by Hans Fallada
“No, this evening it’s really impossible, Belinde! And besides—for your sake I listen every blessed Sunday to what old Lehnich tells us from the pulpit. I must say it sounds quite nice, but it doesn’t give me any clear ideas, Belinde. And I don’t believe you get any, either. The only notion I get is that we shall one day be angels flying about in heaven, you and I, Belinde, in white shirts like the pictures in the big illustrated Bible …”
“You’re mocking again, Horst-Heinz.”
“God forgive me, not in the least. And I’ll meet my old Elias there, and he too will be flapping around and singing eternally, and then he’ll whisper to me: ‘Well, Geheimrat, you’re lucky. Had I told the Lord about your red wine and the wicked language you’ve used at times …’ ”
“True, Horst-Heinz, very true!”
“And all without any class distinction and on the most familiar footing, in a kind of nightshirt and with goose wings. Excuse me, Belinde, they really are goose wings. It ought to be swan’s wings, but swans and geese are very much the same.”
“Yes, go upstairs by all means, Horst-Heinz, and write your important business letters. I know you’ll only sneer—not at religion, but at me. Well, I don’t mind that; I can stand it. Perhaps it’s better so. Because if you really mocked at religion you would be an outcast forever and ever—but if you sneer at me you’re only being discourteous. And you can do that, for we’ve been married forty-two years and I’m thus quite used to a discourteous husband!”
With that the old lady bustled off to the chapel, leaving the old gentleman laughing on the landing. The deuce, I’ve got it again hot and strong, he thought. But she’s right—and I’ll go to one of her meetings tomorrow or the day after. It livens her up a bit, and once in a while one ought to do something for a wife, even though one’s been married for forty-two years. If only she wouldn’t get the hiccups as soon as she’s upset. It’s exactly like somebody getting a cannon at billiards—I can’t stand that clicking sound, and I can’t bear her hiccups—I keep on waiting for them. Well, I’ll do some of my accounts. I fancy my son-in-law pays much too little for the electric current …
With that the Geheimrat went upstairs to his study and three minutes later was wrapped in the smoke of a Brazilian cigar, immersed in his belligerent accounts, an old but incurable fighter. The accounts, however, were belligerent because he wanted them to assault his son-in-law with. Who, according to his father-in-law, paid much too little for everything; and according to himself, much too much. Electricity included.
Neulohe was not connected up with any area system, but generated its own current. The generating machine, an up-to-date crude-oil Diesel motor, with its batteries, stood in the Manor cellar, and because of this was not leased to the son-in-law, who was the chief user, but retained by the old gentleman for himself, although he burned only “three miserable lamps in his old hut.” The arrangement about the price of the current was also quite simple: each party had to pay his share of the cost according to the amount consumed.
But even the simplest, clearest arrangement fails when two parties cannot stand one another. Old Herr von Teschow considered that his son-in-law was no farmer, but a grand Herr von Have-Not, who wanted to live comfortably on his father-in-law’s pocketbook. Rittmeister von Prackwitz regarded his father-in-law as a grasping skinflint, and a good deal more “plebeian” than he could bear, at that. The old gentleman saw his ready money dwindle in the inflation and, as the savings of years became worthless, all the more desperately did he chase after fresh sources of revenue. The Rittmeister noticed how, month by month, it became more difficult to carry on, saw the money which came from the harvest vanishing in his hand, was worried, and found the old gentleman miserly in that he was forever coming along with new claims, objections and reproaches.
On the whole, Geheimrat von Teschow found that his son-in-law lived much too well. “Why doesn’t he smoke, as I do, cigars which one can draw at for an hour? No, he must have cigarettes, those coffin-nails which stain your fingers and are puffed away in three minutes. After the war he came here with only an officer’s trunk, and no more in it than his soiled linen. No, Belinde, if anyone pays for his cigarettes it’s us—but of course, he doesn’t pay for them at all, he buys them on credit.”
“All young people smoke cigarettes nowadays,” Belinde remarked, thereby rousing her husband properly. Wives—in fact married people generally—have a special knack of making irritating remarks.
“I’ll teach him! He’s not as young as all that any longer,” cried the Geheimrat finally, nearly blue in the face. “My dear son-in-law shall learn how difficult it is to earn money.”
And so the old gentleman was sitting at his desk and calculating with the idea of earning more money himself. He reckoned what his electric-light plant would cost if he purchased it today at a dollar rate of 414,000 marks, and this purchase price he distributed over ten years. For the plant would certainly not last any longer, and even if it should, he wanted to write it off within that period.
Quite a pretty little sum stood on paper; even charged at the rate of only a twelfth part every month, it still showed a huge figure with very many noughts.
My son-in-law will stare tomorrow morning, said the Geheimrat to himself, on reading these glad tidings. He won’t have any money, of course; the little he still had will have been left behind in Berlin. But I’ll press him so that he starts threshing soon; then I’ll get the threshing money out of him, and he can wait and see how he’ll get through the winter.
The hatred the old man felt toward his son-in-law was incomprehensible. Formerly the two had got on quite well, when the Rittmeister was still an officer living in some remote garrison, or later, during the war, when they had met once in a while. Hatred had only arisen since the son-in-law had lived in Neulohe as its tenant. Since the Prackwitz’s family life had played itself out under the eyes of the old gentleman.
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 Oder-Zeitung. But he did not get as far as reading, for the first glance showed that the dollar no longer stood at 414,000, but at 760,000 marks. That really ought to have annoyed him—he should have looked at the newspaper before starting his calculations—because now he would have to do them all over again. Yet he was not annoyed. With a sense of enjoyment he set about the new reckoning—it meant that his son-in-law would only have to pay more.
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 a
bout 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 the fox says ‘Good Night.’ You oughtn’t to behave so foolishly, Minna. The cook weighs at least two hundredweights, and so it’s difficult enough for her to get a man—you can’t blame her for standing about like an angel made of soft soap. But you with your six ragamuffins with at least ten different fathers!”
“Indeed, Amanda! Don’t be so low,” protested Black Minna. “Madam means well.”
“I seem to hear the word scram,” said Amanda Backs again, breaking off the discussion. That the old lady should have appointed Black Minna as spy was really too ridiculous. But everyone knew how childishly she fussed over that aged slatternly female. Whenever Minna got into trouble again—and the old lady noticed it only when the midwife arrived, although with such a scraggy, bony woman it had long been apparent to everyone else—then the mistress flew into a passion, abused the woman and once again cast her off forever and ever, telling her to remove from the almshouse where she lived, as utterly incorrigible.
Then Minna would shriek and carry on terribly. Sobbing, she would load her possessions on a little handcart—not everything, however, only enough
to impress madam, but not forgetting a single one of her many children—and march through the village howling, and singing hymns. For the last time she would call at the Manor, push the brass bell-knob and ask Elias with many tears to give the dear good lady her blessings and gratitude. And could she be allowed to kiss her hands in farewell?
Thereupon Elias, who knew this play by heart, would say “No.” Whereupon Black Minna wept even more bitterly and departed with her fatherless children into the cold wide world, as far away as the curbstone at the Manor gateway. There she sat and wept and waited and, according to the extent of her mistress’s anger, had to sit one, two, or even five hours, and sometimes as long as half a day.
But she knew she would not wait forever, and if she had not known by experience, she could always tell by the curtains in the house. For the old lady opened and closed them with her trembling hands and could not refrain from gazing on her erring sheep.
But if the scandal happened to be a bad one, and Frau von Teschow had learned from the village magistrate via her husband that this time three men were definitely involved and perhaps even five—not to mention those who were shielded out of “sympathy,” for in her relationships Minna distinguished between “sympathetic” men and casuals—then madam hardened her soft, worldly-unwise heart, thought over all this Sodom and Gomorrah business and remembered how often Black Minna had promised to mend her ways.
Then she would let fall the curtain and say to her friend, old Fräulein von Kuckhoff, who lived with her: “No, Jutta, this time I won’t relent. And I won’t look at her out of the window.” And old Fräulein von Kuckhoff, with the black velvet ribbon round her neck, would energetically nod her little vulture-like head and remark in her flowery but precise manner: “Certainly, Belinde—constant dropping wears away even a stone.”
Yes, and half an hour had barely elapsed when there would be a gentle knock at the door. “Pardon me, madam, but I have to report that she’s exposing herself,” old Elias announced.
