An Old Heart Goes A-Journeying (31 page)

The magistrate listened and looked. Frau Eichberg, the innkeeper’s fat wife, was bending across Frau Radefeldt, injecting her with fresh poison. . . . The statement was still unsigned, everything remained unsettled.

“I don’t care if it’s the Minister of Justice, Thode!” groaned Schulz.

“It’s the old gentleman who went off with the little Thürke girl. You know.”

“Yes, yes,” groaned the magistrate. He saw Frau Tamm trying to get into communication with her young Cousin Maxe, whose part in this affair was still obscure.

“Bring him in, Thode, and put him in a corner. Don’t let him go away. I’ll be ready for him in a quarter of an hour, please God.” And, raising his voice, he went on: “We will proceed. Frau Radefeldt, you were saying—”

“Sir,” said the old lady, raising her gaunt and bony person to its full height, “I’ve reconsidered it all, and I insist on the case going for trial.”

“O God!” groaned the magistrate inwardly, “more trouble! Damn that old Professor—he always brings bad luck.”

But what he said was, “Do as you please, Frau Radefeldt. But if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you ten times that if the case comes to trial you probably won’t get off with a fine.”

The door opened, and all faces turned from Schulz to the Professor. He entered, a tall, imposing figure, with his genial face and his fine white hair. In one hand he was carrying his wide-brimmed felt hat, and in the other a large and brilliant bunch of wild flowers. Professor Kittguss thanked Sergeant Thode with genial affability, and to the magistrate’s amazement, that forbidding officer actually smiled. Then the old gentleman bowed courteously to the assemblage and the judge. “A very good morning to you all,” he said, and sat down in a corner.

“Well,” thought the magistrate, completely taken aback, “I’d never have imagined that Frau von Wanzka could be such a fool. Schlieker was such a rascal himself that it was quite natural he should believe the worst of that nice old gentleman, but Frau von Wanzka—incredible! What on earth is he doing now? Smelling forget-me-nots! Since when have forget-me-nots had any smell? Well—there may be noses that can find a fragrance in forget-me-nots, and can’t smell the Schliekers. . . .”

“Very well, then,” he said, “I will proceed to read the statement. Perhaps, my dear Frau Radefeldt, you will think over for the eleventh time what you have just said. Just imagine what a triumph it would be if you all went off arm in arm to Porstel and the nasty old gossips had their trouble for nothing.”

This appeal to the archgossip in person was technically rather questionable. But whether it had some effect
on the malignant old lady, or whether she was influenced by his warning of the probable outcome of the case, or even by the presence of the amiable old gentleman with his absurd nosegay, Frau Radefeldt murmured something unintelligible about not reading it so loud, and sat down again.

So the magistrate went on reading the statement, and he read it as he had never read such a document before—gabbling through it, in a mechanical voice, and mumbling over all the awkward places.

“There,” he said with a sigh of relief, “which of you will be brave enough to sign first?”

They all crowded round the table, and snatched the pen from each other’s hands. Then they thanked the little judge with the utmost politeness. He nodded at them kindly as a schoolmaster might nod to children who misbehave themselves now and again, but are not really wicked.

But as they trooped out, they all nodded, as the magistrate particularly noticed, to the old gentleman in the corner. He nodded amiably in response, waving his bunch of flowers—for all the world like a kindly old school inspector. And only half an hour before the office had been a regular pandemonium.

The magistrate introduced himself to his dignified visitor and looked up at him; he reached about to the fifth button on the Professor’s waistcoat.

“I am Professor Kittguss from Berlin,” said the Professor. “What a pleasant lot of people those were—such nice kind faces. Was it a wedding? I couldn’t quite follow. Surely you don’t perform weddings?”

“I do not,” said the magistrate slowly, “but it was something in the same line; it was a reconciliation.”

“Ah, yes,” the Professor replied. “How you must enjoy your admirable profession!”

And he looked round the musty, official room, as though he were looking for some sign of that enjoyment.

“You wanted to see me, Professor?” the judge inquired briskly.

“Yes. No. I thought you would—the fact is I was more or less arrested a few hours ago. It was rather a painful matter over some money. And my goddaughter, Rosemarie, was apparently in trouble. I am, by the way, Rosemarie Thürke’s godfather.”

“I know, I know,” said the magistrate hastily.

“Yes—well, then, I was left alone in the forest—by a very energetic lady, who seemed rather prejudiced against me. She called me an old lecher.” He smiled, a rather apologetic smile. “Well, I dare say it will all be cleared up. She did not come back. I waited for a while, and then I walked on and found myself in Kriwitz. . . .”

The magistrate stroked his beard. “The fact is it has been cleared up. We imagined you were rather different.”

“But I was different,” said the Professor with sudden gravity. “I was quite different until early this morning. I was a selfish old fellow.”

“No, no,” protested the magistrate in a shocked tone.

“I was indeed,” said the old man gravely. “I was a dried-up old creature who thought of no one but himself. But after I had seen the children, not only Rosemarie,
but all the rest of them . . . and today I climbed over a fence—and now everything is altered.”

“Over a fence!” said the magistrate eying him with quizzical astonishment.

“Yes,” the Professor nodded. “He fulfills his purposes in many ways.”

For a moment they looked at each other in silence. The brisk little magistrate was quite embarrassed.

“We must have a talk about all this, Professor,” he said briefly, “especially as to how you propose to help your goddaughter. You know, perhaps, that I have the appointment of her guardians.”

“Help?—Yes, at first I thought
she
needed help, but now I rather doubt it. Perhaps
I
need her help. I thought I would go and live in her house. I like my late friend Thiirke’s study very much. We could set up house together. I don’t know, perhaps that’s asking too much.”

“No, no,” said the magistrate briskly, “not at all. But there are these Schliekers. They have certain rights. I’m afraid they may make difficulties. . . .”

“The Schliekers? Oh yes! But can’t they stay where they are? My friend Thürke’s study is not in use—I would give no trouble.”

“I wasn’t thinking so much of the trouble,” said the magistrate slowly, “as of the influence of the Schliekers.”

“Ah yes, poor folk—poor in spiritual resources, I mean. They don’t know what they do. But Farmer Tamm told me they were accessible to money. I know,” the Professor added hastily, “one should not approach them in that way. One ought not to buy kindness.”

“Ah—money,” said the magistrate very cheerfully. “Now we have firm ground under our feet. But why are
we standing? Let us sit down. We shall soon have everything straight. No, not this chair, please—try that one. I have had to have mine made higher, as I am rather short. Not that I complain—on the contrary, it is a distinct advantage. Well then—you are prepared to spend some money on this business? I don’t want to be indiscreet, Professor, but I am a man of facts, so I ask you straight out—how much?”

“How much?—How much what? I don’t quite understand.”

“Money,” chuckled the magistrate. “Money, my dear Professor. How much money are you willing to spend on rescuing your goddaughter?”

“Oh,” said the Professor in astonishment, “you think it’s as important as all that? Everything I have, of course.”

“And how much might that be, my dear sir?” asked the magistrate, in a truly siren voice.

“I cannot exactly say,” said the Professor awkwardly. “You see, I haven’t had much to do with money until now. Frau Müller looks after my expenses.”

“Who is Frau Müller?” asked the magistrate rather sharply. Recalling the unpaid bill at Lüttenhagen, he could see little behind all this palaver but an empty purse.

“My housekeeper in Berlin,” said the Professor mildly.

“But you must know how much money you have, my dear Professor,” exclaimed the magistrate in desperation. “Do you get a pension? How much pension do you draw?”

“Three hundred and eighty marks,” said the Professor submissively.

“And does Frau Müller get all that?”

“No, no, only a hundred and eighty.”

“And where does the rest go?”

“Into the savings bank account.”

“Oh, so you have an account at the savings bank?”

“A book, only a book,” corrected the Professor.

“Very well, a book then—and two hundred marks go into it every month?”

“I sometimes buy books,” confessed the Professor nervously.

“But you don’t spend two hundred marks a month on books!” cried the magistrate. “Say fifty—or a hundred?”

“No, not so much.”

“How much?”

“I really don’t know. We might ask my bookseller.”

The magistrate waved an impatient hand as though he were shaking off a fly. “So there would certainly be a hundred marks over every month?”

“I think so,” said the Professor anxiously.

“And for how long? How long is it since you have been drawing your pension?”

“Sixteen years.”

“But my good man,” exclaimed the magistrate, and then corrected himself, “my dear Herr Professor, excuse my agitation. I have never met a man like you before. You must have nearly twenty thousand marks in the bank!—”

“Indeed?” said the Professor nervously. “Is it possible?” And in an effort to make a clean breast of everything
he added, “And then there is what my dear parents left me.”

“Oh, indeed—and how much may that have been?”

“I don’t quite know, papers of some sort. . . .”

“Mortgages, stocks, shares?—What was your father?”

“A lawyer.”

“Ah, then they would be sound securities,” said the magistrate decisively. “Do you draw the interest?”

“Yes, I think so. It is always written down in my book. I’ve never paid much attention to it, I fear.”

“How much interest?” asked the magistrate inexorably.

“Would it be three thousand marks?” said the Professor dreamily. “Yes, I think it’s something over three thousand marks a year.”

“But then you’re a wealthy man!” exclaimed the magistrate, drumming his fingers on the writing table. “All our difficulties are removed. You can buy up the Schliekers and the whole Thürke farm and three more farms as well!”

“Indeed?” said the Professor. “I did not know.”

“No, you didn’t know,” said the magistrate with sudden irritation. “And now tell me, Herr Professor, how it comes about that so substantial a man can’t pay for his breakfast.”

The Professor told the story, and the magistrate listened attentively.

“No, Herr Professor,” he said. “It won’t do. You can’t give the child all that money and go about the world without a penny in your pocket. Besides, it’s not fair to her. First of all we must get your finances into order. I
shall have to attend to them, I can see that. Herr Professor, where do you keep your money?”

“I told you—Rosemarie has it,” said the Professor guiltily.

“No, no, I don’t mean
that
money at the moment, I mean your Berlin money.”

“In the savings bank.”

“No—no—no!” exclaimed the magistrate in desperation. “Where do you keep your savings bankbook?”

“In my writing table in Berlin.”

“And the control slip?”

“In the book.”

“Just as I thought!” exclaimed the magistrate. “But the control slip ought to be kept separate, Herr Professor!”

“Yes, I used to,” said the Professor ruefully, “but then I never could remember where I had put it, and once we had no money for ten days because it could not be found.”

“Yes, yes,” said the magistrate, who could well imagine the state of affairs. “And I expect your writing table has only an ordinary lock, and as often as not you forget to lock it?”

“Sometimes I do.”

“Of course. And anyone can get into your flat. My dear Professor, it is just one o’clock.”

“Yes, it is getting late, I must be going along to see my goddaughter. . . .”

“No, you will not see your goddaughter today, you will go to Berlin.”

“My dear sir,” pleaded the old gentleman, “Rosemarie
is sure to be worried about me, and I am anxious to see her.”

“We will let her know you are all right. She is in good hands and well looked after. I’ll tell you all that’s happened over some lunch at the Archduke—the main thing at the moment is the money. My dear Herr Professor, this money of yours solves everything. It will make Rosemarie happy, provide her with a good education, and pay off the debts on the farm—and there it all is, as good as lying in the street. If any crook hears of it. . . .” The little magistrate closed his eyes at such a painful thought.