“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 Schumann 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
