decided. Only she was uncertain how to tell him. In the end she said as innocently as possible, “You’re to deliver a letter for me, Herr Meier:”
“Yes, Fräulein.”
Suddenly it was in her hand. Whence she had taken this longish envelope of blue paper was a mystery; as far as one could judge at Meier’s distance it was unaddressed.
“You’re going this evening to the village?”
He was utterly taken by surprise and quite uncertain of himself. Was this merely conversational, or did she know something? That, however, was impossible.
“I don’t know. Perhaps I will. If you wish it, Fräulein, certainly.”
“A gentleman will ask you for a letter. Hand it over.”
“What gentleman? I don’t understand.”
Suddenly she became exasperated. “You needn’t understand anything. You’re simply to do as I tell you. A gentleman will ask you for the letter and you’ll give it to him. That’s quite simple, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Fräulein,” he said. But it sounded rather feeble—he was so much wrapped up in his own thoughts.
“Then that’s everything, Herr Meier.” And she handed him the letter. He could hardly believe it, but he held the letter in his hand, a weapon against her. You wait, my little lamb. Any more of your sauce. He pulled himself together. “It shall be done, Fräulein.”
And again he descended the ladder.
“I should say so,” her voice challenged him from above. “Or else I shall tell Grandpa and Papa who it was started to burn down the wood.”
The voice stopped. Meier paused midway, so as not to miss a word. There! And that was that! “Burn down.” A shot in the heart. Bravo! Splendid for fifteen years old. She had a future before her.
“And the Herr Lieutenant doesn’t like jokes, either,” added the voice—and now he heard her fat, lazy flesh rolling over on the other side, the deck chair groaning. Fräulein Violet von Prackwitz yawned comfortably up there while Herr Bailiff Meier got on with his work.
Right you are, he told himself, that’s O.K. by me.
But he did not get on with his work immediately. Deep in thought he trotted along to his room, the letter in the outside pocket of his linen jacket and his hand on its smooth surface all the time. He must feel that he had really got the letter, that it was there, this letter which he would straightway read. She had said little enough, the artful bitch, but she had said enough for him. Quite enough. So she knew the Lieutenant, that mysterious, somewhat raged but overbearing gentleman who convened nocturnal meetings at the village magistrate’s, and before whom Forester Kniebusch stood to attention. And she had met this Lieutenant between twelve and three today, or else she could not have known about the fire.
If, therefore, this Lieutenant nodded in such a friendly way to Herr Bailiff Meier, it was not because he thought Black Meier so much more efficient than that old slacker Kniebusch, but because he knew that Meier had already been chosen for go-between. The Lieutenant, it seemed, knew his way about in Neulohe. A secret agreement of long standing.
You have gone far, you two, thought Meier. I can picture it all. And when I’ve read the letter—you’re a fool, nevertheless, you proud silly goose. Do you think I shall hand it over without having a look at what you’ve written? I want to know, and then I’ll consider what to do. Perhaps I’ll tell the Rittmeister—what’s a bit of a forest fire against that? You won’t have me by the short hairs on that matter. But I don’t think I’ll say anything to the Rittmeister after all. You’re so silly that it never occurs to you that a fellow like the Lieutenant will jilt you. You need only look at him, of course, to see that. Then I’ll be there—no, my child, I don’t mind. I don’t take offense. It’s not much fun and a lot of trouble to break in young horses—it’s better they should know their paces first. You shall pay me then for every impertinent, arrogant word, for every “Yes, Fräulein”—and for this letter above all. How does one open letters? With steam, I’ve heard, but how can I quickly manage that in my room? Well, I’ll try to open the flap with a knife, and if the envelope gets spoiled I’ll take one of my own. Yellow or blue—he’ll hardly notice which.…
He reached the office. Without even taking off his cap he sank into the chair at the desk. Putting the letter on the worn ink-stained baize, he stared at it. He was damp with sweat, his body was limp, his mouth parched. He was utterly exhausted. He could hear the hens clucking in the farmyard, the dairymen clattering with pails and milk cans in the cow barn. He should think so—high time for milking!
The letter lay before him, the flies buzzed monotonously; it was unbearably close. He wanted to look at the barometer on the wall (perhaps a storm would come after all) but he didn’t look up. It was all the same to him!
The letter, the clean blue rectangle on the stained baize. Her letter.
Lazily, carelessly, he seized the paper knife, drew the letter nearer, and put both down. He wiped his sweating hands on his jacket.