Tales from the Underworld

by Hans Fallada

  Years later, he was called to the bedside of a gravely ill patient, and each man failed to recognize the other – or, if you prefer, the doctor did not recognize the erstwhile agent, who over time had himself become a rich, if very sick man. The doctor treated his new patient with all his skill and with much sacrifice of time and attention, and finally he was able to save the man from almost certain death. Afterwards he sent him his bill, not excessive but substantial. Even though he had long been comfortably off, he couldn’t help but relish each large sum of money that came in, and he made plans as to how to invest it. Because at the bottom of his heart he had remained the frugal man of yore, who was upset by each foolishly spent mark.

  He was therefore astounded when, instead of the expected sum of money or cheque, he was sent a receipt, confirming the payment of eighty marks plus compound interest for information concerning a general practice. It took a while before it dawned on him what eighty marks were being referred to here, and that the agent had recognized in the celebrated doctor the young medical student who had once stood in his office. Now the doctor could easily have gone to law for the non-payment of his bill, but he was ashamed in front of the world and his patient, but most of all himself. So this once he renounced the large sum and crossed it from his records. But he wasn’t quite able to cross it from his memory, and the older he got the more he regretted the excessive meanness of his youth.

  The moral here is: it’s never good to take advantage of someone, and any satisfaction from doing so will be short-lived. And note furthermore: one shouldn’t think every person a fool, but excessive suspicion also brings harm – a little trust helps. And note finally: there is such a thing as excessive parsimony!

  5 The Stolen Grey

  This story happened not long ago in the Mark of Brandenburg.

  A farmer, who had neither draught animals nor money, cast about to see where he might find a suitable horse. He found one finally in a fairly distant village, and one night he set off and stole the horse, a grey, from its stable.

  While still in the forest, he dyed the horse black, and kept it in his own stable until the talk about the bold theft had died down. Then he took his black horse out of his stable and put him to work; he told his neighbour he had acquired him at a sale in the local county town.

  One day, a stranger stood on his land, and stood there quite impassive, watching the farmer ploughing the stony ground. When the farmer had to stop to roll a large stone out of the furrow, the stranger lent him a hand, and said: ‘That’s a good team you’ve got there. But your black, it seems to me, is a little bit old for this sort of work.’

  The farmer laughed and replied that the black was a young stallion not yet seven years old. The other disputed this, reached into the horse’s mouth to check his age. Then he nodded and said: ‘You were right. He’s not yet seven years old – I can see it by the missing canine tooth. Just like my own grey, which was stolen.’

  Thereupon neither man spoke for a while. The farmer was expecting accusations and had his avowals of innocence all ready. But no accusation followed; instead the other farmer finally said: ‘Since you seem to like working with horses, you won’t mind carrying some timber of mine out of the forest. Lord knows, I don’t seem to be able to get around to it this year! I’m missing my grey, and am getting behindhand with everything. Well, at least you can help me with the timber. Here’s the form for the wood!’

  And the man was gone before the horse thief, the form for the timber in his hands, could say a word. He scratched his head, but finally decided to oblige the other fellow, happy to have got away so cheaply, because he was rather frightened of the law and of prison.

  All spring and all summer he carted timber out of the forest with his horse for the other man, who seemed to own a lot there, and kept buying more. In the meantime, his own work was neglected, it had to be done roughly and hurriedly in the evenings and with a tired horse, and his business went downhill. Sometimes he felt like holding out against the other fellow, who had had much more from him than the worth of his grey, but in the manner of most thieves he was a coward, and didn’t dare open his mouth.

  Finally – it was autumn by now, and the last load of timber had been delivered to his yard – the robbed farmer said: ‘There now, we’re evens. Away with you and your black grey or your grey black and don’t do it again!’ The farmer went, but he could take no pleasure in his grey black, and sold it on as soon as an opportunity to do so presented itself.

  The moral: however clever you think you are, someone else is always cleverer! And also: even the most profitable theft is bad business. It makes you poorer instead of richer, both inside and out.

  6 The Three Drinking Companions

  This is an old story, but it’s always worth retelling; it’s useful to everyone.

  Once upon a time in Berlin, three men were sitting over strong drink and cards. They were all of them young and not long married, and hadn’t yet given up their bachelor habit of meeting once a week for a drink. It had got late, and the landlord was making unmistakable signs of wanting to close, so they had to go, even though they would have liked to sit a while yet, wine-reddened faces and all.

  As they went, one of them said he was in no particular hurry to get home. He wasn’t looking forward to the reception he would get from his wife. The second chimed in: his wife too would have a go at him every time he stayed up late drinking, and for days afterwards would not only not have a kind word for him, but not even a decent meal.

  The third laughed at their wine-loosened confessions, and sang the praises of his own wife, who never minded how drunk he was when he came home, was invariably sweet-natured and forgiving. And when his friends doubted that a wife could be so indulgent, he invited them to come home with him. Let them see for themselves what sort of welcome he had!

  So they marched off to the home of this third of their group, who, on reaching his front door, wanted to show his drinking buddies how wild he could be: instead of ringing, he hammered at the door with his stick so hard that he smashed the little pane of glass.

  In spite of that, his young wife opened the door with a happy smile, let him know how glad she was to see him home, and greeted his two companions as though there was nothing pleasanter for her than such drunken visits after midnight.

  Her husband, however, roared at his wife to make them some coffee and bring them something to eat, and meanwhile set the schnapps bottle out on the table. That too the wife did with a good grace, while the husband went on drinking and bragging that he could do anything he liked without hearing an ill word. He didn’t seem to notice how his two companions failed to keep pace with him, but sat in front of their glasses with long faces.

  When the wife came back with coffee and a quickly assembled snack, the husband jumped up and scolded her for being a slowcoach, and shoved her out onto the corridor, then out of the flat altogether: she was to stand outside and wait till they were done, and not disturb them.

  Now he thought he had shown his friends his full authority. But one of them stood up and called him a coarse brute, and too much was too much. If you were being scolded you had a right to stick up for yourself; but laying into pure love out of wanton excess struck him as low and cowardly. The other nodded in agreement, and the two of them left their friend, who was half-perplexed and half-embarrassed because the affair had ended so differently from how he had expected. Finally, shame prevailed in him, and from that hour forth he was never rough with his wife again, but learned to appreciate and be thankful for her love.

  The second man was able to induce his young wife to give up her scolding, by desisting from drink. With the third man, though, everything remained as it was, the drinking and the scolding, either because his desire to better himself was just momentary, or because his wife was not willing to change.

  Learn therefore: victories won by force are not lasting. Lasting victories are only obtained by love and patience and common sense. And learn this, wife: mere scolding just
makes your husband’s ears deaf; if you must scold, then scold lovingly!

  7 The Wise Shepherd

  This story happened a few years ago, in the province of Mecklenburg.

  A recently married couple were deeply troubled when the wife, in the middle of the May of their love, began to sicken and pine. She would turn pale, then red, had less appetite than a sparrow, and often had melancholy moods – she had no idea why. After a time, they were afraid she was gravely ill from a lung condition.

  Since they had neither friends nor relatives in the village, they didn’t know where to go for help. She had never been to see a doctor in all her life, and she blushed furiously at the thought of undressing in front of a stranger. She felt her sickness as a kind of disgrace that she had kept concealed as long as possible from her husband, and wouldn’t even admit it to her father, who lived in the house with them.

  In her desperation, they hit upon a solution that struck them as promising. There was a wise shepherd whose praises were sung throughout the village and all over the surrounding countryside; he was said to be able to identify any illness from examining the patient’s water, and to be able to prescribe draughts and tinctures against any malady. The husband was sent off to see the shepherd with a little bottle in his pocket.

  He set off soon after breakfast, because he had a long way ahead of him. As he approached his destination, he met others going to the same man, because this wise shepherd drew invalids as a flame draws moths. They all discussed their various afflictions and the great wisdom of the shepherd, which he had inherited from his father and his grandfather before him, and they didn’t stop their talk when they came to the shepherd’s house, which was most unshepherdlike, but stood there like a splendid villa. Chattering away among themselves, the fools failed to notice how relatives and helpers of the shepherd were among them, listening to their every word and quickly bearing it to the wise shepherd in support of his wisdom.

  When our young husband finally stood trembling before the great man, and passed him his little flagon, he said with barely a look at it: ‘This is the water of a woman in an interesting condition. There is nothing wrong with your wife, but she’s going to have a baby!’ With that he gave the young man a bottle containing some green syrup said to promote an easy birth, took ten marks for his trouble, and packed him off home.

  How happy and relieved was the young husband when he trotted home. All his worries about a lung condition were taken from him, all he felt was pride that he was soon to be a father. His thoughts ran ahead of his feet, and he couldn’t get back quickly enough to tell his wife the good news.

  At last he was home. His wife was waiting for him at the garden gate, eager to hear his news. He took her inside, and proudly told her she need have no worries about anything, and she was having a baby. The young woman was just as delighted as he was, and they were just embracing in their happiness and good fortune when sudden loud laughter sundered them.

  It was their respective father and father-in-law who, still laughing, said: ‘And your wise shepherd was able to see that in the water in the little bottle?! Well, I’ll admit it: I’d long been observing your secrecy, and was annoyed not to be taken into your confidence. So this morning I secretly switched the water in the bottle, and your wise shepherd managed to see that I, a man of sixty-eight, am shortly to bring a child into the world!’ And the old man went off into another cackling peal of laughter.

  The two young people had heard him, blushing and silent, but now the woman began to wail: she didn’t know what the matter was with her, and maybe she did have a lung condition and wasn’t long for this world. The father had to comfort her for a long time before she calmed down, and she didn’t feel completely sure until she held her baby in her arms.

  The moral: too much bashfulness can be foolish. And this too: not everyone whom people are pleased to call wise is wise.

  8 The Ladder in the Cherry Tree

  Here is another tale of the wise shepherd that happened a few years ago in Mecklenburg.

  A farmer’s son fell off his ladder while picking cherries, and broke his leg. The doctor from the local town set the leg in plaster; but because the farmer was a man who liked his little jokes, he took a bottle of his son’s water and went with it to the wise shepherd, of whom it was said he could diagnose any illness by the water of the sufferer.

  On the way he ran into acquaintances and told them blatheringly what a hard nut he was going to give the wise shepherd to crack, and how the little bottle would be a riddle for him.

  When the farmer stood before the wise shepherd, the man had long ago been told what was coming. The shepherd pondered the little bottle thoughtfully for a long time, shook it, and finally said: ‘This is the water of a young man who fell off a ladder while picking cherries, and has broken his leg.’

  The farmer was greatly astonished by the wisdom of the shepherd, but wanted to make absolutely sure, and so he asked: ‘Can you tell me, shepherd, how great was his fall?’

  The wise shepherd gave the bottle another thoughtful shake, and then said: ‘He fell from the eighth rung.’

  ‘That’s not true!’ cried the farmer triumphantly. ‘He fell from the fourteenth!’

  ‘I see,’ said the shepherd coolly. ‘And did you bring me all the young man’s water, farmer?’

  ‘No,’ the farmer had to admit. ‘I had to leave some at home. It wouldn’t all go in the bottle.’

  ‘There!’ said the shepherd. ‘In the water you left at home are the remaining six rungs, which I can’t see here.’

  With that the farmer had to accept defeat, and he had all the laughers against him.

  The moral: even a great rogue will find his master. And also: a quick-witted reply can achieve more than any amount of scheming.

  9 The Parrot Feather

  This story took place in the city of Berlin in our time.

  A poor man in the city was thinking sorrowfully of the approaching sixth birthday of his young son, because he didn’t know what he would give him as a present out of his small earnings, because everything was so expensive. He would like to send him something particularly nice, because the boy was living with his mother far away in the countryside, and he missed him very much.

  Finally the man heard from colleagues at work that a certain shop was selling sweets at such and such a price. He also heard of a woman who knitted children’s clothes for so and so much. He did his sums and did them again, and found that if he gave up smoking and generally tightened his belt, he would be able to send his son some sweets and knitted clothes in a few weeks.

  In his pleasure, he sat down and wrote his son a birthday letter, announcing a parcel with presents. His mother was to read the letter to him. When the letter had been sent, he felt every bit as pleased with himself as though he had already mailed the parcel with the presents. Perhaps it was for that reason that he didn’t economize as rigorously as he needed to, and that when he went to the shop the sweets had long since disappeared from sale, and when he went to the woman it turned out that she did indeed knit clothes, but only if she were given wool, which he didn’t have.

  Angrily the man went home. His wife had written to him that the boy was looking forward to the parcel from his father, and asking her ten times a day if it hadn’t come yet. The man didn’t know what to do. He had nothing to send, and didn’t dare admit that he hadn’t sent the parcel. Finally he calmed down: they would think the parcel had been lost in the post, and he spent his money on bread and cigarettes.

  More time passed, and a letter came from his wife, asking whether he had really mailed the parcel. The boy was asking after it incessantly. The man didn’t dare tell the truth; he wrote cursorily and not very nicely that of course the parcel had been sent. He wasn’t responsible for the sluggish state of the post, and the parcel would arrive one day. Whereupon his wife replied that the boy was asking less often now, probably he had given up hope, and one day he would forget about it altogether.

  The man felt
ashamed when he read the letter, he for his part could certainly not forget the parcel. Shortly afterwards he found a gaudy parrot feather at his place of work. He picked it up and looked at it, and he saw that it wasn’t a dyed feather for playing cowboys and Indians, but a genuine parrot feather, and he thought straight away how happy his son would be about this feather. At the most he would have seen pictures of parrots in picture books.

  He hid the feather among his papers, and that evening he sat down and wrote his son another letter to go with the parrot feather. But while he was writing the letter, he went through a strange process. He had wanted to tell his son about parrots and what they look like and what they like to eat and how they learn to speak, but each time he wrote the German word Papagei he could hear his little son saying ‘Papa’. He felt he was no longer a proper father deserving the name, but just someone unfairly laying claim to it: like a parrot who spouts things it doesn’t understand at the wrong time for applause.

  He left off the description of a parrot’s life, and now told his son the truth about the parcel, and how it was almost entirely his own fault. Even though he could feel his confession humanizing the child’s idolatrous view of its father, he felt a deep relief as he wrote, and this feeling only grew stronger when he sealed the envelope and posted the letter with the feather. He felt like someone who had been in prison for a long time who has finally decided to admit his guilt, and whose confession feels to him like an acquittal.

  The actual acquittal came with the next letter from his wife, who told him how the boy’s pleasure in the colourful feather had made him forget all about the parcel. The feather was so much nicer!

  The moral: good intentions are not good actions. Don’t plume yourself with intentions! And note also: no one is so strong that a sincere admission of guilt doesn’t make him even stronger.