Cheerfully she cleared away the fragments of the lamp shade, of a sudden firmly convinced that they would bring her the good luck.
Meier, too, was thinking of the broken glass and the good luck it would almost immediately bring him. In the best of moods he arrived at the Rittmeister’s villa. First he peeped into the garden, for he would much prefer to meet Vi out of earshot of her mother; she was not there, however. This was not difficult to establish since, although the garden was not small, one could see all over it at a glance. Already partly dried up, it had been recently created by Frau von Prackwitz and conjured up at a moment’s notice from a bare field.
Nothing, by the way, could better symbolize the position in Neulohe or the gulf between owner and tenant than a comparison of Teschow’s park with Prackwitz’s garden: in the former were sumptuous trees a hundred years old, abounding with foliage and sap; in the latter a few bare sticks with scanty and fading leaves. In the one were wide green lawns; in the other a thin dry grass struggling hopelessly against advancing mare’s-tail, couch-grass, and meadow heartsease. There a fair-sized lake with rowboat and swan; here an artificial stone basin filled with green ditchwater. In one place a growth inherited and full of promise for the future; in the other, growth hardly born, yet already withering. (Still, the Rittmeister’s a great man!)
Bailiff Meier was just about to ring the bell when he heard a call from the side. A ladder led up to the flat roof of the kitchen annex where stood a deck chair and a big garden sunshade. It was from there that the voice had called, “Herr Meier!”
Meier stood to attention. “At your service.”
An ungracious voice from above: “What’s the matter? Mamma is quite done up by the heat and wants to sleep. Don’t you dare disturb her.”
“I only wanted to ask, Fraulein … Herr von Teschow told me that the Rittmeister had telephoned.” Rather angrily: “It is about the conveyances … Am I to send them to the station or not?”
“Don’t shout like that,” shouted the voice from above. “I’m not one of your farm girls. Mamma wants to rest, I tell you.”
Meier looked despairingly at the flat roof. But it was too high to see anything of the girl he had eloped with in his dreams and married; only a corner of the deck chair and part of the sunshade. He decided to whisper as loudly as he could. “Am I to send conveyances—this evening—to the railway?”
Silence. Meier waited.
Then from above: “Did you say anything? I could only hear “Run away.”
“Haw-haw-haw.” Meier guffawed dutifully before repeating his inquiry somewhat louder.
“You’re not to shout,” came her command.
He knew quite well that she only wanted to torment him. He was merely Papa’s bailiff. Had to do what he was told. Had to stand and wait till it graciously pleased Fraulein. You wait, my dear, one day you’ll have to stand and wait—for me.
However, he now seemed to have been kept waiting long enough, for she called to him (surprisingly loud, too, for such a considerate daughter): “Herr Meier, aren’t you going to speak? Are you still there?”
“Certainly, Fraulein.”
“I thought you’d melted in the sun. You’re hot enough for that.”
There, she knew all about it, of course. But no harm done, it only whetted the appetite.
“Herr Meier!”
“Yes, Fraulein?”
“If you’ve stood there long enough perhaps you will notice a stepladder, and come up here and tell me what you really want.”
“Yes, Fraulein.” And up the ladder. “Yes, Fraulein” was always good, flattered her and cost nothing, stressed the social gulf between them and permitted everything. One could peep into her low-necked dress while saying, very humbly: “Yes, Fraulein.” One could even say it and kiss her. “Yes, Fraulein” was smart and gallant, like the officers at Ostade.
He was now standing at the foot of her deck chair, blinking obediently, yet with insolence, at the young mistress who reclined before him clad in nothing but a very short bathing suit. At fifteen, Violet von Prackwitz was already fully developed—over-developed if one considered her age, her heavy bosom, fleshy hips and vigorous bottom. She had the soft flesh, the too-white skin of the lymphatic, and, in addition, somewhat protruding eyes like her mother’s, of a pale blue, a sleepy blue. The dear innocent child had raised her naked arms, stretched herself; it didn’t look at all bad, the bitch was handsome and, hang it all, what a body to cuddle.
Sleepily, sensually, through half-closed eyes, she searched the bailiff’s face. “Well, why are you looking like that?” she demanded. “At mixed bathing I wear nothing else. Don’t be stupid.” She studied his face.
“Mamma ought to see us both here.…”
He struggled with himself. The sun burned madly, vibrated, dazzled. Now she stretched herself again and he made a step toward her. “Vi, oh, Vi.”
“Why, oh why?” she laughed. “No, no, Herr Meier, you’d better stand nearer the ladder.” And now she was the daughter of the house again. “You’re funny. You seem to imagine things. I have only to call out and Mamma’s at her window.” Then, when she saw that he obeyed her: “You needn’t send carriages to the station today. Probably tomorrow morning to meet the first train. But Papa will telephone again.”
A moment ago she had understood quite well, the cheeky bitch. Had only wanted to exhibit herself and torment him. But wait, I’ll get you yet.
“Why don’t you gather in the harvest?” asked the young girl who was to be eloped with and secretly married.
“Because the laborers have to sheave it first.” Rather surly.
“And if there’s a storm and it all gets wet, Papa will be in a terrible temper.”
“And if I bring in the crop and there’s no storm, he’ll also be in a temper.”
“But there will be a storm.”
“One can’t be certain.”
“But I know.”
“So Fraulein wishes me to get the crop in?”
“Not at all.” She laughed boisterously, her full bosom positively jumping in her bathing dress. “So that you could blame me afterward if it doesn’t suit Papa! No, blunder as much as you like, but don’t put the blame on others.”
She looked at him with an air of benevolent superiority. This flapper of fifteen years was amazingly impudent. Why? Because she happened to be born a von Prackwitz, heiress of Neulohe—for no other reason.
“Then I can go, Fraulein?” asked Black Meier.
“Yes, be sure and don’t neglect your work.” She had rolled on one side and looked at him mockingly.
He moved off.
“Hi, Herr Meier,” she called.
“Yes, Fraulein?” There was nothing he could do about it.
“Are you carting manure?”
“No, Fraulein.”
“Then why do you smell so queer?”
It took him quite a while to grasp that she meant his perfume. Then, without a word, but red with fury, he turned round and descended the ladder as quickly as he could.
What a bitch! One oughtn’t to have anything to do with such a bitch. The Reds were quite right—against the wall with the whole insolent rag, tag, and bobtail! Aristocracy be damned! Insolence, impudence, nothing but arrogance.…
He was down the ladder, walking away with short, furious legs. Then a voice sounded again, a voice from heaven, the voice of the young lady: “Herr Meier!”
He started, full of fury—and again he couldn’t do anything about it. “Yes, Fraulein?”
Her voice was very ungracious. “I’ve told you three times you’re not to shout like that. You’ll wake Mamma.” Then, impatient: “Come up again.”
Meier climbed the ladder once more, full of bile. Yes, hopping up and down like a tree frog, with you calling the weather. But wait till I get you. I’ll jilt you and leave you with a baby, without a penny. Nevertheless he stood smartly upright. “Please, Fraulein?”
