Wolf Among Wolves (128 page)

“Herr Rittmeister!” said the attendant. “Please put down the paper. You must dress and go out a little.”

For a moment it looked as if the white bushy eyebrows were drawn closer together—then a fresh chuckle seized the man and the newspaper rustled.

“Herr Rittmeister,” said Pagel, “your mare, Mabel, is foaling. But it’s not going well and the vet is there. He says the foal is dead and the mare will peg out, too. Won’t you have a look?”

With wrinkled brows the Rittmeister stared at his paper; he had stopped chuckling and appeared to contemplate a picture.

“Come along, Herr Rittmeister,” said the attendant at last, amiably. “Give me the newspaper.”

The Rittmeister, of course, heard nothing, and so it was taken from his hands. He was led into the hall, an overcoat put on him, and a cap. Then they left the house.

“Please take my arm, Herr Rittmeister,” said the attendant with mild, somewhat professional, affability. “Herr Pagel, will you also give Herr
Rittmeister your arm?—Walking must be very troublesome for you; you have been very ill, of course.” Almost imperceptibly the emphasis was on “been.”

Perhaps it was chance, perhaps the sick man had felt the emphasis, had considered it a challenge; he began to chuckle again. Then he walked on silently, swaying between the two men. They were close to the village when Pagel noticed that the Rittmeister’s arm was trembling in his; the whole man shook. Something like fear in regard to his venture threatened the young man. “You are trembling a lot—are you cold, Herr Rittmeister?” he said at last.

The Rittmeister, of course, did not reply. But the attendant had well understood what was in Pagel’s mind. “That won’t help us now, Herr Pagel,” he said. “We can’t turn back now. We must go through with it.”

They crossed the yard, they entered the stable. In the faces of those who stood there could be seen fright. The Rittmeister was, according to gossip, insane. And now the madman had come to them in the stable!

“Everybody outside!” Pagel ordered. “Only you, stableman, and, if you like, you, Amanda, can stay. Shut the stable door.” Thank goodness the vet behaved very sensibly. “Good evening, Herr Rittmeister,” he said calmly, and stepped a little to one side, leaving the entrance to the box free.

It seemed to Pagel as if he had felt a slight tug on his arm. Yes, the Rittmeister drew near the box, they need not hold him; he stood there by himself.

The horse lay on her side, legs stretched out. She turned her head with its sad, helpless eyes. She had recognized her master, and whinnied feebly as if expecting only from him the help which did not come.

“Since I gave the mare coffee and camphor,” reported the vet, “the throes have become stronger, and the heart’s quite good now. I almost thought I heard feeble heartbeats from the foal again, but I may be mistaken.”

There was a general silence.

What was the Rittmeister doing? He had taken off his overcoat, he looked round. The stableman—all were quiet, very quiet—took the coat. Rittmeister von Prackwitz also removed his jacket; the stableman took it. He fumbled with his cuff link—Amanda was there and helped him to roll up his sleeve. Yes, that was the real obstetrician’s hand, slender, with long dexterous fingers; a wrist thin as a child’s, but of steel. A long slender arm, not flesh, but of sinew, bone, muscle.

They held their breath as he knelt down behind the horse. He hesitated now, looked round displeased. What was the matter? What was lacking? Why didn’t he speak?

But the vet had understood him; he knelt down beside the Rittmeister and rubbed his arm with oil till it was smooth and supple. “A little carefully, Herr
Rittmeister!” he whispered. “When the throes come, the mare will kick out; they have forgotten to unshoe her.”

The Rittmeister frowned and compressed his almost bloodless lips. Then he set about his work. His long arm disappeared to the shoulder in the mare’s body; mysteriously could be read on his face the groping and searching of his hand. Now his eyes shone with their old ardent gleam; he had found what he sought for.

Yes, yes—this Rittmeister—like a coward he had slunk away from his daughter’s shameful ruin. He had whined for alcohol and veronal. He pretended to be a lunatic. But because a horse was in distress he left his self-chosen isolation and returned to his fellow-beings; he had found something on earth which was still worth effort. Oh, my god! That’s people for you. That’s what they’re like—no better. But also, no worse!

Once or twice he had to discontinue his work. The mare kicked out in agony, but he did not withdraw his arm; he ducked down, for the throes which endangered him were also of help in releasing the fruit from the mother. His face had turned crimson; with all his power he withstood the throes which were forcing his arm, too, with enormous strength out of the mare’s body. Pagel got down on the straw beside him, supporting with his shoulder the shoulder of the Rittmeister—and was met by a glance which was certainly not that of an idiot, though perhaps of someone who had suffered unutterably.…

As the foal’s hoofs appeared, a stir went round the bystanders. See! now came the delicate silky muzzle; the head, the shoulders, followed only slowly. Then, swiftly, came the very long body—and the foal lay as if lifeless on the ground. The vet, kneeling down, examined it. “Living,” he said.

Up jumped the Rittmeister, swaying. “Just hold firmly to me, Herr Rittmeister,” said the attendant. “That was rather a lot for the beginning.” And the Rittmeister understood and held fast.

Amanda Backs advanced with a basin and warm water; she washed the Rittmeister’s blood-stained arm as if that also was something newborn and easily damaged. Then Herr von Prackwitz walked from the stable, led by the two men, went without looking at a person, without a word, with dragging feet as though he were already asleep. Slowly they passed between the farm buildings. Then, as the October wind, blowing from the woods, sprang at them with all its freshness, the Rittmeister came to a stop. A spasm shook his body and Joachim von Prackwitz said the first word after a long silence. It was only an exclamation, a cry of lament, of despair, of recollection—who knows? “My God!” he cried.

And after a while they went on their way again, the sick man walking heavily between them. Pagel helped to bring him to his bedroom; then, when the attendant started to undress Prackwitz, he went downstairs.

In the hall he sat for a time inactive. He was exhausted, but he had done a thing right and good. He thought of something, however, and, after a knock or two, went into Frau Eva’s room. As soon as he turned on the light he saw the piles of letters on the desk. He had a slight repugnance to overcome, but in life one couldn’t do only the things which were agreeable. He looked for the foreign stamp and postmark, but he glanced through the first pile in vain; the second also. There was nothing, either, in the third. As he put down the fourth and last, with as little result, his eye fell on a note pad. Without wishing to read it, he had done so. “Write to father” was written there. He returned to the hall.

That note could mean anything; Frau Eva might have thought herself of writing to her father, but equally she might not want to forget to reply. He’d conducted this rather depressing little rummage in vain, and didn’t know quite how to continue, but only knew that he must.…

A little later the attendant came down. “He went to sleep at once. It was really a bit too much for him. Well, we must wait and see. Will you tell madam?”

“Oh, yes. One of us must tell her. She ought not to hear about it from others.”

Herr Schümann looked thoughtful. “I tell you what, Herr Pagel. It was your doing, of course; but I’ll tell her and take the responsibility.” And when Pagel made a gesture: “I’ve heard there’s some gossip going round. Women are funny, you know; at least I’ll take that off your shoulders.” He smiled. “Of course, if it’s gone all right with the Rittmeister I shall get the credit.…”

“I can guess what’s up now,” said Pagel annoyed. “Just let them come to me, that’s all!”

“Don’t worry yourself about it, Herr Pagel. Well, good night for the present.”

“Good night.” Pagel set out again for the staff-house. It was after eight. Amanda would already be waiting with her evening meal. He had endless business mail to deal with and he also wanted to write his mother. The doctor was coming, he had to go to the forester, and he had to see to the foals. But he’d rather go straight to bed—and there’s chattering in the corridor! Give us peace, dear Lord, give us peace!

If only others were peaceful.…

VIII

It was now after ten. Pagel sat in front of his books; sick-fund contributions must be reckoned up, wage-tax stamps stuck on, and the cash book had to be somehow
brought into agreement with the cashbox. All these were almost insuperable difficulties for a tired man; and in addition it was getting more and more difficult about the money. He would reckon out a laborer’s wage exactly according to the scale—so-and-so many millions and milliards. But he couldn’t give him the money; there weren’t enough notes! He had to take some large denomination, one of those rubbishy 100- or 200-milliard-mark notes, and call in four men. “Here, each of you take a corner, it belongs to you in common. As a matter of fact it’s a bit too much, I don’t know exactly, two or three milliards; but off with you into the town! Make your purchases together; you’ll have to come to an agreement somehow. Curse me if you like—I can’t get any other money.”

All right, they would go at last and find some tradesman who changed their note for them. But where could Pagel find someone to help him out with his own accounts? Oh, he was a great man, he had a weekly salary of two and a half hundredweights of rye—but that amount was regularly missing from his accounts. Often much more. Little Meier certainly never wrote so many incorrect figures in his cash book. If an accountant ever saw them—off to prison with this embezzler!

He propped his head in his hands; the wilderness of figures was sickening; there was something unclean in this parade of ever more astronomical numbers. Every small man a millionaire—but all we millionaires would yet starve! What had the doctor said to the forester just now? “We shall soon be having billion notes—a billion is a thousand milliards—it can’t go any higher! Then we shall get a stable currency, you’ll be pensioned off—and till then you can stay snugly in bed.”

“Shall we really have decent money again?” the forester had asked anxiously. “Shall I live to see it? I would truly like to see the day, Herr Doctor, when one can go into a shop again and the tradesman sells something without looking at the money in a fury, as if one’s a swindler.”

“You will certainly live to see it, old fellow!” the doctor had reassured him, tucking up the blankets under the forester’s chin. But outside he had said to Pagel: “See that the old man doesn’t take to his bed altogether. Give him some little job so that he can putter around. Utterly tired out and used up! How he ever ran about the woods for ten hours every day beats me. Once he’s properly on his back he won’t get up again, that’s certain.”

“So he won’t live to see the end of this inflation? I know from school that there are billiards and trillions and quadrillions and …”

“Come to a stop, man!” cried out the doctor, “or I’ll strike you down immediately with my reflex hammer! You want to go through all this misery? Such an appetite for life, young man, could give one indigestion!”

“No,” he whispered, “I have it from a man in the bank—the dollar will be stabilized at four hundred and twenty milliards.”

“Oh, I’ve heard that sort of talk the last half-year. I don’t believe a word of it.”

“Young man,” had declared the doctor solemnly, his eyes flashing behind his glasses, “let me tell you this. On the day when the dollar goes above four hundred and twenty milliards I’ll put on a mask and chloroform myself out of this life. Because then I shall have had enough of it.”

“So,” said Pagel, “we’ll speak together later.”

“Not as you think,” shouted the doctor angrily. “You modern youth are disgusting! Even hundred-year-old men weren’t as cynical as that in my time!”

“So when exactly was your time, Herr Doctor?” asked Pagel, grinning. “Pretty much a long time ago, eh?”

“I mistrusted you from the very beginning,” said the doctor sadly and climbed into his OpelLaubfrosch, “when you so shamefacedly asked me just how long the man could have been dead.”

“Quiet please, Doctor!”

“All right, I agree. On this point I’m a cynic myself. It’s the profession. Good night. And, as I said, if the dollar isn’t stabilized at four hundred and twenty.…

“Then we’ll wait a little longer,” Pagel shouted after the departing doctor.

It would have been good if there had been a coffee in the office, but there was naturally none at this time of night. Amanda Backs had long gone to bed. However, Pagel had once again underestimated Amanda: Coffees stood on the table. Unfortunately the coffee was no longer in a state to really cheer him up, or else Pagel was simply too tired. In any case, he sat, miserable, over his books. He got no further, wanted to go to bed, but wanted nevertheless to write to his mother, and tortured his conscience with the sentence: If I’m not too tired to write to Mama, I can’t be too tired to finish the wage-books.

This strange sentence, lacking all logic, a distortion of an overtired mind, tortured the young Pagel so persistently that he was unable either to do his accounts or write, and couldn’t sleep either. Eventually, he sank into a condition of semi-conscious misery and dazed numbness in which horrible thoughts crept into his mind. Doubts about life, doubts about himself, doubts about Petra.

“Damnation!” he cried and stood up. “I’d prefer to spring into the worthy Geheimrat’s swannery and take the coldest bath of my life than sit around here gloomy and sleepy-headed.”

And in this moment the telephone rang. A hurried feminine voice, familiar and yet strange, desired that Herr Pagel would come at once to the Villa; madam wished to speak to him.

“I’ll come at once,” he replied. Who was the woman who had spoken? Her voice had sounded disguised.

It was a quarter to eleven. Rather a little late, surely, for a man who got up at five, at half-past four, at four! Well, there was trouble again over there. The business with the Rittmeister had gone badly, or Frau Eva had at last learned something about Violet; or she only wanted to know how many potatoes had been dug up that day—she was often like that. At times she was her father’s daughter, and then she thought she had to supervise her young employee. Whistling happily, Pagel wandered through the estate out to the Villa. Although he was supposed to go straight to Madam, he made a detour via the stables. The Ostler was startled—but everything was in perfect order. The stallion was back in his stall and turned round to look at Pagel with its lively eyes. The foal with the unbelievably long legs was asleep. And Pagel sent the Ostler off to bed too.