An Old Heart Goes A-Journeying (26 page)

This suggestion was obviously approved by the audience.

“But if you want any money, my dear lady,” said the Professor, “you will have to let go my arm.”

“Dear lady, indeed!— Lay off that stuff!” And she snatched away her hand as though she had picked up a frog.

Up to now the Professor had been sublimely unembarrassed; after all, this was a trifling misunderstanding that could be at once removed. But he felt in one pocket after another and found them all empty.

The Professor stood on the square at Lüttenhagen, confronting a steadily increasing and hostile crowd. He had gone through all the sixteen pockets of his suit and overcoat and had found nothing.

“I can’t understand it,” he said, looking confusedly at the throng around him.

The faces eyed him in malignant silence and the landlady snorted like an overheated locomotive. And the Professor began his search all over again with even greater agitation than before.

“Now then, old fellow,” said the man with the mustache, brandishing the birch broom, “we don’t stand for cheating in Lüttenhagen.”

At this point the explanation flashed into the Professor’s mind.

Letting his hands drop, he abandoned the search and gazed with relief into the landlady’s contorted countenance.

“But, of course—I remember. I gave my money to my goddaughter at Unsadel. So naturally I haven’t got any with me!”

“Wha-at!” screamed the landlady, and the other faces
grew grimmer still. “He’s given it to his goddaughter at Unsadel,” she yelled, in a voice that rose into a shriek, “and it’s not ten minutes since he asked the way to Unsadel. He’s a crook, that’s what he is.”

“Now, my dear friends,” began the Professor.

But he could not prevail against the storm. They had given him his chance, and now they wanted theirs. “Put him in the enginehouse!” yelled the landlady. “Put him in the enginehouse!” yelled the crowd. The man with the birch broom gave him the first push. “We in Lüttenhagen—”

Several clutching hands seized him.

The Professor felt dizzy for a moment, and then everything suddenly went black.

“Shove him in the enginehouse!” yelled his persecutors.

“Crook!” screeched a shrill female voice.

“What is all this?” a deep bass voice demanded, rising above the crowd.

A deathly silence fell, the clutching hands dropped away. The Professor opened his eyes.

On a tall brown horse sat a lady in a black riding habit. She had a large, red, formidable face, with bushy gray eyebrows, and carried a thick black cigar between her set and resolute lips.

“Frau von Wanzka,” they muttered.

The landlady curtsied. “My lady,” she said, in a voice that was suddenly as smooth as honey, “he had his breakfast at the inn and went away without paying his bill. And now we’ve caught him. He’s got no money, but he says he’s given it to his goddaughter at Unsadel. And—”

“Sssst!” hissed the lady on the horse. “Well?”

All eyes turned toward the Professor.

He stood, half-dazed and then he said: “What she says is quite true. But, of course, I can get the money at once. I am Professor Gotthold Kittguss of Berlin and . . .”

“Sssst!” hissed the lady, puffing out a great cloud of smoke. She took the cigar out of her mouth and looked intently at the Professor. Then she bent forward: “And what have you done with the child, you old lecher?”

The Professor smiled blankly and said nothing: this passed his comprehension.

“Hold that man!” cried Frau von Wanzka. “He is wanted by the police. Take him to the station at Kriwitz. I’ll go with you, of course.”

The Professor smiled once more, a faraway and gentle smile.

In which Rosemarie does not choose to obey Magistrate Schulz, but Dr. Kimmknirsch does his best

T
HE CURTAINS OVER THE WINDOWS
looked very warm and cozy, for Frau Postmistress Bimm had crimped them as every good housewife did in the year 1912. The girl eyed them sleepily from the sofa, stretched herself and sighed. Then she lay still and looked with wide eyes at the ceiling, on which a patch of sunlight flickered to and fro. The house was still; Rosemarie listened intently—not a sound from the next room, not a sound from the passage. How late was it? What time did people get up in this house? Must she get up at once?

It was glorious to lie like this, with the sun shining outside, and no harsh voice to drive her out to work, but—

Suddenly it all returned, all that her deep and dreamless sleep had wiped out of her mind. She sat up and listened, fully awake now. Not a sound, not a footstep.

Unable to wait longer, she jumped off the sofa, walked gingerly toward the intervening door, and tapped. Not a
sound. She listened—again no response. She lifted the latch, opened the door inch by inch, and peered in.

The doctor’s room looked very white and very clean, flooded in the light of a sunny October morning, but the sofa on which Philip had lain was empty.

She stared incredulously, but empty it remained: Philip had gone! “To the hospital,” she thought, with a surge of regret. “To the hospital, while I was asleep.”

A noise made her start. In the farther wall was another door, a door just like hers, and the latch of that door began to lift without a sound. Rosemarie held her breath and watched. The door was moving, it creaked, it stopped, it moved again and creaked more loudly. Rosemarie was so absorbed watching for what might appear that she quite forgot that she herself was visible. Then, through the aperture, something black and frilled emerged, covered with jet beads and black embroidery. First came a head of neatly brushed gray hair, then a forehead, a cheek, a nose and a mouth, then the whole head of Frau Postmistress Bimm peering, just like Rosemarie, round the door into the consulting room.

Two dark, chilly eyes glanced at the window, the writing table and the sofa, and finally, via the instrument chest, met Rosemarie’s.

“Ah?” the intruder fluted, without a quiver of surprise. “A lady visitor? A girl in the Herr Doctor’s bedroom? I must apologize for the intrusion, Fräulein.”

Her face was one large, honeyed smile and her little black beaded widow’s cap sparkled and glittered like the eyes of a malignant basilisk. Rosemarie stared at her, spellbound, barely conscious of what she said.

“But I’m afraid I cannot allow that kind of thing in my house, Fräulein, even though I’m not a clergyman’s daughter as you are. Dear me, no.”

The smile had faded and she eyed the girl with cold and unconcealed malice. “I suppose you have disposed of the old gentleman. I hear the warrant is to be published in this evening’s newspaper.”

“Now what is all this?” said a brisk masculine voice from the third door, the one into the passage, and the two women started.

Dr. Kimmknirsch marched into the room, looking very fresh and cheerful, and very bright of eye. “Good morning, Frau Bimm. Good morning, Fräulein Thürke. Frau Bimm, the Herr Magistrate Schulz will be here to breakfast with Fräulein Thürke and myself in about twenty minutes. So let us have some of your best coffee and anything else you can manage. Fräulein Thürke, here is something for you. By the way, Philip thinks he’s in the seventh heaven at Frau Stillfritz’, and he’ll soon be set to rights again. So far as I can understand what he says, he sends you his regards. Here’s a new toothbrush. You’ll find all you want over there. We all face this world better after a good wash and you are going to have a rather difficult day. As I said, the magistrate will be here in twenty minutes—or, to be exact, in eighteen minutes. Everything will be quite friendly and between ourselves, but—you understand!” He slipped the brush into Rosemarie’s hand, and edged her through the door. As she stood looking down at the toothbrush with tears in her eyes, life looked good to her once more in spite of the desolation and despair of a moment ago. Philip was at Frau Stillfritz’ place and the doctor had presented her
with a toothbrush. She eyed the neat white bristles and smiled.

In the next room voices rose and fell: Frau Postmistress’ honeyed accents and the doctor’s curt and angry tone. “Rubbish!” she heard him say, “you have a filthy mind.”

Frau Bimm shrieked faintly, and gabbled in protest. “I can pull out poison fangs,” the doctor exclaimed, “but I won’t guarantee that it’ll be painless.”

Rosemarie dropped to the sofa, writhing with silent laughter. Then she ran to the washstand. How beautifully the sun was shining and the toothbrush was so nice and crisp and new.

“That’s the style!” said the doctor. “Now you look like something human again.”

She gave him her hand with rather a nervous smile. “Good morning, Herr Doctor, and many thanks for the toothbrush.”

“Not at all, it was essential. Never neglect your teeth. Do you brush them regularly twice a day? Open your mouth!”

She did so eagerly.

“Good,” said he. “Now shut it again. Nothing the matter there. And, as I said, Münzer is as cheerful as anyone can be after a dose of anesthetic. The foot will certainly heal. No thanks to you though, none at all.”

“No,” she said, looking at him in a way that embarrassed him faintly, “I know who deserves the thanks.”

“You mean me? Nonsense. Dr. Faulmann was with me. You’ve forgotten all that happened last night, haven’t you?—Come in!”

And Magistrate Schulz appeared stroking his black
beard. “Good morning again, Kimmknirsch! Good morning, Rosemarie!—You young scamp! You may think yourself lucky that I’m meeting you here instead of in jail.”

“Yes,” said Rosemarie, “I know whom I’ve got to thank for that.”

“That will do, Fräulein Thürke!” exclaimed Kimmknirsch. “She seems to imagine I’m responsible for everything, including this fine morning, Schulz. You must thank the Herr Magistrate, my dear, I beg your pardon—Fräulein Thürke, I mean.”

The magistrate exploded: “Look here, Kimmknirsch; you’re not going to treat this child as if she were a grown-up woman after all the trouble she’s given us! In that case she ought to be in jail. But where is the coffee, Doctor? I must be in court by ten, and I’ve a long day ahead of me.”

“I’ll, see about it at once,” muttered the doctor. “I dare say Frau Bimm is feeling rather put upon. It has been rather an eventful night for Kriwitz.”

He hurried out—and the room seemed to grow chilly with his departure.

The magistrate sat down in a chair, his legs dangling a few inches off the floor. Rosemarie stood in the doorway. Her smile had faded.

“Rosemarie,” said the magistrate sternly, “Rosemarie, come here.”

She walked slowly toward him.

“Look at me, Rosemarie.”

She did so.

“No, bend down. I know I’m short, but I won’t have you looking down on me.”

Rosemarie obeyed.

“Rosemarie, have you done anything wrong?”

She looked at the odd little magistrate, whose face was now so set and grave.

“Something wrong?” she said. She reflected. “I sent Philip to Berlin, and I let out Otsche Gau. And I got my clothes away from the Schliekers, and I told the boys to bring me food.”

“Nonsense! Rosemarie,” he exclaimed impatiently. “I didn’t ask you if you had done anything silly, but if you had done anything wrong.”

“Wrong? I don’t know of anything else.”

“Think, Rosemarie. What about the old gentleman from Berlin?”

“The Professor?” she said in bewilderment. And suddenly she laughed. “Why, Professor Kittguss makes me feel quite grown-up and experienced! He’s exactly like a child.”

“But there are wicked children, Rosemarie.”.

She shook her head energetically. “The Herr Professor is always good. He’s the best man in the world!”

“Well, well!”

“He’s so good that he doesn’t understand how bad the Schliekers really are. He thinks they mean well, but don’t know any better.”

The magistrate looked intently at the girl. “Tell me some more about him, Rosemarie.”

“All right—When I first met him I was absolutely desperate. I wanted to do the Schliekers all the harm I could—but he said that nothing good ever could come of telling lies.”

“And—”