Wolf Among Wolves (107 page)

“From the maids, Papa. They all say that.”

“Our maids, too? Armgard? Lotte?”

“Of course, Papa. They all say that. But I can’t swear that I exactly heard it from Armgard or Lotte.”

“I’ll throw them out,” murmured the Rittmeister to himself. That was his particular way of annihilating the unpleasant things in life.

Violet had not heard him. She was very well satisfied with the path this examination was taking. She laughed. “A little while ago, Papa, I heard one of the girls in the village say to another: ‘Have you come to the pub to dance or to cuddle?’—I had to laugh so, Papa!”

“There’s nothing funny in that, Violet!” cried the Rittmeister indignantly. “That sort of thing is simply disgusting. I don’t want to hear anything more like that, and neither do I wish you to listen to such things again. Cuddling is an absolutely low word.”

“Isn’t it the same then as kissing, Papa?” she asked very surprised.

“Violet!” almost roared the Rittmeister.

The angry cry must have reached the chauffeur through the glass, for he turned round with a questioning face. By furious gestures Herr von Prackwitz showed him that he was to drive on and that it was nothing to do with him. But the chauffeur did not understand, put on his brakes, stopped, opened the window and said: “Excuse me, I haven’t quite understood, Herr Rittmeister.”

“You’re to drive on, man!” roared the Rittmeister. “Go on driving.”

“Yes, Herr Rittmeister,” replied the chauffeur politely. “We shall be in Ostade in twenty minutes.”

“Then get on.”

The window was closed and the car went on.

“Blockhead!” swore the Rittmeister at the window. Then to his daughter in a milder tone: “There is a respectable and a not-respectable term for many things. You don’t say, ‘What will you booze?’ but ‘What will you drink?’ So for kissing; a respectable person doesn’t use that other not-respectable word.”

Violet considered a moment. Then she said, smiling brightly at her father: “I understand, Papa. It’s like this. When you’re in good humor you say make water, and when you’re in a temper you say the other word which I mustn’t ever use, isn’t that it, Papa?”

The Rittmeister said nothing more all the way to Ostade. Violet, not honored with any further harangue, was very satisfied.

Now they were driving along the Oder. Somewhat revived, the Rittmeister instructed his chauffeur to stop in the Old Market at The Golden Hat, which the officers frequented to read the newspapers and drink sherry or port before lunch. The country gentlemen, of course, also frequented the inn.

The Rittmeister took care that his car was not driven into the yard but left in front. “We shall be going on immediately,” he told his chauffeur. That was not at all his intention, however. He wanted the splendor of his new car to be noticed.

In the dining room there was no one, at least no one who counted for the Rittmeister. Only a few civilians. Among whom he, although not in uniform, did not include himself. It was a little after eleven; the officers usually came about this time or perhaps not till half-past.

The Rittmeister collected all the illustrated, all the humorous, periodicals. Conversation with his daughter was out of the question; she had offended him too much. Ordering a glass of port for himself and a beef tea for her, he gave himself up to his reading.

It was absolutely disgusting that this girl had again spoilt this day. It was simply impossible to enjoy life in Neulohe. For three minutes the Rittmeister seriously considered giving up Neulohe and rejoining the army. He need only wait for the
Putsch
and everything would be possible! Glad that he only had to make the decision the day after tomorrow, he sank deeper into reading about the latest attacks on the government in
Kladderadatsch
.

Violet sat so that she could see the market place; it appeared surprisingly peaceful for a town which had to expect on the morrow a big
Putsch
which would completely change the constitution and government of sixty million people. In a row stood farmers’ carts with potatoes or cabbages; women went to and fro with their market bags—but there was nothing out of the way, nothing different, and above all no uniforms.

“Papa! I don’t see any uniforms at all.”

“They have something else to do today than stroll about,” replied the Rittmeister sharply. “Anyway, I’m reading.”

But a little later he lowered his newspaper and himself looked out of the window. Glancing at the clock, he called to the waiter: “Where are the officers?”

“They ought to be here by now,” said the waiter, also regarding the clock.

Fully satisfied with this definite information, the Rittmeister ordered a second port. Violet asked for one too, but he frowned. “Keep to your beef tea,” he said. With a slight smile the waiter moved away.

Violet felt deeply disgraced. Never again could she enter this inn. Papa had been absolutely beastly. Tears in her eyes, she stared at the market place and the chauffeur sitting in the car.

“Where are you thinking of driving to now, Papa?” she asked.

The Rittmeister started. “I? I’m not thinking of driving anywhere. Why?”

“You told the chauffeur we were going on immediately, Papa!”

“Mind your own business!” said he, nettled. “What’s more, alcohol is not for young girls in the morning.”

For a long time they stared at the market place. In the end there was nothing for the Rittmeister to do but order a third port. Irritably he asked the waiter where on earth the officers could be.

The man regretted very much, but he couldn’t explain it himself.

Wretched and more and more out of humor, the two gazed from the window. The civilians had long ago recaptured the periodicals; only
Kladderadatsch
remained with the Rittmeister, and from time to time he glanced at it but found the jokes stupid. The situation was certainly not one for humor. What on earth was he to do all day in a boring town like Ostade, if the officers weren’t going to appear? There wouldn’t be any lunch at home now; besides, he had not the slightest wish to drive back yet—this evening would be soon enough to hear what his wife had to say about Hubert’s dismissal. Most of all he would have liked to drive to one or two barracks, and make some inquiries. Unfortunately he had just told Violet that he had no intention of driving on anywhere.

Her movement made him attentive. Utterly absorbed, she was gazing at the door, and the Rittmeister, forgetting his good manners, turned on his chair and stared also.

In the doorway stood a young man in gray knickerbockers and a greenish-yellow trench coat. He was looking round the dining room, then over at the buffet and the waiter. In his incongruous get-up he appeared so different that it was some time before the Rittmeister recognized him. Then he sprang up, rushed
toward the young man and, in his delight at this distraction, greeted him enthusiastically. “Good morning, Lieutenant. You see, I’m already here today …”

“Twenty cigarettes, waiter,” the young man called sharply. Having looked coolly at the Rittmeister he decided to say “Good morning,” very reserved.

“Surely you remember me!” cried the Rittmeister, astonished at this reception. “Rittmeister von Prackwitz. We met yesterday in the train. Major,” he whispered the name, “Rückert. You … I …” Louder: “I’ve already bought the car, a fairly good one. A Horch. No doubt you saw it outside.”

“Yes, yes,” said the Lieutenant absent-mindedly. The waiter coming up, he took his cigarettes, gave a note, acknowledged the change and asked: “The gentlemen not here yet?”

The waiter brought out his two sentences: “They ought to have been here long before this. I don’t understand it either.”

“Hmmm!” was all the Lieutenant said, but even the Rittmeister felt that this had not been good news for the young man.

The waiter had left. The two men looked at each other in silence a moment.

The Lieutenant made up his mind. “You must excuse me, I am very busy.” He spoke mechanically and did not move, but remained looking at the Rittmeister as if he expected something.

That his announcement about the purchase of a car had made so little impression offended Herr von Prackwitz very much. Nevertheless he did not want the Lieutenant to go. At the moment he was the only person with whom he could talk or from whom he could find out anything. “Perhaps you would join me at my table for a moment, Lieutenant?” he said. “I have something to tell you.”

The Lieutenant was obviously deep in thought. He waved his hand. “I am really very busy,” he said. But when the Rittmeister made a gesture of invitation he went with him. Violet had not taken her eyes away the whole time.

“You have met my daughter, Herr …” The Rittmeister’s laugh was embarrassed. “There now, I’ve forgotten your name, Lieutenant!”

Under Violet’s glance the Lieutenant had become more alert. She looked so fervent and affectionate that a strong repulsion stirred in him at once. She hasn’t even understood yet that she’s finished for me, he thought. You’ve got to be rude first to her.

“Meier,” he introduced himself. “Meier. Meier is a very useful, a very agreeable name, don’t you think?”

He was aware of her glance, plainly begging for pardon and mercy.

“No, I don’t believe that I know the young lady,” he said more harshly. “Or perhaps yes.”

“Yes—in Neulohe …” whispered Violet, cowering under that ruthless glance and remark.

“In Neulohe? Oh? Have we seen one another there? You must pardon me, Fräulein, but I for my part don’t remember it.” Turning to the Rittmeister, transfixed at this incomprehensible scene—for he saw that his daughter was stricken to the heart—the Lieutenant added: “No, please order nothing for me. I must go at once. You had something to say to me, Rittmeister?”

“I don’t know …” began the Rittmeister slowly.

Violet sat there with a pale and lifeless face.

The Lieutenant crossed his legs, basely making show of an expression of boredom, as of one who knew only too well what was coming. Lighting a cigarette he said superciliously: “If you don’t know, Herr—Herr—my excuses, the name escapes me” (with a vindictive look at Violet), “but if you don’t know, I should like to depart, if you don’t mind. As I told you, I am very busy.” And continued to sit there with a provocative air. A little more and it could have been said that he was openly yawning.

The Rittmeister restrained himself; outside his home he could do that. “The long and the short of it is, my daughter wrote you a letter.” He hesitated. “About the matter you know of, and which has got into the wrong hands.”

It was all as had been expected. The Lieutenant, conscious of the girl’s imploring gaze, put out his cigarette in the ash tray. Then he looked up from his dead butt, ran his eyes over the Rittmeister and said: “I am at your disposal, naturally, Rittmeister. I dispute nothing. Only,” he went on more quickly, “I should be grateful if you would wait till tomorrow’s action is over. My friends will call on you immediately afterwards.”

The Rittmeister was a very old man; hollow temples, white hair, a ravaged face. In almost an unintelligible voice he said: “Do-I-understand-you-aright?”

“Papa! Fritz!” cried Violet.

“You have completely understood,” the Lieutenant informed him in his supercilious and insolent voice.

“Oh, Fritz, Fritz! Papa …” the girl murmured, her eyes full of tears.

The Rittmeister seemed paralyzed. Holding his wineglass by the stem he turned it round and round, as if examining the color of the port. On his tongue was no taste of wine; only of bitterness and ashes … the bitterness and ashes of a whole life.

“Oh, Fritz.” It was Violet’s tearful voice.

In a flash he had thrown the remainder of his port in the impudent, conceited face. With great pleasure Joachim von Prackwitz saw the young fellow turn pale and the firm chin tremble.… “Have I understood you properly now, Lieutenant?” he asked.

Violet had moaned. The Lieutenant, before wiping the wine from his face, was young enough to look anxiously round the room—the civilians were sitting behind their newspapers. But the waiter at the buffet had given a start and was now rubbing the zinc bar with embarrassed vigor.

“That was unnecessary,” whispered the Lieutenant, full of hatred, standing up. “Anyway, I have always loathed your daughter.”

The Rittmeister groaned. He attempted to rise and strike the brutal odious face, but his legs were trembling, the room turned round and round and he had to hold on to the table. In his ears the blood roared like breakers on the shore—his daughter spoke from far away. Has she no pride at all? he thought. How can she still talk to him?

“Oh, Fritz! why have you done this? Now everything is ruined. Papa knew nothing.” He was looking at her with his clear malicious eyes, full of contempt and disgust.

She advanced round the table; it did not matter to her that she was in a public place. She seized his hand, she implored him: “Fritz, be kind.… Papa will do everything I want. I will talk him round.… I can’t be without you.… Even if I see you only once a week, once a month, we could still be married.”

He was attempting to withdraw his hand.…

Her eyes were large with anxiety and tears. She was trying to collect herself. With an attempt at a smile she said: “I will convince Papa that it’s all a mistake. He didn’t know about it at all! He must ask your pardon, Fritz, about the wine.… That was very horrible of him. I swear to you he will beg your pardon.”

“How do you mean, your father didn’t know?” he asked. “He was talking about the letter, wasn’t he?”

Thus his first words to her were a cold suspicious question, the sole reply to her stammering appeal.…

But she was happy to have him speak to her again; she pressed his hand, that bony cruel hand, and spoke rapidly. “Papa was talking about a quite different letter! I wrote to you again, about the arms, because the forester had seen you burying them. And the letter was intercepted. Don’t look so terrible, Fritz! Fritz! The arms are still there.… I haven’t done anything wrong, Fritz. Please.…”

She had spoken louder and louder, and now he put his hand over her mouth. From behind their newspapers the civilians had emerged to observe
the scene with embarrassment, indignation or amusement. At his table the Rittmeister moved as if in sleep. “Let my daughter alone,” he murmured. And believed he had shouted this. The waiter had taken a step toward the couple and now stood unable to make up his mind whether to interfere or not.…