That did not help. He sat up in bed, staring at the young man in the armchair near by. He wanted to know if he knew, if others knew, how pitiable, how small, how empty he was, had been, would be. But everything confused him. There was a hunt … the lamps burnt so low. There were pictures, shadows of pictures.… Why was the night so still? Why did he suffer alone?
“Where is my wife? Where is Vi? Doesn’t anyone bother about me? Have I got to die utterly deserted, by myself? Oh, God.”
“It’s late in the night, Herr Rittmeister. Your wife and your daughter are asleep. Try to get a little rest yourself.”
The sick man lay back in bed. He appeared to be thinking, to be calmed by the information. Then he sat up again and asked with a sly tone in his voice: “You’re young Pagel, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Herr Rittmeister.”
“And you’re my employee?”
“Yes, Herr Rittmeister.”
“And you must do what I order?”
“Yes, Herr Rittmeister.”
“Then”—there was a pause, till he said all the more haughtily—“then bring me up a bottle of cognac at once.”
Yes, Wolfgang Pagel, here no amiability can help, no compliance, no avoidance; the Rittmeister looks at you tensely, with hatred. He wants his cognac, and if you are not firm he will get it.
“You are ill, Herr Rittmeister. You must sleep first. You shall have some cognac tomorrow morning.”
“I want it now. I order you!”
“It’s not possible, Herr Rittmeister. Madam has forbidden it.”
“My wife has not to forbid anything. Fetch the cognac or …”
The two gazed at each other.
Ah, how naked the world had become, how the gilt came off! Within the home, the make-up is wiped off and the hollow skull of egotism grins at you with its black eye-sockets. Pagel suddenly saw himself lying next to Peter in Madam Po’s room, the dingy curtains hanging in the sultry air. It seemed like a symbol to him now. No! Like the prelude to a difficult test or examination. In those days he could have picked up his suitcase and slunk away like a coward; that was impossible here. Gone were the blessed lies that had tasted so sweet, up and away had gone the tender image of love. Man against man, wolf against wolves, he must make his decision if he was to respect himself.
“No, Herr Rittmeister. I am sorry, but …”
“Then I’ll get my cognac myself. You are dismissed.” In one jump the Rittmeister was out of bed. Never would Wolfgang have thought that the sick man, whom the two of them had only just managed to lift from the bath, could develop such mobility.
“Herr Rittmeister!” he begged.
“You’ll not dare to lay hands on your employer, what?” screamed the Rittmeister with distorted face, running in his pajamas to the door.
It was the decisive moment. “Yes,” replied Pagel, seizing him.
“Leave me alone!” Rage, the unprecedented indignity, the lust for alcohol, gave the Rittmeister strength.
“Achim, Achim! What’s all this?” The noise of the struggle had fetched in Frau von Prackwitz from that sickbed which she had not intended to leave, her daughter’s.
“You! You!” shouted the Rittmeister, struggling all the more fiercely to tear himself from Pagel’s arms. “You’ve set this young fool against me. What do you mean, I’m not to have any cognac? Am I the master here or you? I …” It seemed as though he intended to throw himself on his wife.
“Put him to bed, Herr Pagel!” angrily ordered Frau Eva. “Don’t be over-nice; get hold of him properly. Achim! Achim! Violet’s lying there ill, pull yourself together, be a man for once. She’s so ill!”
“I’m going,” said the Rittmeister, suddenly almost in tears. “When it’s I who am ill you don’t make any fuss about it. I only want a cognac, one small cognac.”
“Give him another tablet. Give him two tablets, Herr Pagel, so that he’ll keep quiet,” cried Frau Eva in despair. “I must go back to Violet.” And, driven by fear, she hurried away. And as she ran across the passage, her heart beat so wildly. What was she going to see next?
But nothing had changed. Her daughter was sleeping peacefully, very pale, her face a trifle swollen and as if brooding. She felt the pulse. It was beating slowly but powerfully. No reason for fear. Violet would wake up; one could talk with her or not, whichever was indicated; she would be restored to health, and they would leave Neulohe and live in some quiet corner. As for money, her father would listen to reason. No one needed to despair because of a defeat—not even Violet. In reality life, looked at properly, was nothing but defeats. Man, however, survived and enjoyed life—man, this most tenacious, most resistant of all creatures.…
It was five minutes past twelve. The decisive, the fateful, hour had begun. Although the room was oppressively hot she shivered.
She opened the window. There was a gentle wind in the dark night, gently the raindrops fell from the trees, and she could perceive only shadows within shadows. Was the danger which threatened her family to come from out of that shadow world?
She shivered again. What am I doing? she thought, alarmed. I’m cold and I open the window. I’m mad, too. It’s all too much for one person.
Carefully she put up the hook between the casements, so that they would not bang in the wind.
At this moment the bell in the hall rang loudly.
X
Across the passage, each in the doorway of a sickroom, Frau Eva and Pagel looked at one another. The young man could not account for the fear on the woman’s face. “That was a ring,” she murmured.
“It will be the chauffeur,” he reassured her. “He’s had supper somewhere in the village and now …”
“No, no,” she cried in distress.
The bell rang loudly again.
“Don’t open, please, Herr Pagel. An evil will come.”
“Or it’s Lotte. Lotte also went. We can’t shut the girl out. Herr Rittmeister is quiet now; let me quickly open the door.”
“Please don’t, Herr Pagel,” she pleaded, as if one could keep out the misfortune invited by a wrongly conducted life. But he was already running downstairs, prepared for any danger. It was foolish, but something like pleasure was his; he was not useless, he had a task in the world, even if it was only the trifling one of demonstrating to the woman upstairs that she had no need to be frightened. For the first time he understood with heart and soul that life brought happiness only to him who fulfilled a task unswervingly, whether large or small. Satisfaction could come only from oneself.
The bell rang for the third time.
From upstairs Frau Eva shouted something incomprehensible.
As Pagel passed the hat stand in the hall he saw a stout oak stick which the Rittmeister used to take with him on his forest excursions. He seized it, swung it round—thereby endangering the hall lamp—and, holding it ready, opened the door just as the bell rang once more.
Outside stood Herr von Studmann with a flushed rather angry face, and an obviously heavy suitcase in his hand.
“You, Herr von Studmann?” cried Pagel disconcerted, lowering his ridiculous weapon.
“Yes, indeed,” said Studmann, as angry as he possibly could be. “I really don’t know what’s the matter today in Neulohe. I thought I should be expected with impatience and eagerness, bringing as I do what is after all a not inconsiderable sum of money—yet there’s no vehicle at the station, the office is shut and in darkness, the Manor also in darkness but full of uproar, just as if there was an immense party on, although no one came to the door.… And here I’ve got to stand ten minutes in a downpour, ringing!” His voice had become more and more reproachful as the inconveniences caused him by the unreliability of others grew clearer in their recitation.
“Listen, Herr von Studmann,” whispered Pagel hurriedly, drawing the startled man into the hall and carefully
