Wolf Among Wolves (47 page)

Old Elias jotted down and compared; he was now no longer collecting brown 1,000-mark notes, he was collecting variations, differences, distinctions. His big, round, smooth head grew crimson over his task. He beamed when he found a specimen which he had not seen before. He was firmly convinced that its distinctive features were secret signs made by connoisseurs for connoisseurs. They possessed a significance. He who knew how to interpret them would be rewarded with much gold thereby.

Let the old Geheimrat laugh at him! With all his cunning the old gentleman understood nothing of these secret matters. He believed what the people in the banks told him; he believed what was printed in the newspapers. Old Elias was not so credulous, and for that reason he was richer than his master; he possessed more than a hundred thousand marks in gold currency—or in currency as good as gold.

Tonight he was very happy; he had three perfectly new specimens among his recent purchases, among them a note from the year 1876. He had not
known of any 1,000-mark notes of such an early date—his earliest hitherto was of 1884. He would think twice before going so far as to change these notes for gold. They were so beautiful with their engravings of human forms which, as he had heard, represented Industry, Trade and Transport.

“Industry, Trade and Transport,” he murmured and stared at the notes awe-struck. The labor of a whole people! Except that Agriculture was not included, which seemed a pity.

What would he do with gold? He could not carry about with him over a hundred thousand marks in gold. With gold he would be in a state of perpetual anxiety—whereas this paper money was so beautiful.

The old servant was happy. Each note was carefully folded before it found its way back into his pocketbook. The bank-note presses in Berlin harassed the people in an ever-increasing delirium—but they had presented Elias with happiness, great happiness. With beautiful notes.

The mulled wine had had its effect. From her pillows Frau von Teschow, feeling more lively, spoke to her friend: “Would you read to me, Jutta?”

“From the Bible?” asked Fräulein von Kuckhoff, quite agreeable.

But this suggestion did not find favor tonight. The evening devotions directed to the conversion of an erring girl had miscarried; the Bible and its God were rather in disgrace.

“No, no, Jutta—we must continue with Goethe.”

“Gladly, Belinde. The keys, please.”

Fräulein von Kuckhoff received them. On the top shelf of the wardrobe, with the hats, was hidden a thirty-volume edition of Goethe in half-calf—Frau von Teschow’s confirmation present to her granddaughter, Violet von Prackwitz. Violet’s confirmation already belonged to the distant past, but it was impossible to predict when the Goethe would be handed over to her.

Fräulein von Kuckhoff took down the seventh volume:
Poems. Lyrical. I
. It looked oddly swollen. Nearby, Fräulein von Kuckhoff placed scissors and paper.

“Paste, Jutta!” Frau von Teschow reminded her.

The friend added the little pot of paste, opened the book and at the marked place started to read the poem of the goldsmith’s journeyman.

After the first verse Frau von Teschow nodded approvingly. “This time we’re lucky, Jutta.”

“Wait and see, Belinde,” said Fräulein von Kuckhoff. “Never count your chickens before they are hatched.”

And she read the second verse.

“Good, good!” nodded Frau von Teschow and found the subsequent verses praiseworthy.

Till they came to the lines:

Her little foot peeps in and out,
And calls to mind what is above;
I recollect the garter, too,
I’m giving to my love.…

“Stop, Jutta,” cried Frau von Teschow. “Again!” she lamented. “What do you think, Jutta?”

“I told you so,” declared Fräulein von Kuckhoff. “What’s bred in the bone will come out in the flesh.”

Frau von Teschow waxed indignant. “Even present-day writers aren’t worse. What do you say, Jutta?” But she did not wait for a reply. Sentence was passed. “Paste it up, Jutta, paste it up well—suppose the child should read it!” Fräulein von Kuckhoff was already pasting up the lewdness. “Not much left, Belinde,” she said and held up the volume for scrutiny.

“It’s scandalous.” Frau von Teschow was very indignant. “And such a man regards himself as a classic! Oh, Jutta, why didn’t I buy a Schiller for the child? Schiller is much nobler, far less carnal.”

“Don’t forget the old proverb, Belinde—‘No rose without its thorn.’ Schiller, too, is not good for young people. Think of ‘Intrigue and Love,’ Belinde. And then that female, that Eboli woman.…”

“True, Jutta. Men are all like that. You’ve no idea the trouble I’ve had with Horst-Heinz.”

“Yes,” said the Kuckhoff. “Every pig to its sty. Well, I’ll read on.”

Thank God, next followed the poem about Johanna Sebus, the rescuer. That was really noble; but why the poet referred to
Johanna
Sebus as “Sweet Susan” was not clear.

“He ought to have written ‘Sweet Hannah,’ oughn’t he, Horst-Heinz?” For the Geheimrat had just come in. Smirking, he watched the two little women. “He may have considered Hannah as too common,” he suggested after a close examination of the point. In socks and shirt sleeves he paced up and down the room, the book in his hand.

“But why ‘Suschen’?”

“I think, Belinde, Suschen is an abbreviation of Sebuschen. And Sebuschen, you know, Belinde—well, what do you think, Jutta?” The Geheimrat was serious, but the corners of his eyes were twitching. “Sebuschen, Buschen, Busen, Bosom; that, too, sounds indecent, don’t you think?”

“Paste it up, Jutta, paste it up. Suppose such thoughts occurred to the child!” cried Frau von Teschow excitedly. “Oh, there’s simply nothing left.… Horst-Heinz, you must get rid of the Backs woman on the spot.”

“On the spot I’m only going to bed. Besides …”

“I’m going at once,” grumbled the Kuckhoff. “Let me just lock up the Goethe.”

“The Backs woman is already out of the house. I saw her a moment ago in the park.”

“You know quite well what I mean, Horst-Heinz.”

“If I know, then there’s no need to tell me, Belinde.” And with a warning clearing of the throat: “Fräulein von Kuckhoff, may I point out that I’m just about to take off my trousers?”

“Horst-Heinz! Give her time; she must first say good night.”

“I’m going. Good night, Belinde, and don’t worry any more about the meeting. Sleep well. Are the pillows comfortable? The hot-water bottles? …”

“Fräulein von Kuckhoff! I’m taking off my pants, and then I shall be in my shirt. A Prussian Geheimrat in his shirt! You don’t want to—”

“Horst-Heinz!”

“I’m going at once. Sleep well, Belinde. Good night. The Seidlitz powder …”

“Sebuschen—Sweet Bosom!” cried the Geheimrat, now only wearing his shirt. He shrank, however, from shedding this last veil.… Every evening the same comedy with the two old hens! “Oh, these women!” he shouted.

“I wish you good night, Herr Geheimrat,” said Fräulein von Kuckhoff with dignity. “And He created man in His image—that is, a long time ago.”

“Jutta,” weakly protested Frau von Teschow against this disparagement of her Horst-Heinz; but the door had closed behind her friend and not a moment too soon.

“What was the matter with the evening prayers?” inquired the Geheimrat, diving into his nightshirt.

“Do not evade the issue, Horst-Heinz. Tomorrow you must dismiss the Backs.”

The bed groaned under the old gentleman. “It’s your poultry maid and not mine,” he said. “Do you want to burn the light much longer? I want to sleep.”

“You know I cannot bear agitation, and when such a person becomes insolent … You ought to do me a favor for once, Horst-Heinz.”

“Was she insolent during prayers?”

“She’s immoral,” said Frau von Teschow furiously. “She’s always climbing through the window to the bailiff.”

“I believe she’s doing it tonight as well,” said the Geheimrat. “Your prayers seem to have had no effect, Belinde.”

“She must go. She’s incorrigible.”

“And then the to-do with your poultry starts again. You know the position, Belinde. No one else has lost so few chicks or had so many eggs either. And she uses less feed than anyone.”

“Because she’s hand-in-glove with the bailiff.”

“True, very true, Belinde!”

“So she gets much more feed than she notes down.”

“We can’t grumble about that; it’s our son-in-law’s corn. No, no, Belinde, she’s efficient and has a lucky hand. I wouldn’t give her notice if I were you. What business is it of ours what she does of a night?”

“Our home must remain pure, Horst-Heinz!”

“But she goes to him at the staff-house; he doesn’t come here.”

“Horst-Heinz!”

“Well, it’s true, anyhow.”

“You know quite well what I mean. She’s so brazen!”

“She is,” admitted the Geheimrat, yawning. “However, that’s always the same. The efficient people put up with the least nonsense. That little fellow Meier, her friend—you can kick him in the behind for hours on end and he only grows more polite.”

Since Frau von Teschow refused to hear any coarse expressions from her husband, she missed the word “behind.” “Then tell Joachim to send the fellow away. Then I can keep the Backs.”

“If I tell my grand son-in-law to fire his employee,” said the old gentleman pensively, “he’ll keep him till his dying day. But cheer up, Belinde, I believe Amanda’s friend will be fired tomorrow.… And if he isn’t, then I’ll praise him up, and he’ll have to pack his trunks at once.”

“Do so, then, Horst-Heinz!”

III

Man is not free from the prejudice of investing other creatures with his own failings; for instance, there is said to be no truth in the story that the ostrich when frightened hides its head in the sand. Yet some people certainly shut their eyes to an approaching danger and then maintain it does not exist.

After the departure of Frau Hartig, Bailiff Meier had turned on the light to look for something to drink. His fuddled brain, the rebuff by the old Geheimrat on whose favor he had been relying, the approaching quarrel with Amanda—all
these awakened in him the desire to drink. He wanted to think no more of the whole filthy business, as he put it.

Having secured the windows against a surprise attack by Amanda, he stood for a moment looking at his untidy room, with its disheveled bed and scattered garments. He felt his brain to be just as ravaged and, what was more, a sharp pain stabbed his forehead. He knew there was nothing to drink in his room, no cognac, no schnapps, no beer—but when someone felt as he did, then there was always something to drink, if only he could remember where it was.

But the only idea which came to him was that of returning to the inn and fetching a bottle of schnapps. He shook his head peevishly. He had long ago concluded that he didn’t want to be seen there again because of the bill. Besides, he had nothing on—that sly old dog the Geheimrat had noticed that. The others would also notice if he went to the inn like that. He looked down at himself and began to chuckle gloomily. A fine sight! What rubbish! Wouldn’t touch it with a barge pole. “Shame doesn’t lie in the shirt,” he said aloud. He had heard this saying once and remembered it because it seemed to justify any shamelessness. But now he had to look for his shirt, and he started to kick the clothes about on the floor in the hope that it would emerge. But not so. Instead he ran a splinter into his foot.

“A swinish mess,” he cursed, and that reminded him of the pigs, and the pigs reminded him of the veterinary medicine-chest in the office, and the medicine-chest suggested Hoffmann’s ether drops. But there wouldn’t be enough to drink with any effect, anyway, and there might be none left in the chest at all.

Hoffmann’s drops! Since when had Hoffmann’s drops been given to pigs? On a lump of sugar, perhaps? He had to laugh at this idiotic idea; it was too silly.

He wheeled round, suspicion and fear in his face. Was somebody in the room laughing at him? It had sounded exactly like it. Was he alone? Had the coachman’s wife gone? Had Amanda arrived or would she be coming? He looked round the room with his bulging eyes—the gap between seeing and perceiving was so vast that he had to look at an object for a long time before his brain registered it as wardrobe or curtain—bed—nobody in it! Nor under it, either!

Laboriously he arrived at the conclusion that no one was in the room. But how about the office? Was somebody watching him there? The door stood open; the darkness beyond gave him the impression that someone might be lying in ambush.

Was the other door to the office locked? The curtains drawn? Oh, God! Oh, God! Such a lot to be done, and he hadn’t found his shirt yet. Would he never get to bed?

With hasty uneven strides, naked Black Meier went to the office and shook the outer door. It was locked, as he had thought; the curtains were drawn, too. Switching on the light, he looked with hostility at them. Of course they were drawn—it was utter rubbish—they were trying to rattle him. The curtains were drawn and would remain so. Let anyone dare to touch his curtains! They were his curtains—
his!
He could do what he liked with them—if he tore them down it concerned him alone.

In the deepest agitation he made for the unfortunate curtains—and the medicine-chest of deal, painted brown, entered his field of vision.

“Hallo! There you are at last.” Black Meier grinned contentedly. The key was in the lock, the little door had learned to obey and opened at the first attempt, and there in two crowded compartments were the whole doings. In front stood a big brownish bottle, with something written on the label. But who could read a chemist’s scrawl? No, it was printed—it amounted to the same thing.

Meier took the bottle, withdrew the stopper and smelled the contents.

He took another sniff. He stood there inhaling the ether vapor, while his body started to tremble. Supernatural clarity spread over his brain, he was conscious of an understanding and insight such as he had never known before. He sniffed and sniffed—it was bliss.

His face became haggard, his nose pointed, wrinkles appeared in his skin. His body shuddered. Yet he whispered: “I understand everything—everything! The world … bliss … clarity … blue.”