An Old Heart Goes A-Journeying (12 page)

“My dear children,” he said. All his weariness and his misgivings had vanished. Anyone so loved by so pitiful
a creature must herself be filled with love, however roughly she might behave.

And Rosemarie?—Rosemarie gave this boy her hands and looked silently down at the misshapen head, and said in a soothing voice: “Yes, my dear, it will be all right now. You have done very well, Philip.”

But as the poor heart would not be comforted, she took his head in her hands and said gravely: “Now, Philip, there’s still plenty for you to do. Don’t you see the Professor? He is tired and hungry, and I am tired and hungry too, and it is very cold here—You run out at once and get some wood.”

She tapped him gently on the shoulder as she spoke and the lad was on his feet in an instant. He beamed at both of them and darted out.

Before ten minutes had passed the Professor was comfortably ensconced in a large leather armchair, with a woolen rug over his knees and his soft camel’s-hair slippers on his weary feet. He looked with silent satisfaction at the crackling, dancing flames in the open fireplace, and glanced contentedly at the old cowshed, which was now softly lit by a hanging oil lamp.

His two charges were busily engaged, Rosemarie preparing some sort of supper out of paper bags and tins, and Philip was occupied—and not at all unhandily either—in setting the feather mattresses by the fire to dry.

The Professor felt much too comfortable after all the turmoil of the past days to notice that these tins and cupboards and trunks had not been opened in a strictly legal fashion, in other words, not with a key but with a chisel. Rosemarie, too, was careful not to make any unnecessary noise during this proceeding, but when a faint rasping
sound could not be avoided, a saucepan would fall clattering to the ground, or Philip would upset a pile of logs.

Nothing disturbed the Professor’s placidity. He sat in complete contentment with one finger in his beloved Revelation of St. John, until he came upon the verse:

“He that is unjust, let him be unjust still: and he that is filthy, let him be filthy still: and he that is righteous, let him be righteous still: and he that is holy, let him be holy still. . . .”

It was, however, not surprising that his old misgivings came back to him again, and he said: “I suppose we are within our rights in staying here, Rosemarie?”

She glanced up, and there was a faint ring of the old defiance in her voice: “Of course. There’s no one to say we mustn’t.”

The old man nodded contentedly. He felt the touch of something warm and soft on his hand; he looked down, it was Rosemarie’s cheek nestling against it. “Well, my child?” he said quietly.

“I want to tell you all about it, Godfather,” said she, “because I often think that one oughtn’t to begin a good thing with a lie.”

“And does that seem difficult sometimes?” he asked.

“It certainly does,” she said. “It seems so silly, when everyone else acts different.”

“We mustn’t think of what other people do, my child. We must think of our own hearts, and of God.”

“Yes,” she said softly.

“You don’t feel like doing that, little one, do you?” he said. “You want to be honest for your own sake? I know,
I know. But that sort of honesty is of little value—don’t you understand?”

She did not answer, and, though he paused, she did not even nod. “Well, then, tell me all about it, Rosemarie,” he said indulgently. “What were you going to say?”

“All right,” she said doubtfully. “I wanted to tell you about this hut. . . . Oh, Godfather,” she looked full in his face, “I often think it’s as if there were two worlds, and you and Papa and Mamma belong to one of them, and everybody else lives in the other one. And I’ve had to live in the other one for six years—and I’m only sixteen.”

“Yes, but what about this hut, my child?”

As he spoke he laid a hand on her hair, and knew that a burden was lifted from her mind. Then she said briskly: “It’s all quite simple, Godfather. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t be here, although I haven’t asked permission. When I was still with the Gaus, visitors came every summer, a Berliner like you, Godfather, with his wife—perhaps you know him, Vogel is his name. . . .”

“No. Berlin is a very large place, Rosemarie, much larger than you can imagine.”

“But perhaps you’ve heard of him. He has a factory and a motorcar, the first motorcar that I ever saw in my life. You must have heard of him, Godfather.”

“No—no. I know very few people in Berlin.”

“I thought you would know him,” she said in a rather disappointed tone. “He’s got a factory and a motorcar.”

“There are getting to be too many of these motor vehicles,” said the Professor disapprovingly. “One has to be careful crossing the street. I often wonder what the
authorities are thinking about. Well, go on, my child.”

“Herr Vogel used to fish in the lake, but he didn’t need the fish; he said he didn’t eat fish, so he gave them all away to the Gaus and to the whole village. And Frau Vogel was always bathing in the lake too—what do you think of that?—and she can swim. She did it every day, and then she lay for hours in the sun—there are some odd people in the world.”

She sat and pondered.

“And what about the hut?” urged the Professor.

“Oh yes,” she replied, dismissing her memory of Frau Vogel’s bathing dress—red, with white trimmings, and a long skirt that could be unbuttoned, but never was, for that was the year 1912. She could not make up her mind whether it was very improper or very beautiful.

“The Vogels liked Unsadel,” she began once more, “but they didn’t like the Gaus. So they rented this old derelict cowshed from them and had it cleaned up and a fireplace built in. . . .”

“The ro-o-of. . . .” growled Philip.

“What’s that?—Oh yes, quite right, Philip, they had the roof rethatched, and some nice furniture put in. They said it was only the rubbish that was lying about in their attic—That’s how the old cowshed became what it is now, and from the first of October to the first of April they never come here, so we can live quite undisturbed. . . .”

“Yes,” said the Professor, “we know we can live here undisturbed, Rosemarie, but is it right that we should be living here?”

“Oh!” she replied thoughtfully, at once adding, “Yes, it’s quite right. The Vogels saw how nasty the Gaus
were to me, and they often used to say: ‘Frau Gau, can Rosemarie help us a bit today? We’ll pay for her.’ So Frau Gau would say ‘Yes,’ and Frau Vogel would say: ‘You sit down there quietly, Rosemarie, and mend your stockings. My husband can fetch the water and chop the wood—it will do his tummy more good than it will your back.’ Then he used to swear, but not really meaning it, you know. They never really quarreled, they just had a joke together. Are there really married people that don’t quarrel, Godfather?”

“Of course there are, Rosemarie,” said her godfather in a shocked tone. “You know that perfectly well. Think of your dear parents, of Farmer Tamm in this very village.”

“Tamm?—” said Rosemarie slowly. “Why,
he
wastes all his money, and
she
has to mind every penny. And my parents. . . .”

“Rosemarie,” said her godfather sternly, sitting up very stiff in his chair. “Do you remember the Fourth Commandment?”

“Yes, Godfather,” she said obediently, and fell silent. Then she went on: “But it is so, Godfather,
it is so
. I remember Mamma crying when Papa gave money away or lent it because he couldn’t say no. It is so.”

“You are wrong, Rosemarie,” said the Professor firmly. “I knew my friend Thürke. You are definitely wrong.”

Rosemarie fell silent.

“And surely it is right to help other people with one’s money?” continued the Professor.

“But if it doesn’t help them—if it’s just wasted, as it is by Stillfritz, who just drinks it. . . .”

“Oh my child, my child,” exclaimed the Professor sadly. “How quick you are to judge everybody and everything, even your dear parents. Stillfritz was the only person today who remembered to get some food for poor starving Philip. . . .”

She was silent.

“Why are we here? By what right are we here?” the Professor asked once more, “I must know.”

She looked at him. Though scarcely more than a child, her eyes were plaintive, defiant, and a little sad. Something stirred and thrilled his ancient heart, some feeling he had never known. . . . He also had loved children, they stood nearest to His kingdom.

His thoughts came and went, but the warmth within him stayed and thrilled his being as he laid his hand on her shoulder saying: “I am very hungry and very tired, and you must be so too. And it is very late. But far better that we should make our way to the nearest inn than stay in a place where we have no right to stay.”

She too had felt that quick flush of human sympathy and understanding. “But we really have the right to be here, Godfather,” she assured him softly. “Frau Vogel must have said to me twenty times over, ‘If you simply can’t stand it, Rosemarie, come and stay with me. I’ll help you out.’ And we were in a bad way, weren’t we?” she said smiling a faint and roguish smile. “And after all I’m staying with her here.”

“I hope it’s all right,” he murmured, looking dubiously at the child.

“I’m certain she wouldn’t mind.”

“But what about me?—And the boy?—” asked the Professor once more.

“Oh, you belong to me!” she cried, in an almost haughty tone. “And after all, Godfather, if you want to, you can pay her in Berlin later on.”

He heaved a deep sigh of relief. “True,” he said, “true. I never think of money. It was only today that Frau Stillfritz had to remind me about paying. You will remind me to pay for our lodging, Rosemarie, before we part?”

“Certainly,” she laughed. “But I fancy we shan’t part for a long, long time. Remember what you promised to think over, Godfather. You see, I want you not only to look after me, but to have me to live with you.”

“God bless my soul,” cried the Professor, much taken aback. “No, no, Rosemarie. We must not be hasty. We shall have to consider it all very carefully, and get proper advice. Besides, I don’t know whether you would like Berlin. . . .”

“Yes, I should,” she said pensively. She did not confess that she thought of him as living, not in Berlin, but on her Unsadel farm, in Schlieker’s place, though it was hard to imagine.

“Supper’s ready!” called Philip.

“Coming,” she answered. As she looked at him sitting by the fireplace, his head sunk wearily upon his chest, she was not a sixteen-year-old girl looking at a godfather who would soon be seventy, but a mother looking at a helpless child. She watched over him at supper—and a very odd supper it was, as the food supplies were rather restricted. There was pea soup made from pea sausage, and pink pudding made from pudding powder, but the Professor bravely ate everything, though with some apprehension. It was not at all the sort of meal which the
Widow Müller provided. Meanwhile, Rosemarie prattled away, making him smile and feel that all was well.

And when the Professor was comfortably established with his Bible by the fireside as she washed up, she whispered something to Philip who disappeared noiselessly into the night.

Her work completed, she came back to the old man, sat down on a stool at his feet, and took his hand. Once he looked down from his book at her and smiled. They sat in silence side by side, the flames flickered and crackled and glowed, Professor Kittguss grew more and more tired, the book dropped into his lap, he went to sleep.

And still she sat silently by the fire, clasping the sleeper’s aged hand in her young fingers. She looked into the flames and reflected that this was the first evening in a long, long time when a scolding voice had not driven her weary feet to work.

She knew that it could not and ought not to go on. Her home at Unsadel called her, it was there that she should work and win repose. Her home was in peril, she knew only too well all the dodges and devices that Paul Schlieker, with the law at his back, could bring into play. Meanwhile, what a lovely fleeting moment this was!

Her Guardians would not listen to her. They had assigned the Schliekers an allowance of a hundred marks a month, which they said was not too much for two people’s work. Perhaps it was not too much, but they did not consider whether those five and thirty acres would yield a hundred marks a month or how much, or little, work was done for so much money.

The Schliekers were purposely lazy, they deliberately neglected everything. Then, at the end of the year, Paul
Schlieker would appear before the Guardians and make his usual complaint. The farm hadn’t produced enough to pay the allowance. Herr Pastor Thürke may have preached very good sermons, but he knew no more about farming than a cow does about selling mustard—imagine buying such a wretched farm! A man could sweat till he dropped on such barren soil. Nothing comes of nothing, as the dog said when he ate the sausage, so he must ask for a mortgage to guarantee the allowance.

The Guardians took little interest; they agreed to the mortgage, six hundred marks the first year, eight hundred the second, and this year it would probably be a thousand. And then on top of the mortgages there was the interest mounting up, hour by hour, month by month, year by year. Rosemarie felt she was struggling against a mounting stream.

In her solitude no one tried to understand or to help her. The flames flickered, the pine logs crackled and sputtered, little coals of fire glimmered through the ashes. She stared into the flames, her eyes felt dry and feverish, and—as she had done so many times before—she told her story to Frau von Wanzka, and old Herr Mühlenfeldt.