Ladies and gentlemen, I regretted that I only had six shots in the drum. See, I fire my fifth into the sky, a salvo for my lady, that her ears may tingle forever because of me. And the sixth shot—one’s enough for me. Like this, above the nose … like this … Should she herself really visit me, I shall be a magnificent sight for her.
Oh, my God, my God, is no one coming? Is nothing to happen? They can’t let me perish like this. Someone must come and say it was all a mistake. I’ll count up to three now, and if nothing’s happened by then, I’ll fire. One. Two. Three! Nothing? Nothing at all? The whole muck is nothing, then! It was all muck, my life, and death is also muck, cowardly vile muck, and afterwards more muck, I know that by now. I was too frightened; it’s not worth being frightened about this muck. I’m quite calm now. It would have been decent of the sentry this morning if he had fired on me. He would have really spared me something. But I can do that, too. Lived alone, died alone.
Yes, and what now? Oh!
In the Black Dale, at the bottom of the wood, lay a torch on the ground. Its faint beam fell on a plant or two, a mossy stone, some earth.… It was quite still, quite still.… The solitary gleam in the silent night that had been so loud recently.…
And now there comes a sound out of the bushes, someone clears his throat, coughs …
Deep silence, a long silence …
Softly, cautiously, a step approaches, hesitates, stops. Another cough.
Deep silence, nothing but silence …
The step comes nearer, a foot, a foot in a black leather shoe appears in the white torchlight.
A moment later the torch is picked up. Its beam wanders, ceases. Hesitant, as if stuck to the ground, the step advances; the silent visitor looks down on that which is more silent, lying there.
No sound, no sound …
The man clears his throat. The torchlight searches once more, to the right, to the left.
Can he have fallen on it?
The revolver is found, however. He who finds it examines the drum, ejects the empty cartridge cases. The revolver is loaded afresh. Once again the light of the torch is thrown on the dead. Then it goes away quickly, up the slope, along the footpath, to Neulohe.
In the Black Dale it is utterly dark.
IX
No housewife, no help, could have got the Villa ready more painstakingly than had young Pagel. The rooms were clean and warm, the bath stove hot. In the kitchen there was supper waiting, and the young man had even managed to collect a few bunches of flowers from a garden parched by the summer heat and deluged by autumn rains. Gladioli, dahlias, asters …
Where Frau Eva had left behind a desolation stripped of all help, she found a home; and even the disconsolate Lotte, who had been firmly resolved to go away, too, was merry and carefree as never before. For young Pagel had turned the riot of scrubbing into a frolic. He had gone round with the women, taking the portable phonograph with him; and the way the beds could be made and the sweeping done when accompanied by tunes like “Darling, you’re the pupil of my eye” or “We’re boozing away our Oma’s little cottage” was unbelievable. On this one evening there was more laughter in the Villa than there had been in six months.
But laughter gave way to tears, rain drove away sunshine, and—not everyday is Sunday. As the splendid car drove up, no one could perceive from it what cargo of misfortune it held. Before young Pagel could hurry to it, however, its door was opened by a very troubled Herr Finger, and when one looked inside …
To be sure, Fraulein Violet was still asleep, and though her rigid, pale slumber had something alarming about it, that alone would not have made faces so grave and disconcerted. No, it was the Rittmeister, the unfortunate Rittmeister von Prackwitz! During the drive home he had begun to be sick and now, almost naked, groaning and befouled, he was carried from the car.
His wife must have passed through terrible hours; she looked faded and old, her expression sad and bitter. “Yes,” she said austerely, “I am bringing affliction into the house.” She glanced at the faces round her, ghostly in the meager light of the front-door lamp. Young Pagel, the chauffeur Finger, and Lotte, frightened and anxious, a few village women. No, there was no concealment possible. Affliction had taken up its quarters in the house. Frau Eva could endure that, however. Endure? No, it strengthened her. In true affliction pretense disappears.
“Herr Finger, Herr Pagel, be so kind as to carry my husband upstairs. The best thing would be to put him on the couch in the bathroom, till the bath is ready. It is? Good. You girls help me with Fraulein Violet. Don’t be afraid, Lotte; she’s not dead, only in a stupor. The doctor gave her an injection. That’s right—go on now.”
Did the lamps suddenly darken in the house? Had there a while before been singing and laughter here? What were flowers doing in the vases? Affliction had arrived—all went on tiptoe, whispering. Hush! What was that? Nothing, only the Rittmeister groaning. Outside the headlights of the car shone uselessly into the night.
The two men, Pagel and Finger, had undressed the Rittmeister and laid him in the bath.
“No, I have no time for him. You see to it. Violet is more important.” Was Frau Eva thinking of a certain warning? Was Violet still not safe, here in her home? Forest surrounded Neulohe; the world was distant—how could still greater evil arrive? Evil greater than a dishonored, bewildered daughter and a husband who had at last lost all foothold? A still greater evil?
“Lotte,” she said, “go downstairs at once and lock all the doors in the basement and on the ground floor. Make sure that all the windows are really shut. Don’t open the door to anyone without asking me first.” Alarmed and confused, the girl went.
Frau Eva sat by the bed. Her daughter would wake up at half-past twelve or one. Everything depended on that moment, as the doctor had told her, and she would be prepared for it. Not a step out of the room. Violet’s room. Where she had slept as child, as young girl. What she had been such a short time ago! That had to give her strength to outgrow what she had become.
Wordless, the two men were busy with the Rittmeister. Young Pagel washed him while the chauffeur held him, for the slack unconscious limbs kept on losing their support in the bath. Nevertheless, it seemed as though consciousness was returning. The eyelids trembled, the lips, too.
“Yes, Herr Rittmeister?”
“Something to drink …”
Yes, in the dazed brain was stirring the first reawakened foreboding of the evil which had befallen. And he who could not yet think was again demanding fresh insensibility, renewed flight …
Pagel looked at Herr Finger, who shook his head. “He’s bringing up bile already; his stomach won’t stand anything more.”
It was not easy to lift the slippery body from the bath. The Rittmeister resisted, muttering angrily, “Port! Waiter, another bottle.”
“What is it?” cried Frau Eva from Violet’s door.
“We’re putting the Rittmeister to bed now,” said Pagel. “He wants something to drink, madam.”
“He’ll get nothing. Not a drop. Look in my night table, Herr Pagel; there ought to be some veronal there. Give him a tablet.”
At last the Rittmeister was in bed, exhausted, in a restless half-sleep. He had been given some veronal, and had been sick at once.
“I ought to bring my car out of the rain,” said Herr Finger hesitatingly. “It’s a brand-new car and it’s a shame.”
“Your firm will get the money all right.”
“But it’s a downright shame about the car,” replied the chauffeur angrily. “The mess it’s in! And I haven’t had anything proper to eat the whole day, out all the time in the rain and cold …”
“I’ll speak to madam,” said Pagel obligingly. “Please stay with the Rittmeister till I return.” He spoke to Frau von Prackwitz, and then let the chauffeur, the women, and Lotte, too, out of the house. All were in a hurry to get away; misfortune had descended on the Villa.
Wolfgang Pagel himself returned to watch over the Rittmeister. It was obvious that the man was very ill; but far worse than the illness of his body, poisoned by alcohol, was the illness of his soul. The man’s self-respect had been mortally wounded; he writhed under the gloomy thoughts haunting him. All his transgressions rushed into his mind, and he closed his eyes.
