An Old Heart Goes A-Journeying (6 page)

“Well,” said the Professor mildly, “she won’t have to work all night. So I will wait. I am very tired indeed and very hungry, but I will wait, Herr Schlieker.”

And the Professor lowered himself slowly and deliberately into the corner of the sofa.

Schlieker eyed this mild, patient personage half in anger, half in desperation. “If I let you see her, Herr Professor,” he said, “will you go away at once?”

“Certainly,” said the Professor calmly. “Why should I want to stay?”

“And you won’t take long?”

“Indeed, no,” said the Professor politely. “I quite understand that Rosemarie has her duties.”

“All right,” said Schlieker, going out. “But not longer than five minutes.”

As the Professor sat alone and half starved on the corner of the sofa in his dead friend’s chilly study, he felt very wretched indeed. Again he caught sight of the dirty neglected bookcases, and again his heart turned sick. He got up, in spite of his aching limbs, and took a book from one of the shelves at random. He opened
it, looked at the title page, turned the pages, and the blood rushed to his head. . . .

But when Paul Schlieker appeared with Rosemarie in tow and Frau Mali bringing up the rear, the Professor had forgotten his friend’s daughter and her property and what he had come for—he was thinking only of the book in his hand. Rushing at the man in a fury, he exclaimed: “What have I here, Herr Schlieker?”

“A book,” the other replied in bewilderment.

“Yes, a book! But why is it torn and why are there pages missing?”

“Rubbish and trash,” Frau Schlieker interjected contemptuously. “Who’s going to bother about books? We tried to sell the stuff, but no one wants it, not even the Herr Pastor at Kriwitz.”

“But do you know what book this is?” exclaimed Professor Kittguss, himself now utterly possessed by the spirit of anger. “This is Jacob Bohme’s
High and Deepest Reasons for the Threefold Life of Man!
”

And he glared at the couple. “And this!” he groaned, “this is the edition of 1682, printed at Amsterdam, with a copperplate engraving. And the engraving is missing, and there are pages missing too—nearly half of them!”

“Of course they are,” said Frau Schlieker insolently. “There are a lot more pages missing. What does that matter? We want to keep warm, and when we need paper to heat the stove, we take what we can find. And this is where we find it,” she concluded, with a glance of satisfaction at the shelves. “We’ll find more where that came from.”

“Burnt! Jacob Böhme burnt to make a fire!” wailed the Professor. “Not that I approve of all he wrote, for
he often comes into plain conflict with Holy Writ, but he wrote some very fine things none the less.” A fresh thought came into his mind. “You told me, Herr Schlieker, that you were looking after our Rosemarie’s worldly inheritance, and I promised not to interfere. But you were not telling the truth, you have destroyed and burnt treasures—do you know that any bookseller in Berlin would have paid you twenty or even thirty marks for this little book, if it had not been damaged?”

Here was something that they did feel. “Herr Professor,” said Schlieker, completely taken aback, “it can’t be possible. . . .”

“For all that dusty, moth-eaten trash!” exclaimed Frau Schlieker.

And then a shrill, defiant little voice broke in. “Yes, Godpapa, and they’ve done the same thing everywhere. The fruit trees are dying, the fields are thick with weeds, and the horses have been thrashed till they can hardly stand. Oh, my dear Godpapa, and the poor little children that they’ve taken to look after. . . .”

“Will you be quiet, you little wretch!” shouted Schlieker, grabbing her wrist.

“You can twist my arm off if you like, Paul,” she said boldly, and looked at him wide-eyed, “but you can’t deny that your wife gives the children nothing but skim milk. . . .”

“Hold your tongue!” screamed Mali, clapping her hand over the child’s mouth.

“Leave the girl alone!” thundered the Professor as he faced the pair, a tall and menacing figure flushed with anger. “Take your hand off her, woman! Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves, both of you! Have you forgotten
that Our Lord Jesus said: ‘What thou doest unto these children, thou doest unto me’? Oh, my poor, poor little girl!” he cried in an anguished voice. “As you stand before me now I can see the likeness to your beloved mother. Yes, I remember prophesying to your father that your lot would be cast in marvelous times. And—just as I forgot you over that book of Jacob Böhme and never saw you in the doorway—so I forgot you for many, many years. Now I am an old man, easily wearied and ignorant of the world, and maybe I cannot help you any more. Ah, Rosemarie, I wonder if I shall be any use to you at all?—”

She stood there, a strange little figure in her dirty discolored overalls, and wooden shoes. But on those narrow shoulders there was a sharp-cut little head, with a small pale mouth, delicate, arched, pensive eyebrows, softly colored, rounded cheeks. But above all, the far-off, unearthly look in her blue-gray eyes seemed to gaze right through and far beyond what they could see.

It was this look that had struck the old man. Rosemarie’s mother, who had lived in a world of fairy tales and marvels, had bequeathed it to her daughter, whom fate cast in evil places. But those eyes gave the lie to the hard things that had been said of the girl, for the children of that other world recognize each other when they meet. And the old man suddenly remembered Rosemarie’s messenger, poor half-witted Philip: if he loved and served her, she could be nothing less than pure of heart.

As he stood before her, his hands crossed against his chest as though pleading for forgiveness, she said in her
demure little voice: “That’s all right, Godpapa. I knew those wonderful times I always dreamed of would be coming now. And you are right; there shall be no lies when they do come.”

So they stood for a moment face to face, and silence fell, for the Schliekers did not move, until in a near-by room a child burst out crying. Then the silence ended and Frau Schlieker said in her rasping voice: “That’s enough play-acting, Marie, we all know you can cast a spell on folk when you like, but it won’t work with us, so get along and see to that brat before it howls itself sick.”

Rosemarie slipped out of the room without a sound, and Frau Schlieker followed her.

So the peasant and Professor Kittguss were again left alone and Schlieker looked reflectively at the old man, who suddenly felt very weary and very wretched—nothing more.

“Look here, Professor,” said Schlieker with a laugh. “I see I’m not going to get rid of you, so I’ll show you a place where you can lie down and rest for a bit, and you’ll see that when I look after anyone I look after them well.”

So saying, he picked up the lamp, handed the Professor his bag, and guided him from behind with cries of “Left,” “Right,” along a passage, out of the house, across a yard, and toward a little shed.

The Professor walked ahead in a blank state of indifference, and it was not until Schlieker had opened the door of a shed and edged the Professor inside, that he exclaimed, like a man awakening from sleep: “But what is this, Herr Schlieker?”

But the door slammed behind him, a bolt rattled home, and Kittguss heard a shout—“The coalshed”—and then a burst of laughter which died away, leaving the Professor alone in the cold and darkness.

In which Professor Kittguss escapes from one darkness but falls into a blacker one

M
ANY PEOPLE
, in the Professor’s situation, both men and women, would have made a disturbance. They would have kicked the coalshed door, they would have shouted, cursed or wept. But the Professor had learnt from his Bible that men, from their youth upwards, are naturally evil. Nevertheless, as a good Christian, he had always behaved as though they were naturally good. Therefore, he did none of these things. He stood stock-still behind the bolted door. He did not even put down his bag.

He was just a very old man, worn out by hunger and faintness and bewilderment. Now he hardly knew where he was, or why he had come. . . .

And when he again recalled the aim and purpose of his journey, he understood that he had slipped, all unawares, into an adventure that was quite beyond his powers.

“Dear me,” he sighed. “Dear, dear me.”

And then he fell silent once more. A patient man is a strong man. A night cannot last forever, and every door is opened in the end.

“Dear me,” he said.

From the darkness came what sounded like an answer; something rustled, drew near. Then it slid round his legs, and two shining green eyes looked up at him. When the Professor at last discerned the companion of his captivity and as he bent down to stroke the cat, he could not think of a single one of the many pet names, such as Pussy or Tabby, that men have invented for their hearth-side companion. Instead, he addressed it in correct and solemn German: “Yes, my dear little cat. . . . Yes, my good little cat. . . .”

However, the cat appeared quite pleased, brushed itself against him in the friendliest fashion, and rubbed its head more and more busily against his black trouser legs. But it made no attempt to purr; instead, it suddenly began to mew.

And the mews grew so persistent and appealing that even the Professor, who knew little about animals, grasped that it wanted something more than caresses. After prolonged reflection, he surmised that the cat was suffering just as he was—from hunger. He therefore announced more than once that he had nothing to give the creature, until he suddenly realized that he had. Frau Müller had put some lunch into his bag, a hard-boiled egg and some bread and butter.

These he unpacked, while the cat’s appeals grew ever more urgent, and shared his food fraternally with the creature. Nor did the Professor devour the larger share.

Then he stood up in the darkness and waited—the
cat had crept away satisfied. Finally—he did not know whether the interval had been long or short—the door creaked and opened. Peering into the yard, which looked quite light after the impenetrable gloom of the coal-shed, he saw Schlieker standing there and saying, “Now then, come along out. That’ll teach you to meddle in other folks’ business.”

The Professor could see Schlieker, but Schlieker could not see the Professor in the darkness of the coalshed, and because the Professor hesitated before he came out—for he did not know where to go and he had settled nothing—terror suddenly gripped Schlieker, who blurted out a curse, muttering under his breath: “I hope to God nothing’s happened to the old fool. . . . I’ll go and get a light. . . .”

Then the Professor emerged from the shed. He walked very slowly, swaying slightly (he felt very ill and his improvised supper had only made him feel worse), past Schlieker, as though he had not noticed him. Then he stopped, turned, and said: “And you should not forget to feed the cat.”

He continued on his way, and to Schlieker his silent figure swaying across the yard looked almost uncanny. Then he stopped again to ask, with half-turned head: “Will you lend me a walking stick? I am an old man, and I may have a long way to go tonight.”

“Of course I will, Herr Professor,” cried Schlieker, much relieved, running into the house. This silent, uncomplaining visitor made him feel ill at ease, and for more than one reason. Moreover, since we are always glad to buy off a bad conscience for a penny, he hurried out eagerly with a stick for the Professor.

“Thank you very much,” said the Professor.

“Nothing to thank me for,” answered Paul Schlieker, with more truth than he suspected.

“I will send it back tomorrow morning,” said the Professor.

“There’s no hurry, no hurry at all,” returned Schlieker, watching the tall form depart. “Good night, Herr Professor,” he added. But he received no answer.

Not that the Professor intentionally failed to wish Schlieker good night. It was merely that his thoughts were already far away; he was wondering where he was going to spend the night. Recalling the inn kitchen with its scurrying cohorts of cockroaches, his cleanly soul turned sick within him. Then he thought once more of the interminable sandy path to Kriwitz railway station, and he felt so close to the end of his tether that he longed to sit on a stone by the wayside and go to sleep there.

That, however, was obviously beneath his dignity. Suddenly he bethought him of Farmer Tamm, and his heart leapt up within him at the recollection of that jolly character.