Authors: Hans Fallada
“The Rittmeister gave an emphatic order not to!” replied Armgard, a little offended. “Rittmeister and Fräulein Violet were very careful indeed not to disturb madam. They came down the stairs on tiptoe and only whispered during breakfast.”
Frau von Prackwitz could see all too well that heroic pair who out of pure charity would not wake her up. Yes, she might have interfered with their trip; she might even have gone with them! The cowards!
“Then there was, to be sure, the big rumpus,” said Armgard softly, with a very sanctimonious face.
Frau von Prackwitz chose to ignore this. Yesterday she had had all the noise she wanted; she had no desire to hear about any more.
“Did my husband say at all when he would be back?”
“The Rittmeister thought that he wouldn’t be here for dinner,” replied Armgard, looking at her expectantly. It was obvious that she knew about the quarrel with Achim; no doubt all the village, her own parents as well, knew about it by now. She would have to accustom herself soon to having everyone looking at her as if she were now half a widow, half a deserted wife.…
“Very well, Armgard,” said Frau Eva, enlivened in spite of herself by all this tomfoolery. “Then you can slice up the cold fillet from Sunday, with runner beans. There will be enough for our small number.” She counted on her fingers. “Myself, Lotte, you, that’s three, Hubert four—there will be quite enough.”
There was a pause, the maid silently regarding her mistress, a look which was really just a trifle disturbing. Frau von Prackwitz was on the point of smiling when she put her cup down. She would not be looked at like that by anyone. “Well? Why are you looking at me like that, Armgard?” she demanded.
“Oh, Lord, madam!” Armgard turned red. “Madam need not count Hubert in; the Rittmeister gave him notice this morning. That’s the reason there was such a rumpus. We could hear it even in the kitchen. Not that we wanted to, but—”
“Where is Hubert?” Frau von Prackwitz stopped the flow of words with a gesture. “Has he gone?”
“Oh, no, madam. He’s downstairs, packing his things.”
“Send him here. Tell him I want to speak with him.”
“Madam, Hubert threatened the Rittmeister that he—”
“Armgard! I don’t want any tales from you. Call Hubert.”
“Very good, madam!” Armgard, deeply offended, withdrew.
Frau Eva walked to and fro, waiting. Breakfast, of course, was now over. She’d known ever since she got up that today would be a loss. She walked to and fro feeling as she had done last night—everything was crumbling, disintegrating, while she stood impotently to one side and could do nothing. It was certainly not this ninny of a Hubert! She had never been his friend. A dozen times it would have given her the greatest pleasure to be rid of the freakish perverse fellow; moreover she had a physical repulsion to him. As a healthy woman she had always felt that things were not altogether right with that young man, quite apart from the maids’ talk of his strangeness.
Well, he had been dismissed, probably because of some enormous crime such as an egg too hard or a teaspoon not picked up when dropped. In his present humor Achim would find cause for an outburst of fury in anything. But it all happened so quickly, without warning; nothing new came into her life, only the old went away, constantly went away. It was like sitting on an ice floe from which piece after piece splits off until there is nothing left. Once you had parents with whom you got on not well but bearably—and now no longer. You had a husband and a daughter—and now no longer. You had a business in the country—when were you last there? You had a comfortable home. And now, here you are sitting alone at the breakfast table, your servant dismissed, and the doors between the individual bedrooms carefully locked during the night.
A feeling of despair, an impotent grief, rose in her. Had there ever been a time when life was so little worth living? It made you itch to do something. Something just had to be done to get out of this morass. But somehow everything one did mysteriously only sucked you deeper in. Any action turned against itself.
Armgard stood in the door—half embarrassed, half defiant. “Hubert says he is no longer in service here. He says it’s not necessary for him to come.”
“We’ll see about that!” cried Frau Eva passionately, reaching the hall in five steps.
“Madam! Please, madam!” implored the maid.
“What is it then?” she asked crossly. “No more tittle-tattle, Armgard!”
“But madam ought to know,” said the girl coming close in order to speak softly. “Hubert did threaten the Rittmeister so! About an arms dump. Rittmeister was quite pale.”
“And you saw that from the kitchen in the basement?” asked Frau Eva sarcastically.
“But the dining-room door was open, madam!” Armgard was deeply insulted. “I was just going up to fetch a collared ham and the door happened to be open. I’m not inquisitive, madam. I only wanted to help.”
“All right, Armgard,” said Frau Eva, about to go.
“But, madam, you don’t know! Hubert was talking about a letter. A letter from the Fräulein. It was something to do with an arms dump.”
“Rubbish,” said Frau Eva unceremoniously, and went down into the basement. All rubbish and keyhole eavesdropping. Hubert had obviously listened behind the door yesterday, when she was talking with her husband about the car and the
Putsch
, and he now wanted to be revenged for his dismissal. She would soon put Hubert in his place. But to say that Vi of all people had been writing letters about an arms dump! That was the sort of absolute nonsense which might be expected from keyholes.
The dismissed servant was bending over a suitcase on his bed, packing with laborious exactness a pair of carefully folded trousers; he was allowing, so to speak, for every millimeter. The bed on which his suitcase lay had already been stripped. Folded in their creases the sheets hung over a chair; nevertheless a large piece of paper was spread out under his suitcase to protect the bed. Minute preciseness to the end—Hubert Räder all over!
At this sight, and still more at seeing his fishlike, impassive face, she lost all desire to attack him. “So you want to leave us, Master Hubert?” she said, with a touch of humor.
Hubert was holding up a waistcoat, examining it against the light, before proceeding to fold it, as was proper, with the lining outside. But he made no attempt to answer, which was not at all proper.
“Well, Hubert?” Frau Eva smiled. “No reply? Are you angry with me, too?”
Hubert laid the waistcoat in the case and took up the jacket. A jacket is a difficult thing to fold. He bent low over it and said nothing.
“Hubert!” She spoke sharply. “Don’t be stupid. Even if you’re angry with the Rittmeister, that’s no reason why you should be rude to me.”
“Madam,” began Hubert solemnly, raising his dejected gray eyes, “the Rittmeister treated me like a slave.…”
“Well, I don’t suppose you said very friendly things to him, either. I’ve been told that you even threatened him.”
“Yes, madam. That is so. Armgard was listening—but it’s true. I am sorry for it. Perhaps madam will be good enough, when the Rittmeister returns, to say that I regret it. I spoke in passion.” He looked as passionate as a lump of wood.
“All right, Hubert. I’ll do that. Now tell me what happened.”
“And the Fräulein’s letter will not be made use of,” went on Hubert unswervingly. “That I promise. Although I shan’t burn it. Not yet.”
“Hubert! Be a good fellow and remember that I am not only an employer against whom you must naturally have some complaints, but also a mother who is often very worried. What is this letter of Violet’s in your possession? Do tell me the truth about it. Stop playing the fool for once, Hubert.”
“Excuse me, madam, I am not playing the fool,” explained Hubert unmoved. “I am like that.”
“All right, then. Tell me in your own way. I shall understand. Please tell me what you know, Hubert.”
He looked at her with his cold dead eyes. Perhaps the grisly fellow was a little happy to have a woman pleading with him; it was not observable, however. After a long silent inspection he shook his head. “No.” And returned to his jacket.
“Hubert, why not, then? You are leaving us, and it can’t do you any harm to tell me now. It would be so helpful perhaps.”
But Hubert Räder was busy with his jacket; he behaved as if he hadn’t heard a thing. After a long pause, however, he said “No” again.
“But why not?” she whispered. “I don’t understand you. What is the matter? Hubert, be amiable. I will give you a splendid recommendation, I’ll ask my relatives about another place for you.…”
“I’m not going into service again,” he explained.
“Well then, Hubert, you’ve said that you don’t want to burn the letter yet; that is, you intend perhaps to use it, perhaps to get money for it. Vi, I suppose, has done something silly. All right, Hubert, I will buy the letter from you, I’ll pay you what you wish … a hundred gold marks … five hundred … a thousand gold marks for a silly letter from a young girl!” Her speech and the suspense in which she watched him were feverish. She hardly thought about what she said. She couldn’t make a judgment any longer about what sort of a letter it might actually be. A mysterious anxiety had seized her, alone with this horrible fellow. How had she been able to put up with him so long? Evil! Evil!
Hubert Räder uncovered his teeth in what no doubt was meant for a smile. At his threatening glance, and the triumph in it, her agitation turned to a dull despair. Slowly he shook his head and for the third time said “No.” Then he looked at the jacket near him on the bed, as if he did not quite understand what it was doing there.
“All right, Hubert,” she said in sudden anger, “the letter isn’t yours. At the moment there are gendarmes here in Neulohe. I will send for one and have your things searched.”
It was the same now as at the beginning, though; the fellow appeared not to hear anything and was occupied only with his packing. Pleas, threats, money—all had been in vain. What else was there? To flatter him, she thought; the fellow must be morbidly conceited. That went against the grain, however; the very thought of humbling herself before him was repulsive.… But she remembered her daughter, the mysterious letter, and that this man perhaps had her in his power.…
“You ought not to lower yourself to this sort of thing, Hubert,” she ventured. (She had wanted to say “Herr Räder,” but it would not come out.) “Someone like you who sets a proper value on himself.…” Hopefully she watched him. His glance turned from the jacket to her; once more there was that lifting of the lips. He had seen through her, and she felt humiliated.
“Excuse me, madam, I don’t think I set much value on myself any longer, which is why I have no more use for money either.” He was apparently satisfied with the effect of his incomprehensible words, for, after a moment’s brooding, he said: “I will send madam the letter on October the second, by post. Madam doesn’t need to pay for it.”
“The day after tomorrow?” She knew that he had not promised her anything good. There was an obscure threat behind his words, something she could not ward off. But when she made to speak, there was a gesture from him, and she was silent at once, because he, the servant, wished it.
“Madam must not question me. I say only what I want to. The Fräulein treated me very badly. I never betrayed her, yet she incited her father to throw me out.… You said I shouldn’t lower myself. I know you only said so to get me to say something. If Fräulein Violet is not out of your sight till early the day after tomorrow, then nothing will happen.”
“She’s gone out.…” she whispered.
After the daughter, the mother. Somehow both came under the man’s spell. What was he? A stupid and a not exceedingly capable servant—the mother had hitherto supported him only with ridicule—but now she wasn’t thinking of making fun of him, she took him only too seriously. Fads and whims? Stupidities? No. Danger, threat, and something somber that only he could know.…
“She’s gone out,” she had whispered.
He nodded, curt, self-assured. “She will be back tonight. Don’t let her out of your sight then, madam, till early the day after tomorrow.” He returned to his packing, and she understood that this was final.
“The best of luck, then, Hubert,” she said. “You will fetch your papers and money from the office?”
He did not reply; he was preoccupied with scrupulously folding up his jacket. A gray and fishlike face, with no discoverable expression—that was the
picture of him she was to take away, which she was to see many times in the future—her last glimpse of Hubert Räder.
She would never forget it.…
III
Leaving his room, she pushed open the door almost into Armgard’s face. The maid screamed and sought to escape, but Frau Eva was extremely indignant. Holding the girl firmly by the arm she gave her notice, abruptly.
“Get your wages and papers from the office. Pack at once. You can go with the milk cart.”
And with that she left her cook, paying no attention to her whining. The thought of having humiliated herself before Räder was bad enough; but to have had an audience, and such a one, was unbearable. Out of my sight! A fierce satisfaction filled her. He had thrown out the servant, and she the cook; everything was falling to pieces. What sort of a household would it seem in the next few days? What sort of meals would the seventeen-year-old Lotte rake together, with seven rooms to look after at the same time? Herr von Prackwitz would be astonished!
She went to the kitchen and disclosed the state of affairs to Lotte. Seven rooms, the cold fillet of beef, the beans, there was some sauce left, asparagus soup and—well, of all things, there stood the washing-up from last night! “My dear girl, don’t you wash up every evening, as I told you to? Why not, then?”
Whereupon Lotte promptly broke into tears. Sobbing, she declared she knew nothing about asparagus soup, that she would never be able to do it, that she wouldn’t let herself be shouted at, that she too would rather leave at once.…
Frau Eva wanted to think over what she had heard from Hubert Räder, what she should do with her daughter, and say to her husband. There were a thousand things to occupy and torment Frau Eva. But no, she must console Lotte and initiate her into the secret of how to make “real” asparagus soup from dried parings, with the aid of a small glass jar of asparagus tips. Finally she promised the disconsolate girl to ask her mother for a maid from the Manor as assistant.… And all the while she had the feeling that the disgusting Armgard was listening behind the kitchen door, delighted at her mistress’s embarrassment.… Seven rooms to be done were in truth a nightmare.