An Old Heart Goes A-Journeying (38 page)

Philip nodded with satisfaction; that was his tacit pact with the oarsman, one Paul Schlieker from Biestow. Thus far and no farther!

Philip and Bello then patrolled the shore until the boat had slowly disappeared round the Biestow headland. They both kept steadfast watch and ward, although they might have spared themselves the trouble. For the man in that boat would never set foot on land, though none stood there to hinder him. It had been the scene of his disaster. A bewitched, accursed land from which he had escaped. Why should he ever go back to it again?

That had been a dreadful night when he fled from the flames into the black and storm-swept forest and he had lain a long and bitter time in hospital, sick to death and desolate. He was still young and he could learn—and he had somehow grasped the fact that a limit is set to the
power of evil on this earth, and that in the end the works of evil devour each other.

He had not reformed, far from it. He had now taken to peddling fish; with cart and horse and his load of fish he drove over the countryside, cheating his customers when occasion offered, indulging the petty delights of a bully who had seen better days.

But though he had not reformed, he was more sensible. He had come to terms with his adversaries and he had been paid a good sum of money—a great deal of money considering the way he had mismanaged his affairs. And in return, he had to pledge himself never again to molest Rosemarie Thürke or her friends. Well, he had no intention of breaking that agreement, he would never row his boat ashore, whether that idiot boy threw stones at him or not. But he looked at the rising house and could not resist it; whenever he had time he rowed over and looked at it. Rebuilt from the ashes. His wife was still in the asylum and would not come back to him. If he could torture no one else, he could torture himself.

The boat slid slowly round the bend, and the house passed out of sight. Trudi Beier soon appeared with a basket and brought Philip a share of the feast. When she had gone, he climbed through a window of the building into one of the rooms consisting at present of only four bare walls. But he sat down on an upturned pail and ate his meal in company with the dog. The room in which he sat was to be his room, his very own. Four walls and a window built specially for Philip Münzer!

The darkness slowly fell. . . .

Outside Otto Beier’s inn stood a motorcar; not Brewer Tangelmann’s old bus, but Dr. George Kimmknirsch’s
new car. The doctor had come out from Kriwitz to be present at his friends’ party, and he had brought Herr Schulz. Many of the villagers were standing outside Beier’s dance hall, peering at the guests within; beside the Professor sat the magistrate, and little Rosemarie Thürke sat between Dr. Kimmknirsch and Hütefritz. The Professor had just sat down, he had made a speech and the old gentleman was much moved. He thanked everyone who had helped in the work, and he went on to say that they had built much more than a house, reminding his hearers of the old saying that we build our house not merely here, but also for eternity upon the other bank. He told them that he was already a very old man, who had thought his life was over and had only a little more scribbling left to do. But here in Unsadel something more than an old house had been burnt down, a selfish life had also been destroyed. He fancied a good deal else had been destroyed too—here Rosemarie nodded—and now the garland was fluttering above the new rooftree.

A rather unusual speech for such a ceremony—but there was a message in it for all. Not only Rosemarie, but her young friends, all nodded. And the workmen nodded—in fact the speech was distinctly popular.

And when dinner was over, the concertinas came into action, and the young folks began to dance.

“No, Herr Straten,” said the young doctor. “I know quite well that it’s your right to have the first dance with Fräulein Thürke, but this time you must stand aside in my favor—I have to go away to a confinement at once. Or I shan’t get a dance at all.”

“Right you are, Herr Doctor,” laughed Straten. “I’m old enough to wait.”

So the pair began to dance. They danced once round, twice round, dived through the throng, stopped in the doorway and stood with quickened breath looking out into the June night.

“Shall we?—” asked the young doctor.

“Yes,” she replied, and they ran through the twilit garden down to the lake.

On the shore they stood still and listened. From the hall came sounds of merriment and song. The night wind rustled in the reeds, and a little to the left, across the lake, they could see a tiny reddish glimmer.

“That’s Philip’s lantern,” said Rosemarie, pointing, “there’s the house.”

“Yes, there it is,” said the doctor.

“Do you think it’s too far away?” asked Rosemarie rather anxiously.

The doctor reflected, then he answered somewhat mysteriously, “It’s certainly far away—but not too far. I have a car now.”

This time it was Rosemarie’s turn to reflect. “Is a car worth the expense?” she asked doubtfully.

“Yes,” he replied. “Faulmann has discovered he is really getting old, and says he’ll be glad to let me have his country practice. The confinement this evening is one of his cases.”

“Oh,” said Rosemarie. Then both were silent. They were standing at least a yard away from each other, and both seemed deep in thought.

“Yes,” said the doctor at last, turning abruptly toward her. “The country people take a long time to get used to a new face—it will be at least two or three years before I
get a decent practice. I mean one that will support me and—”

He stopped, and looked at her intently.

“Oh, well, Herr Doctor,” said she, standing up very straight, “I’m only just seventeen. . . .”

And then the two of them, hand in hand, walked slowly from the darkness back to the lights and gaiety of the dance hall.

M
Y ACCOUNT OF
P
ROFESSOR
K
ITTGUSS’ STUDIES
is not, I fear, first hand. It is based on the biography of Johann Albrecht Bengels by Dr. Oscar Wachter (Stuttgart, 1865); and a work entitled
The Interpretation of St. John the Divine or Rather of Jesus Christ
, set forth by Johann Albrecht Bengels (Stuttgart, 1746).

With this limitation, that relates only to Professor Kittguss’ work and not his character, the incidents and characters of this story are entirely imaginary.

The author proposes to continue the story in a later volume.

H.F.

H
ANS
F
ALLADA
was born in 1893 in Griefswald in Pomerania and lived the first eighteen years of his life in big cities. But he moves around cities with distressed unease. It is only over plowed fields that he walks surely and happily
.

Fallada says of his childhood: “I was a crazy scamp, always falling downstairs, pretty much of a good-for-nothing, and very early in life finding an escape in the fantasy world of books.”

Very young, he left this “fantasy world” and went to the country as an agricultural student. He loved farm life, but he could not make a success of it. He could handle cattle—but not men
.

So back he went into his world of books. He wrote two novels, with little success. Then came a new beginning—and
Little Man What Now?

Today the Fallada family lives on a little farm in Pomerania and its most famous member has realized the dream that he described when he was living in the city: to spend his days on the soil, creating life from the earth, and his evenings in the world of paper, creating his universally beloved books
.