The old gentleman was not entirely foolish and obstinate, for he realized how much the Rittmeister toiled and worried. But his son-in-law was a retired cavalry officer and not a farmer, for which reason he often got hold of the wrong end of the stick, and clumsily at that. Moreover, he was often too easy-going and sometimes impulsive. Besides which, he wore suits made to his measurements by a very expensive London tailor, and shirts which were buttoned from top to bottom (“Revoltingly effeminate”—although no woman ever had such a garment), while the old Geheimrat wore only coarse homespuns and Jaeger shirts. Yes, there were ten or twenty objections to the Rittmeister. But each by itself, or the sum of them, was insufficient reason for such a hatred.
Geheimrat von Teschow had finished his calculations; he would write the letter to his son-in-law after having a look at the
I’ll finish him off yet, he thought for a fleeting moment, and the hand which held the pen stopped short, as if it had been frightened. Then it went on with its writing, and the Geheimrat shrugged his shoulders. What a foolish idea! Of course he was not out to ruin Herr von Prackwitz. Prackwitz had only to pay what was right; more was not demanded. For all the Geheimrat cared he could live in the place as he liked, in his silk shirts and breeches!
Through the old Manor sounded the melancholy, yet sometimes almost frivolous, tones of the organ. Geheimrat von Teschow nodded, keeping time with his feet, hurrying up the music. Faster, Belinde, faster! People would fall asleep if she didn’t go faster.
“For he’s not only the Rittmeister von Prackwitz—he’s also our only daughter’s husband,” Belinde had said recently. That was just it! That was the very reason! How like a woman to speak about it as if it were the most natural thing in the world! Our only daughter’s husband!
Now when the old Geheimrat goes through the village and sees a girl, he crows aloud the length of the village street: “Oh, what a charming child! Come over here, my little sweet. Let’s have a look at you. You really are a charmer, my little one. Goodness me, what eyes you’ve got!”
And he strokes her cheeks and chucks her under the chin, all in front of the whole village. And in front of the whole village he goes with her to the shop and buys her a bar of chocolate, or he takes her to the Inn and treats her to a sweet drink. Then he puts his arm around her waist, right in front of everybody. Then he lets her go and goes into the forest smiling with satisfaction.
But he wasn’t smiling because of the girl who, embarrassed yet flattered, had really been delightful. No girl exists anymore on earth who could warm up his old blood. He was smiling because he had once again thrown dust in people’s eyes. Pastor Lehnich will hear about it, and he’ll whisper it to Belinde—and Belinde, poor old hen, will run around as if she’s swallowed a ruler. And no one, but no one, will have any idea.
Except one—the old man himself knows very well. She also feels it; even more, she knows it. He hardly ever sees her anymore, and never by herself. And after the beginning of the bad times, as this problem quite unexpectantly began, he naturally didn’t bother to meet her anymore. No, the Geheimrat knew alright: Hot fires don’t burn in old men anymore. He was nothing but a spark time smothered by ashes.
When a Rittmeister von Have-Not and Cannot but Wants-a-Lot comes along, it must be made clear to him— we haven’t brought up our daughter for your benefit. That’s amazing conceit, thinking we have brought up a daughter, a girl second to none, just for your pleasure. And not only that—one hardly passes the Villa without hearing you shout at Eva. No, my dear son-in-law, we’ll show you; and it doesn’t matter to us that the price of our current is exactly eleven times as high as that of Frankfurt power station; you’ll have to pay up, although—no, because—you are our daughter’s husband.
With angry determination the old man set down his figures. What did he care whether there would be a quarrel? The more quarreling the better. And he would also make another hole in the park fence, so that Belinde’s geese could get into his son-in-law’s vetch. Belinde, up till now, had poured oil on the troubled waters, but if her son-in-law harmed her geese, as he had threatened to do, then she would no longer act as peacemaker.
Yes, Herr Geheimrat Horst-Heinz von Teschow was just in the right mood to write this letter to his son-in- law. It must, of course, be restrained, concise and businesslike, as suited the matter, for one ought not to mix family feeling with financial arrangements.
“Extremely sorry, but the increasingly more difficult conditions on the money market force me, etc. etc. Enclosed statement. With best regards, Yours, H. H. von Teschow.” There! That would do it! Finished! Elias could take the letter across first thing tomorrow morning. Then the gentleman would find it on his return from Berlin. The hangover which he was sure to have brought with him from that place would help in rubbing him up the wrong way.
Herr von Teschow was about to ring for Elias when the organ pealing from below reminded him that devotions were still under way; Belinde was going it tonight very thoroughly. Undoubtedly she had a black sheep in her flock, one who must be guided to penitence before bedtime. He could not call Elias, then. And yet he would very much have liked to see the letter on its way.
As a matter of fact, he knew, of course, who the black sheep was—the little poultry witch, Amanda, with the shining red cheeks. She and Meier with the blubber lips. Recommended as an engaged couple. Well, they’re long past the engagement stage, and well into the marriage bargain. Well, what did it matter?
The Geheimrat grinned a little, and it occured to him that it would be much better to hand the letter to Meier for delivery. That would annoy his son-in-law acutely, for he knew quite well that the old gentleman was fond of an occasional chat with the bailiff. And when he got such a letter through such a go-between he would think, of course, that his father-in-law had already discussed its contents with him. But he would be much too grand to ask his employee right out, naturally, and that again would add to his annoyance.
The old gentleman put the letter in his shooting jacket, took his stick and shaggy hat and went slowly downstairs. The evening devotions seemed to be over; two of the maids passed him on their way upstairs, looking very amused—not at all in a pious mood—rather as if some comic incident had occurred. Von Teschow was about to inquire but changed his mind. If Belinde heard him talking on the stairs she would possibly come out and ask him where he was going, and offer to accompany him. No, better not.
He stepped out into the park, now fairly dark, just made for his purpose. He knew, of course, exactly where his wife’s geese always discovered a hole in the fence, since only the day before yesterday he had stopped it up at her request. But what is shut can be opened, he told himself, and cautiously rattled at the fence. He must find a loose stake which could be broken away.
Suddenly, while he was so employed, he had the feeling that somebody was watching him. Quickly he turned round, and something like a human form did indeed stand near the shrubs. The old gentlemen’s big bulging eyes still saw quite well, even in the dusk. “Amanda!” he called.
But nobody answered, and when he looked more closely there was no human form at all, only the rhododendron and jasmine in the background. Well, never mind. If she had been there it need not and it must not matter to her; he had only been looking to see whether the stakes were firm. But for that evening he refrained from loosening them, and went instead to the staff-house and Meier.
But he preferred not to enter the place; unlike his wife, the old Geheimrat had not the slightest inclination to see things which violated a sense of decorum. With his stick he knocked at the open window. “Hi, Herr Meier! Kindly stick your esteemed nut out of the curtains,” he shouted.
VI
Amanda Backs, the poultry maid, would have preferred to cut evening prayers as she had often enough done before, usually for the more general reason of boredom and of previous engagements, but this time because she could guess at whom madam would be praying and preaching. The fat cook and Black Minna, however, did not allow her out of their sight.
“Come, Amanda, we’ll help you count the hens, and then you can help us with the washing up.”
“I seem to hear the word scram,” said Amanda, meaning by that just what her mother had meant with her “Make yourself scarce.”
But the pair never left her a minute—it was obvious that they were dancing to madam’s tune.
“Always the same,” said Amanda Backs, scolding the few belated hens who, with agitated cacklings, hurried from the meadow to the coop. “You wait, I’ll close the shutter before your very beaks and then you’ll find out how
