“No, no, Jutta—we must continue with Goethe.”
“Gladly, Belinde. The keys, please.”
Fraulein von Kuckhoff received them. On the top shelf of the wardrobe, with the hats, was hidden a thirty- volume edition of Goethe in half-calf—Frau von Teschow’s confirmation present to her granddaughter, Violet von Prackwitz. Violet’s confirmation already belonged to the distant past, but it was impossible to predict when the Goethe would be handed over to her.
Fraulein von Kuckhoff took down the seventh volume:
“Paste, Jutta!” Frau von Teschow reminded her.
The friend added the little pot of paste, opened the book and at the marked place started to read the poem of the goldsmith’s journeyman.
After the first verse Frau von Teschow nodded approvingly. “This time we’re lucky, Jutta.”
“Wait and see, Belinde,” said Fraulein von Kuckhoff. “Never count your chickens before they are hatched.”
And she read the second verse.
“Good, good!” nodded Frau von Teschow and found the subsequent verses praiseworthy.
Till they came to the lines:
Her little foot peeps in and out,
And calls to mind what is above;
I recollect the garter, too,
I’m giving to my love.…
“Stop, Jutta,” cried Frau von Teschow. “Again!” she lamented. “What do you think, Jutta?”
“I told you so,” declared Fraulein von Kuckhoff. “What’s bred in the bone will come out in the flesh.”
Frau von Teschow waxed indignant. “Even present-day writers aren’t worse. What do you say, Jutta?” But she did not wait for a reply. Sentence was passed. “Paste it up, Jutta, paste it up well—suppose the child should read it!” Fraulein von Kuckhoff was already pasting up the lewdness. “Not much left, Belinde,” she said and held up the volume for scrutiny.
“It’s scandalous.” Frau von Teschow was very indignant. “And such a man regards himself as a classic! Oh, Jutta, why didn’t I buy a Schiller for the child? Schiller is much nobler, far less carnal.”
“Don’t forget the old proverb, Belinde—‘No rose without its thorn.’ Schiller, too, is not good for young people. Think of ‘Intrigue and Love,’ Belinde. And then that female, that Eboli woman.…”
“True, Jutta. Men are all like that. You’ve no idea the trouble I’ve had with Horst-Heinz.”
“Yes,” said the Kuckhoff. “Every pig to its sty. Well, I’ll read on.”
Thank God, next followed the poem about Johanna Sebus, the rescuer. That was really noble; but why the poet referred to
“He ought to have written ‘Sweet Hannah,’ oughn’t he, Horst-Heinz?” For the Geheimrat had just come in. Smirking, he watched the two little women. “He may have considered Hannah as too common,” he suggested after a close examination of the point. In socks and shirt sleeves he paced up and down the room, the book in his hand.
“But why ‘Suschen’?”
“I think, Belinde, Suschen is an abbreviation of Sebuschen. And Sebuschen, you know, Belinde—well, what do you think, Jutta?” The Geheimrat was serious, but the corners of his eyes were twitching. “Sebuschen, Buschen, Busen, Bosom; that, too, sounds indecent, don’t you think?”
“Paste it up, Jutta, paste it up. Suppose such thoughts occurred to the child!” cried Frau von Teschow excitedly. “Oh, there’s simply nothing left.… Horst-Heinz, you must get rid of the Backs woman on the spot.”
“On the spot I’m only going to bed. Besides …”
“I’m going at once,” grumbled the Kuckhoff. “Let me just lock up the Goethe.”
“The Backs woman is already out of the house. I saw her a moment ago in the park.”
“You know quite well what I mean, Horst-Heinz.”
“If I know, then there’s no need to tell me, Belinde.” And with a warning clearing of the throat: “Fraulein von Kuckhoff, may I point out that I’m just about to take off my trousers?”
“Horst-Heinz! Give her time; she must first say good night.”
“I’m going. Good night, Belinde, and don’t worry any more about the meeting. Sleep well. Are the pillows comfortable? The hot-water bottles? …”
“Fraulein von Kuckhoff! I’m taking off my pants, and then I shall be in my shirt. A Prussian Geheimrat in his shirt! You don’t want to—”
“Horst-Heinz!”
“I’m going at once. Sleep well, Belinde. Good night. The Seidlitz powder …”
“Sebuschen—Sweet Bosom!” cried the Geheimrat, now only wearing his shirt. He shrank, however, from shedding this last veil.… Every evening the same comedy with the two old hens! “Oh, these women!” he shouted.
“I wish you good night, Herr Geheimrat,” said Fraulein von Kuckhoff with dignity. “And He created man in His image—that is, a long time ago.”
“Jutta,” weakly protested Frau von Teschow against this disparagement of her Horst-Heinz; but the door had closed behind her friend and not a moment too soon.
“What was the matter with the evening prayers?” inquired the Geheimrat, diving into his nightshirt.
“Do not evade the issue, Horst-Heinz. Tomorrow you must dismiss the Backs.”
The bed groaned under the old gentleman. “It’s your poultry maid and not mine,” he said. “Do you want to burn the light much longer? I want to sleep.”
“You know I cannot bear agitation, and when such a person becomes insolent … You ought to do me a favor for once, Horst-Heinz.”
“Was she insolent during prayers?”
“She’s immoral,” said Frau von Teschow furiously. “She’s always climbing through the window to the bailiff.”
“I believe she’s doing it tonight as well,” said the Geheimrat. “Your prayers seem to have had no effect, Belinde.”
“She must go. She’s incorrigible.”
“And then the to-do with your poultry starts again. You know the position, Belinde. No one else has lost so few chicks or had so many eggs either. And she uses less feed than anyone.”
“Because she’s hand-in-glove with the bailiff.”
“True, very true, Belinde!”
“So she gets much more feed than she notes down.”
“We can’t grumble about that; it’s our son-in-law’s corn. No, no, Belinde, she’s efficient and has a lucky hand. I wouldn’t give her notice if I were you. What business is it of ours what she does of a night?”
“Our home must remain pure, Horst-Heinz!”
“But she goes to him at the staff-house; he doesn’t come here.”
“Horst-Heinz!”
“Well, it’s true, anyhow.”
“You know quite well what I mean. She’s so brazen!”
“She is,” admitted the Geheimrat, yawning. “However, that’s always the same. The efficient people put up with the least nonsense. That little fellow Meier, her friend—you can kick him in the behind for hours on end and he only grows more polite.”
Since Frau von Teschow refused to hear any coarse expressions from her husband, she missed the word “behind.” “Then tell Joachim to send the fellow away. Then I can keep the Backs.”
“If I tell my grand son-in-law to fire his employee,” said the old gentleman pensively, “he’ll keep him till his dying day. But cheer up, Belinde, I believe Amanda’s friend will be fired tomorrow.… And if he isn’t, then I’ll praise
