Unterm Birnbaum 🍃🌳 – Ein packendes Drama von Theodor Fontane

Unterm Birnbaum 🍃🌳 – Ein packendes Drama von Theodor Fontane

In ‘Under the Pear Tree,’ Theodor Fontane transports us into a dark story full of secrets and hidden conflicts. The young man at its center is shaped by his surroundings and his own feelings. The remote country estate, the gloomy atmosphere, and the unfolding tragedy give this work a gripping tension that captivates the reader until the very last moment . Chapter 1. In front of Abel Hradscheck’s inn and hardware store, which had opened around Michaelmas 20 in the large and wealthy Oderbruch village of Tschechin (as a sign above the door read), sacks were being loaded from the hallway onto a farmer’s wagon drawn by two skinny gray horses . Some of the sacks were loosely tied or had small holes and cracks, and so it was clear from what fell out that they were rapeseed sacks. But on the road next to the wagon stood Abel Hradscheck himself, saying to the farmhand who had just climbed from the wheel onto the shaft: “Now, go ahead, Jacob, and say hello to oil miller Quaas for me. And tell him I should have the oil by the end of the week . Leist in Wrietzen is already waiting. And if Quaas isn’t here, give my regards to the woman and be nice and polite. You know what I’m talking about. And you also know that kittens like compliments.” The one addressed as Jacob simply nodded instead of replying, sat down on the front rapeseed sack, and urged both grey horses on with a sleepy “Whew!”—if urging could even be called that. And now the wagon rattled off to the right down the road, first toward Farmer Orth’s farmstead with its windmill, which marked the end of the village on the Frankfurt side, and then toward the oil mill further out on the Oderbruch Dam. Hradscheck watched the carriage until it disappeared, and only then did he step back into the hallway. This was wide and deep, divided into two halves, separated by a couple of wooden pillars and two hammocks stretched between them . A passage had been left only in the middle. Along
the entrance hall, to the right was the living room, accessed by a step , while to the left was the shop, into which one could see through a large sliding window that took up almost half the wall . This had formerly been the sales outlet, until Mrs. Hradscheck, inclined to show no respect for her, had forbidden trampling on her hallway and insisted on having a proper shop door built, one facing the street. Since then, this entrance hall had exhibited a certain grandeur, while the rear hallway leading to the garden belonged entirely to the shop. Sacks, lemons, and orange crates stood along one wall, while along the other lay barrels stacked one on top of the other, oil drums whose imposing row was interrupted only by a trapdoor leading down to the cellar . A carefully placed wedge held the barrels in order to the right and left , so that the lower row couldn’t roll under the pressure of the one above. That was the hall. But Hradscheck himself, who was just passing through the narrow passage left open between the crates and oil drums, closed, half angrily, half laughing, the trapdoor, which had once again stood open despite his prohibition , and said: “That boy, Ede. When will he get his wits about him!” And with that, he stepped from the hall into the garden. It was already autumnal here; only asters and mignonette bloomed between the boxwood borders, and a bumblebee buzzed around the trunk of an old pear tree that stood in the middle of the garden, right next to the wide central path. A few carrot beds, which, along with a narrow strip of potatoes, ran through an asparagus orchard at this very spot , had already been dug up again, a breath of fresh air was blowing, and a black-and-yellow cat belonging to the widow Jeschke, who lived next door , was skulking, presumably in search of sparrows, through the asparagus beds that were already in full bloom, Hradscheck, however, was oblivious. Instead, he walked between the borders, calculating and weighing, and only then came to contemplate and Awareness, when, having reached the end of the garden, he looked around and now saw the back of his house before him. There it lay, clean and pleasant, to the left the bowling alley extending from the street into the garden , to the right the courtyard and the kitchen building, which he had recently added to the shop. The smoke, barely stirred by the wind, rose in the sunlit air and created an image of happiness and peace. And all of this was his! But for how long? He pondered anxiously and only came to his senses when, a few steps away from him, he heard a large Malvasia pear, detaching itself due to its weight and ripeness, clatter with a peculiarly dull sound . For it had fallen not onto the hard central path, but onto one of the dug-up carrot beds. Hradscheck walked over to it, bent down , and had barely picked up the pear when he heard a voice calling to him from the side : “Dag, Hradscheck.” Yes, it’s time now. The mallows are all coming from the south.” He turned at this call and saw that his neighbor, Mrs. Jeschke, whose small, somewhat retrofitted house overlooked his garden, was looking over the raspberry fence from across the street. “Yes, Mother Jeschke, it’s about time,” said Hradscheck. “But who’s going to take the pears? Of course, if your Line were here, she could help. But you don’t have anyone, and you have to do everything yourself.” “Well, you’ve got the boy, Ede.” “Yes, I do. But he only picks for himself.” “That’s how it should be,” laughed the old woman. “One in the pot, one in the crop.” And with that, she hobbled back to her house, while Hradscheck also entered the hallway from the garden. Here he now gazed thoughtfully at the spot where the rapeseed sacks had stood half an hour earlier, and there was something in his eyes as if he wished they were still in the same place, or that new ones had grown out of the ground in their place. He then counted the row of barrels, called a short order into the shop as he passed, and immediately afterwards entered his living room opposite. This, in addition to its homely appearance, also made a peculiar impression, namely because everything in it was far better and more elegant than befitting a shopkeeper and village materialist. The two small sofas were upholstered in a light blue satin fabric, and against the mirror pillar stood a narrow trumeau, lacquered white and with a gold frame. Indeed, the picture hanging in a mahogany frame above the small piano —apparently an engraving after Claude Lorrain—was a sunset with temple ruins and antique scenery, so that one could justifiably ask how it all came to be there. The only thing that would have been suitable was a lectern with a grille and a peephole above it, through which one could see across the hall to the large sash window. Hradscheck put the lamp down in front of him and leafed through the account book that lay open on the desk. Everything was quiet around him, and only from the half-open back room did he hear the chiming of a Black Forest clock. It was almost as if the ticking bothered him; at least he walked toward the door, apparently to close it. When he looked in, however, he was surprised to see his wife sitting in the back room, dressed in black as usual but carefully, like someone who knows a thing or two about dressing up and dressing up. She was busily weaving a wreath, while a second, already finished one hung on the back of a chair. “You here, Ursel! And wreaths! Whose birthday is it?” “No one. It’s not a birthday. It’s just a death anniversary, the anniversary of your children’s deaths. But you forget everything.” Not you.” “Oh, Ursel, leave it. My head is full of wonders. You must n’t reproach me. And then the children. Well, they’re dead, but I can’t mourn and complain that they are. On the contrary, it’s a blessing.”
“I don’t understand you.” “And that’s only too understandable. I don’t know what to do and I’m worried about everything.” “About what? Because you have nothing good to do and don’t know how to to spend the day. Spend, I say, because I don’t want to offend you and talk about killing time. But tell me yourself, if the wine bar over there is full, then you won’t lack anything. Ah, the damned game, the constant knuckling and tucky-tucky. And if you were still lucky to play! Yes, Hradscheck, I must tell you, if you want to play, at least play lucky. But an innkeeper who doesn’t play lucky must stay away from it, otherwise he’ll be thrown out of the house and farm. And on top of that, the drinking, always the heavy-handed Hungarian, until late into the night.” He didn’t answer, and only after a while did he take the wreath hanging over the back of the chair and say, “Pretty. Everything you do has style. Oh, Ursel, I wish you had better days.” With that, he approached her kindly and stroked her with his white, fleshy hand. She let him have his way, and when she, as if soothed by his caresses, looked up from her work, one could see that she must have been a very beautiful woman in her time—indeed, she almost still was. But one could also see that she had experienced much, happiness and misfortune, love and sorrow, and had been through all sorts of difficult experiences. He and she made a handsome couple and were the same age, in their early forties, and their way of speaking and socializing suggested that it must have been an attraction that had brought them together some time ago . The harsh expression she had shown at the beginning of the conversation gradually faded , and finally she asked, “What’s the problem again? You just sent the rapeseed, and when Leist has the oil, you have the money. He’s prompt, right on the minute.” “Yes, he is. But I don’t get anything out of it; it’s all just down payment and interest.” I’m deep into it, and unfortunately deepest with Leist himself. And then comes the Krakow story, the traveler by Olszewski Goldschmidt and Son. He can be here any day.” Hradscheck listed other things, but without making a deeper impression on his wife. Instead, she said slowly and in a drawn-out voice: “Yes, dice and bird-spotting…” “Oh, always gambling and more gambling! Believe me, Ursel, it’s not so bad, and in any case, I don’t care about it. And least of all the lottery; it’s all foolishness and wasted money, I know it, and yet I’ve taken another ticket. And why? Because I want out, because I have to get out, because I want to save us. ” “I see,” she said, while she mechanically continued weaving the wreath and looked ahead as if considering what to do. “Should I accompany you to the churchyard?” he asked, as her silence began to weigh on him. “I’d be happy to, Ursel.” She shook her head. “Why not?” “Because anyone who wants to offer a wreath to the dead must at least have thought of them.” And with that, she rose and left the house to go to the churchyard . Hradscheck watched her up the village street, on whose red roofs the autumn sun shimmered. Then he returned to his desk and turned the pages. Chapter 2. A week had passed since that day, but the gambling luck that was supposed to come to Hradscheck never came, nor did his lottery luck. Despite all this, he didn’t give up waiting, and since it was lottery drawing time, the quarter ticket never left his desk. It stood there on a small stand, just like a fetish, to which he never tired of gazing respectfully and almost reverently . Every morning he looked through the newspaper for the winning numbers , but he couldn’t find his, even though it had three sevens among its five numbers and, when divided by seven, added up perfectly. His wife, who clearly noticed that he was suffering, spoke to him in her own way, soberly but not unkindly, and urged him, “to at least take the lottery ticket down from the stand, that would only upset Heaven, and whoever did such a thing would get the devil and his kin into his house instead of salvation and help. The lottery ticket had to go. If he If he really wanted to pray, she had something better for him: an image of the Virgin Mary, consecrated by the Bishop of Hildesheim and given to her at her confirmation. ” But Hradscheck, constantly wavering between “but” and “disbelief, ” wouldn’t hear of that. “Go away with the image, Ursel. And even if I wanted to, just think what a mess I ‘d have if someone noticed. The peasants would laugh from one end of the village to the other, even Orth and Igel, who usually don’t bat an eyelid. And the pastor’s friendship would be over, too. The fact that he sticks with you is only because he’s driven your Catholic nonsense out of you and won you a place in heaven, perhaps even at his side. Because my claim to heaven isn’t all that strong.” And so the lot remained on the stand, and only when the drawing was over did Hradscheck tear it up and scatter the schnitzels to the wind. But even now, despite all his mockingly superior talk, he was still so weak and superstitious that he watched the schnitzels fly by, and when he noticed that some were blown up the street to the church and only landed there, he was calmed in his spirit and said: “That brings good luck.” At the same time, he was once again consumed by all sorts of thoughts and ideas that now frequently occurred to his imagination. But he still had enough strength to tear apart the net these thoughts and ideas were trying to cast over him . “It won’t work.” And when at that same moment the image of the traveler, whose announcement he now had to expect daily, appeared before his mind, he stepped back in alarm and simply repeated to himself: “It won’t work.” Thus, mid-October arrived. There was much to do in the shop, but occasionally it was still a quiet time, and then Hradscheck went alternately into the courtyard to chip wood or into the garden to dig a good variety of table potatoes from the ground. For he was a gourmet. But when the potatoes were out, he began to dig up the narrow strip of land on which they had grown. In general, digging and gardening became more and more his pleasure, and the hours spent with a spade in his hand were actually his happiest. And so he was digging again today when Jeschke, as usual, came to the hedge gate connecting the two gardens and watched him, even though it was still early in the day. “The truffles are out now, Hradscheck.” “Yes, Mother Jeschke, since the day before yesterday. And this time it was a real joy; sometimes twenty on one bush, and all big and healthy.” “Yeah, yeah, if one’s lucky. Well, they are, Hradscheck. They ‘re lucky with the truffles and the mallows too.” I, you should have picked a bushel of it.” “Oh, more, Mother Jeschke, much more.” “Well, don’t argue, Hradscheck. No, no. There’s no point in discussing anything. Not your luck, either.” And with that, she left the neighbor standing there and hobbled back toward her house . Hradscheck, however, looked after her, annoyed and embarrassed. And he had good reason to be. After all, Jeschke, friendly and helpful as she seemed, was a bad neighbor and not only practiced quackery, but also performed sympathetic cures, spoke blood, and knew who was going to die. Then, the night before, she saw a coffin standing in front of the house where the deceased was dying. And it was also said that “she knew how to make oneself invisible,” which, when Hradscheck had asked her about it at the time, she half denied and then half admitted. “She didn’t know ; but she did know that freshly rendered lamb’s suet was good, of course, from an unborn lamb and drawn over a red wool thread as a light; but best of all, fern seeds were poured into shoes or boots. ” And then she had laughed heartily, which Hradscheck naturally joined in. Despite this laughter, however, every word had stuck in his mind as if it were gospel, especially the “unborn lamb” and the “fern seeds.” He didn’t believe any of it. And everything again, and if, despite his usual resolve, he had already been afraid of the old witch before, he was even more so after the conversation about making herself invisible. And such fear crept over him again today, when, after the morning chatter about the “tuffles” and the “malvese,” he saw her disappear into her house . He repeated every one of her words to himself: “If one has luck. Well, they don’t have it, Hradscheck. But they do n’t talk about it.” Yes, those had been her words. And what did all this mean? What was the point of this constant talk of luck and more luck? Was it envy, or did she know better? Had she perhaps seen his cards with her hocus-pocus? While he was still pondering this, he picked up the spade again and began digging briskly. He threw out quite a bit of earth and was less than five paces from the old pear tree, toward which the strip of land ran, when he came across something that broke under the cut of the iron and was evidently neither root nor stone . So he dug further, cautiously, and soon saw that he had come across the arm and shoulder of a corpse buried there. Remnants of clothing also came to light, tattered and browned, but still colorful and well-preserved enough to indicate that it must have been a soldier. How did it get here? Hradscheck leaned on the crutch of his digging log and considered. “Should I report it? No. It just makes a lot of noise. And no one wants to come in where a dead man has been found under a pear tree. So better not. It can continue to lie here.” And with that, he threw the arm bone he had dug up back into the pit and filled it in again. While he was filling it in, he was lost in all those thoughts and ideas that had been coming to him more and more frequently for weeks. They came and went. Today, however, they didn’t go away; instead, they became plans that took hold of him and, in spite of himself , banished him to the spot where he stood. What he had to do here was done; there was nothing more to dig or fill, but he still held the grave log in his hand and looked around as if he’d been caught in the act of doing something evil. And it almost was. For eerily distorted figures, one of them himself, pressed around him so tangibly and physically that he could well ask himself whether there weren’t others there who could also see these figures. And he did indeed peer over to the fence. Thank God, Jeschke wasn’t there. But of course, if she could make herself invisible and even see the dead , dead who weren’t yet dead, why shouldn’t she see the figures that now stood before his soul? A horror ran through him, not at the deed, no, but at the thought that what was about to become a deed had perhaps already been recognized and betrayed at that very moment . He trembled until, suddenly pulling himself together, he drove the spade back into the ground. “Nonsense. A stupid old woman who’s just clever enough to deceive even stupider ones. But I’ll defend myself against her, her and all her death-gazing. What is it then? Nothing. She sees a coffin standing at the door, and then someone dies. Yes, she says it, but only when someone is dead, or has lost their breath , or the water is already penetrating their heart. Yes, then I can prophesy too. Old witch, you shouldn’t worry me any more. But Ursel! How do I get it across to her? There lies the stone. And she must know. There must be two…” And he fell silent. But soon he continued resolutely: “Ah, ah, it will work out, because it must. Necessity knows no law. And what did she say the other day, when I spoke with her? ‘Just don’t be poor… Poverty is the worst thing.’ I’ll hold her to that; I’ll force her with it. She must want to.” And so saying, he went back to the house , taking the gravestone with his rifle . Chapter 3. When Hradscheck had reached the threshold stone, he took the He slung the log from his shoulder, leaned his crutch against the vine trellis that ran along the side of the house, and, clean as he was, washed his hands in a bucket filled with the eaves. Then he entered the hallway and headed for his living room. There he met Ursel. She was sitting at a sewing table by the window and, despite the early hour, was already dressed again, even more carefully and neatly than on the day she had woven the wreaths for the children. The high-fitting dress she wore today was simple and dark—she knew that black suited her. The shiny leather belt was held together by a strikingly large bronze buckle, while her earrings held long, pear-shaped strands of Venetian pearls. They seemed pretentious and were more of a distraction than an ornament. But she lacked the perception for such things , just as the tortoiseshell- lined sewing table, for all its elegance, didn’t quite match the two light blue satin sofas. Even less so with the white trumeau. To her left, on the windowsill, stood a workbox, in which she was searching for a thread just as Hradscheck entered. She didn’t let herself be disturbed and only looked up when the man who entered said, half-jokingly, but still with a touch of reproach : “Well, Ursel, already in state? And nothing left to do in the kitchen?” “Because it has to be finished.” “What?” “This.” And with that, she held out to Hradscheck a velvet capsule she was sewing. “Not much with love.” “For me?” “No. You’re not pious for that, and, what you’d rather hear, not old enough either.” “So for the pastor?” “Advised.” “For the pastor. Very well. Small gifts maintain friendship, and friendship with a pastor is doubly useful. It gives you such respect. And I’ve also decided to visit him more often and to take turns going to church with Ede on Sundays .”
“Go ahead; he was already surprised.” “And he’s right. Because I’m actually indebted to him. And he’s the only one I like being indebted to. Yes, you’re looking at me, Ursel. But it’s true. Didn’t he put you on the right path? Tell me yourself. If it weren’t for Eccelius, you’d still be stuck in that old nonsense.” “Don’t talk like that. What do you know about it? You have no religion at all. And neither does Eccelius, really. But he’s a good man, a real gentleman, and means well by me and everyone. And he spoke to my heart.” “Yes, he understands that; he learned it in the lodge. He moves you to tears. And now the women, of course.” “And then I’ll stick with him,” Ursel continued, ignoring the interruption , “because he’s an educated man. A good man, and an educated man. And frankly, I’m used to it. ” Hradscheck laughed. “Educated, Ursel, that’s your third word. I know . And then comes the student from Göttingen who gave you a ring when you were fourteen—it probably wasn’t real—and then a lot of things don’t come, or at least some things don’t… just don’t change your color again right away… and finally comes the Bishop of Hildesheim. That’s your greatest trump card, and there ‘s nothing more refined in the whole world. I’ve known it for a long time. Refined, refined. Oh, I don’t like to talk about it, but your refinement has cost me dearly.” Ursel put the velvet capsule down, stuck the pin into it, and said, half-turning away from him and toward the window: “Listen, Hradscheck, if you want to have good days with me, don’t talk like that. If you have worries, I’ll share them, but you mustn’t blame me for them being there. What I ‘ve told you a hundred times, I must tell you again. You’re not a good merchant, because you haven’t learned the business side, and you ‘re not a good innkeeper, because you play badly, or at least not with Good luck, and drink your own wine at the same time. And what’s going on over there, to Neu Lewin, or at least what was going on—and she pointed with her hand towards the neighboring village—I won’t talk about that, certainly not, not for a long time. But I can tell you this, Hradscheck, that’s how things are with you. And instead of admitting your wrongdoing , you talk about my childishness and about the Reverend Bishop, whose shoelaces you’re not worthy to untie. And you reproach me for my education.” “No, Ursel.” “Or that I’d like things to be a bit nice, or, as you say, posh .” “Yes, that.” “So it is. But now tell me, what have I done? In my early years, I restricted myself and stood in the kitchen, baking and roasting, and sat by the cradle at night. I didn’t leave the house, so people talked about it, the stupid goose out in the oil mill leading the way, of course. You told me yourself, and every evening I stood in front of an empty wardrobe and counted the wooden bars. And so for seven years, until the children died, and only when they were dead and I had nothing to cling to, did I think, well, now I’ll at least have a nice place and be a merchant’s wife, the way people imagine a merchant’s wife in my area. And then when Hoppenrade Castle went bankrupt, I asked you to acquire this little thing here, and you did, and I thanked you for it. And it was only right, too. Because thanks must be given, and an educated person knows that and doesn’t find it difficult. But all that people talk about so much now , as if it were something wonderful—well, what does it really matter? Really, it’s just old-fashioned, and the silk is already tearing, even though I guard it like the apple of my eye. And because of these few things, you moan and complain incessantly, mocking me for my education and refinement, as you like to say. Of course, I’m more refined than the people here; people in my part of the country are more refined. Do you mean to reproach me for not being like the turkey, the Quaas , who confuses ‘me’ and ‘me,’ and really still belongs in a frieze coat, and considers having love affairs to be sophisticated, and lets herself be called ‘kitten,’ even though she’s just a cat, and a fake one at that? Yes, my dear Hradscheck, if you want to reproach me for that, then you shouldn’t have taken me; that would have been the wisest thing to do. Think about it. I didn’t chase after you, on the contrary, you absolutely wanted me and begged me for my ‘yes’. You can’t deny that. No, you can’t, Hradscheck. And now this constant ‘noble’ and again ‘noble’. And why? Just because I wanted a trumeau, which one must want if one has any self-respect. And he went away for a pittance.” “You say pittance, Ursel. Yes, what is pittance? Even pittance can be too high. I had nothing back then and had to buy it with borrowed money.” “You shouldn’t have done that, Abel, you should have told me that . But then my esteemed husband was embarrassed, and had to be embarrassed. Because why was there no money? Because of the person over there. Old love never rusts. Of course.” “Oh, Ursel, what’s that all about! It’s no use blaming ourselves for our past .” “What do you mean by that? What do you mean by ‘past’?” “How can you even ask? But I know, it’s the same old story, it’s women’s way. You deny your lover your love . Ursel, I would have thought you wiser. So don’t be so short- sighted. What was it then? How did I find you then, when you came home again, sick and miserable and with a stick in your hand, and when the old man wouldn’t take you and your child in, and you were content with a pile of straw under the roof? Ursel, I saw you then, and because I felt sorry for you, no, no, do n’t anger yourself again… because I loved you, because I was infatuated with you. was, so I took you by the hand and we walked here, and the old man over there, the one you’re sewing that capsule for, brought us together. I’m not sorry, Ursel, because you know that I ‘m the same old man in my affection and love for you, but you should n’t get carried away when I’m so worried sick , and you shouldn’t reproach me for Rese over there in Neu Lewin. What went away there, believe me, wasn’t much and really not worth mentioning. And now she’s been dead for a long time and buried. No, Ursel, that’s not where it came from, and I swear to you, I could have done all that , but the damned arrogance that there should be something between us did it, that’s what it is. You wanted to be high and have something special, so that they would be amazed. And what do we have in it now? There the things are, and the peasants laugh at us.” “They envy us.” “Well, perhaps, or at least for as long as it lasts. But what if all this is gone one fine day?” “That mustn’t happen.” “The courts won’t ask long questions.” “That mustn’t happen, I say. Everything else. No, Hradscheck, you mustn’t do that to me, I’ll take my own life and go into the Oder, right now. I know what misery and wretchedness are, I’ve experienced it. But precisely for that reason, precisely for that reason. I’m out of misery now , thank God, and I don’t want to go back into it. You say they laugh at us, no, they don’t laugh; but if something happened to us, they would laugh. And if ‘Kitten’ were to have fun and make fun of us, or even dear Mietzel, who’s still in her black headscarf and doesn’t even know how to put on a hat or a bonnet properly, I would n’t wear that, I’d rather drop dead. No, no, Hradscheck, as I told you the other day, anything but poor. Poverty is the worst, worse than death, worse than…’ He nodded. ‘That’s what I think too, Ursel. Anything but poor. But come into the garden! The walls here have ears.’ And so they went out. Outside, however, she took his arm, clung to him, as if tenderly, and chatted as they paced up and down the central path of the garden. He, for his part, remained silent, pondering, until he suddenly stopped and, taking the floor, pointed to the filled-in spot next to the pear tree. And now Ursel’s eyes grew ever wider as he quickly and vividly began to recount and explain everything that had to happen . “It won’t work. Get it out of your mind. Nothing is so finely spun…” But he didn’t let up, and finally it was clear that he had overcome her resistance. She nodded, remained silent, and both of them walked toward the house. Chapter 4. October was drawing to a close, but despite this, there were still beautiful, warm days, so one could stay outside and use the Hradscheck skittle alley. This was famous throughout the region because it had not only a good horizontal bowling alley, but also a comfortable bowling alley and, in this, two stained-glass peepholes admired by all . The yellow one looked out onto the garden, the blue one onto the village street and the Oder embankment stretching beyond , over which the river itself flashed now and then. Over there on the other bank, however, one could see a long line of shadow: the Neumark heath. It was half past three, and the balls had been rolling for an hour. The shopboy, who also served as a waiter, ran back and forth, sometimes bringing coffee, sometimes cognac, but most often freshly filled clay pipes from which the farmers smoked, blowing the clouds into the clear autumn air. There were five of them, two from neighboring Kienitz, the rest genuine Czechs: Oil Mill Quaas, Farmer Mietzel, and Farmer Kunicke. Hradscheck, who, by profession, was the most knowledgeable about writing and arithmetic, sat in front of a large blackboard shaped like a music stand. “Kunicke is doing the best again.” “Of course, no one can beat him.” “Three times eight for the king.” And now a bidding war began in skittles jokes. “He can do magic,” it was said. “He’s sitting with Jeschke .” “He’s playing with false cards.” “Anyone who’s that lucky must pay the penalty.” The one who had said that about the “false cards” was Farmer Mietzel, the oil miller’s neighbor, a small, dried-up man who looked more like a linen weaver than a farmer. But he was a real farmer after all, whose family only had the old Schwind family name. “Who’s pushing?” “Hradscheck. ”
He now climbed down from his clerk’s chair and was just waiting for his favorite ball to slowly roll down the slatted trough when the country postman entered through a small door leading to the street and delivered a large letter to him. Hradscheck took the letter in his left hand, grasped the ball with his right, and placed it firmly on the ground, at the same time following its course with anticipation. “Six!” shouted the bowling boy, but immediately corrected himself when, after some fiddling and reflection, a seventh pin fell over. “Seven then!” triumphed Hradscheck, who had obviously put some thought into the throw. “Seven goes,” he continued. “Seven is good. Kunicke, push for me and write. I just want to pay the postage.” And with that, he took the postman under his arm and led him into the house from the garden side. Meanwhile, the bowling continued, but the one who seemed to have forgotten about the game and the guests was Hradscheck. Kunicke had pushed instead of him for the third time, and so they finally grew impatient and tugged violently on a bell wire that led into the shop. The boy came too. “Hradscheck should line up again, Ede. We’re waiting.” Be quick!’ And look, immediately afterward, the man called appeared, bright red and agitated, but, by all appearances, more cheerful than peevish. He apologized briefly for keeping them waiting and then, without further ado, picked up a bullet to shoot. ‘But it’s not your turn!’ Kunicke cried. ‘Good heavens, what’s going on? And what a look that guy looks like! Either his mother-in-law died or he won the big lottery.’ Hradscheck laughed. ‘Well, talk about it. Or should you come to Berlin and set up a few new rapeseed presses? You recently told our Quaas that he didn’t know anything about oil presses.’ ‘I did, and that’s true. No offense, gentlemen, but the farmer always sticks to the old ways.’ ‘And innkeepers are always for the new. Only not much comes of it.” “Who knows!” “Who knows? Listen, Hradscheck, I’m really starting to think… Or is it an inheritance?” “It’s something like that. But it’s not worth mentioning.” “And from where then?” “From my wife’s sister.” “You’re a lucky man. He’s always had his hands full . And from Hildesheim, you say?” “Yes, around there.” “Well, Reetzke over there will be happy. He was already impatient.” “White; he wanted to complain. The New Lewiners are always anxious and penny-pinchers and can’t wait. But he’ll probably learn and change his mind. I won’t say any more, and it’s not appropriate. One shouldn’t talk too much. And what is a little bit of money, after all ?” “Money is never a little bit. How many zeros does it have?’ ‘Oh, children, don’t talk about zeros. The best thing is that it’s not a big deal and that my wife doesn’t have to go to Hildesheim. Such a long journey, that’ll cost half of it. Or maybe even the whole thing.’ ‘Was it already in the letter?’ ‘Oh, God forbid. Just the notice from my brother-in-law, and that the money can be withdrawn in Berlin. I’ll send my wife tomorrow. She’s just wasting away here anyway.’ ‘Of course,’ said Mietzel, who was always annoyed when people talked about Mrs. Hradscheck’s ‘wasting away.’ ‘Of course, just let her travel; Berlin, that’s just the Baroness’s thing. And perhaps She’ll bring you another Atlas sofa right away. Or a trumeau. Is that what it’s called? We always have to ask for something so fine. The farmer is just too stupid.” Mrs. Hradscheck did indeed leave to fetch the inherited sum from Berlin, which aroused the gossip of the envious and wealthy peasant wives in advance , especially Mrs. Quaas, who, because of her curly blond hair, simply considered herself a beauty and, from the fact that she was 20 years younger than her husband, derived her right to almost as many love affairs. Whatever looked good was a thorn in her side, especially Hradscheck, who was not only more handsome and clever than she was, but to make matters worse, was also suspected – albeit unjustly – of having instigated the cantor’s eldest son – a ne’er-do-well expelled for demagogy, who was now lying in his father’s bearskin – to write mocking verses about the Czechs, and especially about the good Mrs. Quaas. It was a long rhyme game, in which everyone got their fair share. The first verse, however, went: Woytasch has the mayor’s stick, Kunicke a long skirt, Mietzel is a wood shaving, Quaas hasn’t hurt anyone, not even his own wife, Kätzchen knows it all too well. Meow, meow. Such things couldn’t be forgiven, least of all such a beggar as this wandering Mrs. Hradscheck, who was simply considered the guilty party. That was clear to Kätzchen. “I bet,” she said to Mietzel, when she called at the oil mill the same evening that Hradscheck had left, “I bet she’ll come back with a velvet hat and an ostrich feather. She can never do enough for herself, that dainty woman, despite her forty. And all because she says ‘Swein’ and can’t ‘switzen,’ even though she’s drunk three pots of lilac tea. But she doesn’t say lilac tea, she says elderberry. And that’s supposed to be something. Oh, dear Mietzel, it ‘s funny.” “Yes, yes!” Mietzel agreed, but seemed inclined to place more of the blame on Hradscheck, who imagined he had married some wonderful woman. And yet he was only a Catholic and perhaps also a Springer; at least that’s what she ‘d heard rumors. “And anyway, the good Hradscheck,” she continued, “he should just keep quiet. They don’t have much good to say about him in Neu Lewin. He dumped Rese. And suddenly she was gone, and no one knows how or why. And there was even talk of digging her out, until our old Woytasch drove over and quieted everything down again. Of course, he does n’t want any noise, and he’s a bit of a snob. He’s not allowed to talk at home anyway. Or does he look at Hradschecken’s eyes? She’s got that attitude. And all I’m saying is, if we get all these vagrants into the village, we’ll soon have the gypsies here too, and Mrs. Woytasch can start looking for a son-in-law. It’s about time for Rike; she’s already thirty.” So the gossip went on the very first day. But when, half a week later, Hradscheck returned just as she had left—that is, without her velvet hat and ostrich feathers—and greeted everyone just as she had left, perhaps even more politely than before, a change of heart took place, and people began to accept her and convince themselves that the inheritance had changed them. “You can see at once,” said Quaas, “that they have something now. Usually, it was always supposed to be something, and they lied to you cruelly, and it was really unbearable. But yesterday she was different and said, quite pettily and modestly, that it was only a little.” “How much could it be?” Mietzel interrupted. “I ‘m thinking about a thousand thalers. ” “Oh, more, much more. If it weren’t more, she wouldn’t be like that.” So she continued to act coy. No, dear Mietzel, there are signs, and just imagine, when I asked her yesterday whether she hadn’t been afraid, all alone with all that money, she said: no, she hadn’t been afraid, because she had brought only a little with her, really not worth mentioning. She left most of it with the merchant in Berlin.’ I know quite definitely, she said: most of it. So it can’t be that little.” Conversations like this were held in every Czech house for a few weeks , without getting any further with their help, which is why they finally turned to the postman. But he was either silent or knew nothing, and it wasn’t until mid-November that they learned from him that he had recently delivered a registered letter to the Hradschecks. “From where?” “From Cracow.” They wondered whether this could have any connection to the inheritance, but found nothing. And nothing was to be found. For the registered letter read: “Cracow, November 9, 1831. To Mr. Abel Hradscheck in Czech. Oderbruch. Yours. We hereby most humbly inform you that our traveler, Mr. Szulski, will arrive at your place, as he does every year , in the last week of November, and will receive your further orders. At the same time, however, we expect that you, most esteemed sir, will take this opportunity to settle our outstanding debt of three years. We are counting on this all the more since the political situation in the country and its impact on our business make it impossible for us to grant further credit. Please accept the assurance of our devotion. Olszewski Goldschmidt, son.” Upon receiving this letter, Hradscheck did not hesitate to inform his wife of its contents. She remained apparently calm, only a nervous tremor flitted around her lips. “Where will you get it from, Abel? And yet it must be done. And handed over to him… And in front of witnesses, too. Do you want to borrow it?’ He was silent. ‘From Kunicke?’ ‘No. It won’t work. That looks like an embarrassment. And after the inheritance business, there shouldn’t be any more. And there aren’t. I think I can manage.’ ‘Good. But how?’ ‘I still have the fire insurance money until the 30th.’ ‘It’s not enough.’ ‘No. But almost. And I’ll cover the rest with a small bill of exchange. A large one won’t do, but a small one is good and actually better than cash.’ She nodded. Then they parted without another word. What needed to be said between them had been said, and each was assigned his role. Only they found themselves in very different roles, as the next minute would show. Hradscheck, fully in control of himself, went into the shop, which was full of pretty peasant girls, and tugged at one of the women’s kerchiefs while untying the other’s apron strings. But he gave an old woman a kiss. “No one can refuse a kiss in honor—isn’t that right, Mother Schickedanz?” Mother Schickedanz laughed. Mrs. Hradscheck, however, lacked the good nerves her husband could boast of. She went into her bedroom, looked into the garden, and reflected on her life. As she did so, she muttered half-incomprehensible words to herself and, judging by the movements of her hand, seemed to be reciting a rosary. But it was all to no avail. Her breathing remained heavy, and she finally opened the window to breathe in the fresh air. Hours passed like this. And when midday came, only Hradscheck and Ede came to the table. Chapter 5. It was the end of November when, on a cold, wet evening, the traveler announced by the Krakow firm arrived at Hradscheck’s inn. He was coming from Küstrin and was a few hours late because the rain- soaked gravel roads were almost impassable, especially in the village itself. Even the last three hundred paces from the Orth windmill had taken quite a bit of time, because the tired horse occasionally stopped and, despite all the cursing, refused to go any further. But now the traveler stopped in front of the shop door, through whose dim panes a light shone onto the embankment, and cracked his whip. “Hello! Landlord!” A while passed without anyone coming. Finally, the shopboy appeared, but immediately ran away again after folding down the step, “because he wanted to call the farmhand, Jacob.” “Good, good. But be quick… What a dog weather it is!” With these and similar exclamations, the traveler, now left alone again, threw back the leather guard, hooked the reins into the freed hook, and, half-frozen and avoiding the footstep, which he didn’t seem to quite trust, climbed over the wheel onto a reasonably dry spot, prepared by heaping up rubbish and debris , just in front of the shop entrance . His wolf-tail and fur hat had protected his head and body, but his feet were as if dead, and he stamped back and forth to bring life back into his blood. And now Jacob, who had known the traveler from before, also appeared . “Goodness, Mr. Szulski, in this weather! And this road! I, no devil can get in here.” “But I can,” laughed Szulski. “Yes, just you, Mr. Szulski. Well, now let’s go into the room. And I’ll take care of the furs. And I’ll also offer something right away. I know : the gable room, the yellow one, that’s where the bowling alley is.” While he was still speaking, Jacob had put the suitcase on his shoulder and walked ahead of the traveler toward the stairs. But when he saw that Szulski wanted to go right into the Hradscheck living room instead of going left into the shop, he turned around and said: “No, not here, Mr. Szulski. Hradscheck is in the Vienna room … You know.” “Are there any guests here?” “Of course. What poor people are, well, they stay at home, but Old Kunicke comes, and then Orth comes too. And when Orth comes, then Quaas and Mietzel come too. Let’s go in. They’ll all be back again.” An hour later, the traveler, Mr. Szulski, who was actually a simple mayor from Beuthen in Upper Silesia and had first donned the Polish national style with his Polish velvet coat, complete with laces and toggles , was the center of attention at the small table gathered again today in the wine bar. The business was quickly settled in the presence of Quaas and Kunicke, and the large sum of debt had been settled, just as intended, with cash and small bills of exchange . This gave the pseudo-Pole, who could hardly have expected such a swift settlement , reason to have some of the ruster delivered by his company brought in. “I know the vintages, gentlemen, and I beg your honor.” The peasants hesitated for a moment to find themselves invited as guests, but quickly remembering that some of them had recently been customers of the Krakow firm, they ultimately viewed the offer as a mere business transaction that could be accepted. What tipped the scales, however, was that they were desperate to hear about the recently ended Polish uprising, about Diebitsch and Paskewitsch, and above all, whether it might not start up again soon. Szulski, if anyone, had to know about it. The last time he was among them, it had been a few weeks before the outbreak of the insurrection. Everything he had prophesied as imminent had come true and was now behind him. Ostrolenka had been defeated, and Warsaw had been stormed, a storm which Szulski, who happened to be in the capital, had witnessed at least as an eyewitness, perhaps also as a fellow fighter—he cautiously left this in the dark. All this coincided perfectly for our Czechs, and Szulski, who, as a good wine traveler, was naturally also a good storyteller, reveled in describing the Polish heroic deeds, as well as the cruelties of which the Russians had been guilty. His showpiece was the storming of a house on Dluga Street, precisely where it, with its two narrow branches , touches the Vistula. “What was the name of the street?” asked Mietzel, who, like all sulky people, always blushed when they heard war stories. “Dluga Street,” repeated Szulski with a certain affected calm. “Dluga, Mr. Mietzel. And the corner house, which is the subject of my story, stood close to the Vistula, directly opposite the Praga suburb, and was occupied by our academics and polytechnicians , that is, by the few who remained, for most had long since been laid to rest on the Field of Honor. However, whatever was still alive was now in the four-story building, from stairway to stairway up to the roof. On the covered roof, however, were women and children, who had barricaded themselves behind timbers and armed themselves with stones they had dragged up. When the Russians, the Kaluga Regiment, came close, they beat the drums for an attack. And so they stormed three times, always in vain, always with heavy losses, so thick was the hail of stones falling upon them. But the fourth time they reached the barricaded door, pushed it in with rifle butts, and leaped up the stairs. Our brave men retreated ever higher , until at last they stood on the roofed roof with their wives and children, in a motley crew. Then I saw each one as clearly before me as I see you now, Farmer Mietzel” – he recoiled – “for I had my apartment in the house opposite and saw them waving the Confederate flag and heard them singing our song: ‘Poland is not yet lost.’ And on my honor, here, in this spot, they would have held out despite the enemy’s superior numbers, if suddenly, from the side, a hammering and banging hadn’t been heard—a hammering and banging, I say, like axes and hatchets.” “How? What? Of axes and hatchets?” repeated Mietzel, his hair practically standing on end. “What was it?” “Yes, what was it? They advanced from the neighboring house; now there was a hole, now a breach, and through the breach the Russian regiment pushed through into the attic. What I saw there defies description. Those who were simply shot down could count themselves lucky , but most were thrown out onto the street by a bayonet thrust. It was a horror, gentlemen. One woman waited until the massacre, yes, perhaps disgrace and dishonor, for such things never happened; she took her two children by the hand and threw herself into the river with them.” “Good heavens,” said Kunicke, “that’s impressive! I was also in a bit of war and I know very well that where you cut wood, there will be wood shavings. That’s how it was at Möckern, and I can still see our old Krosigk stabbing the naval captain, and then the gun-butt beating started until everyone was lying on the ground. But women and children! Good heavens, Szulski, that’s harsh. Is it true, then?’ ‘Is it true? Excuse me, I’m no braggart, Mr. Kunicke. No Pole brags; he despises that. And I do too. But what I saw, I saw, and a fact remains a fact, be it as it is. The lady who jumped down—and I swear to you, gentlemen, it was a lady—was a beautiful woman, not 36, and as God lives in heaven, I would have wished her better than this cold, wet Vistula.” Kunicke grinned, while Mietzel, who, among other weaknesses and ailments, also suffered from a love vein, couldn’t help but suddenly give his nervous excitement a completely new direction. Szulski himself , however, was far too absorbed in himself and his story to have time for ambiguities, and continued without being disturbed: “A beautiful woman, I said, and murdered. And the worst of it, not murdered by the enemy, no, by ourselves; murdered because we were betrayed. If we had been given a free hand, no Russian would ever have crossed the Vistula. The people were good, citizens and farmers were good, all united, all there with good and blood. But the nobility! The nobility sold us off for thirty pieces of silver simply because they thought of their money and their property. And once a person thinks about their money, they’re lost.” “I can’t admit that,” said Kunicke. “Everyone thinks about their money. Good heavens, Szulski, our Hradscheck would be pleased if the traveler from Olszewski Goldschmidt and Son came here every November and never thought about money. Isn’t that right, Hradscheck? That would soon make things easier, and no sister or sister-in-law would have to die, and no inheritance would have to be paid out.” “Ah, inheritance,” repeated Szulski. “So, so; from that. Well, congratulations. I recently inherited a chunk of money myself and invested it in Lviv. Lviv is better than Krakow. Yes, that must be true, inheritance is the best way to acquire money, the best and actually the most decent…’ ‘And especially the easiest,’ confirmed Kunicke. ‘Yes, dear money. And when there’s a lot of it, that means a lot, then you can think about it too! Isn’t that right, Szulski?’ ‘Of course,’ he laughed. ‘Of course, when there’s a lot. But, Farmer Kunicke, there’s a difference between thinking and thinking. You have to know you have it, that much is right, that’s good and a pleasant feeling, and it doesn’t bother you…’ ‘No, no, it doesn’t bother you. But, gentlemen, I must repeat, there’s a difference between thinking and thinking. Always thinking about money, day and night, is the same as always worrying about it. And you should n’t worry. Anyone who travels and always thinks about their wife is worried about their wife.’ ‘Of course,’ cried Kunicke. “Quaas is always worried, too.” Everyone laughed uncontrollably, and only Szulski himself, who was such an expert in telling anecdotes and stories that he didn’t like to be interrupted, continued with all possible seriousness: “And as with women, gentlemen, so with money. Just don’t be worried; you have to have it, but you don’t have to think about it forever. I often have to laugh when I see someone in the mail coach or at the table d’hôte suddenly grab their wallet, ‘to see if they still have it.’ And then they breathe a sigh of relief and turn bright red. That’s always ridiculous and only does harm. And sewing it in doesn’t help either; that’s just as stupid. If the coat is gone, the money is gone too. But what’s on your back is what’s on your back. All those other precautions are nonsense.” “Right,” said Hradscheck. “That’s what I do too. But we’ve completely lost sight of the Poles when it comes to the money and the sewing. Is it true, Szulski, that they poisoned Diebitschen?” “Of course, it’s true.” “And the story about the eleven tallow candles too? Also true?” “All true,” repeated Szulski. “There’s no doubt about it. And that’s how it happened. Constantine wanted to annoy the Poles because they said the Russians only ate tallow. And so, one day, when he invited eleven Poles, he had eleven tallow candles passed around for dessert, but the twelfth was made of marzipan and, of course, for him. And of course, he always took first; that’s why he was Grand Duke and Viceroy. But that one time he did make a mistake, and he had to choke it down.” “It won’t have gone very smoothly.” “Certainly not… But, gentlemen, do you already know the new Polish song they’re singing now?” “Do you remember—” “No, it’s old. A new one.” “And what’s it called?” “The last ten of the fourth regiment… Do you want to hear it? Should I sing it?” “Of course.” “But you must invade…” “Of course, of course.” And now Szulski sang, after clearing his throat: In Warsaw, a thousand swore on their knees: Not a shot shall be fired in the holy battle, drummer, strike, let us march to the black field, we will attack only with bayonets! And the fatherland knows eternity and calls its fourth regiment with silent pain. “Invade! Chorus.” “Onward, Szulski, onward.” Farewell, you brothers who were struck to death By our side there we saw them fall, We’re still alive, the wounds are open And for our homeland it’s forever over; Lord God in heaven, grant a merciful end To us, the last ten of the fourth regiment. Chorus: “To us, the last ten of the fourth regiment.” Everyone cheered. But old Quaas’s naturally bulging eyes bulged more and more. “If his wife saw him now,” cried Kunicke. “Then he’d have the upper hand.” “Yes, yes.” And now they clinked glasses and let the Poles live. Only Kunicke, thinking back to the year 13, refused and drank to the Russians. And finally to Quaas and Kätzchen. But Mietzel had become quite cocky and half-crazy , and when he heard Kätzchen’s name, he suddenly sang: “Not even to his own wife, Kätzchen knows for sure. Meow.”
Quaas looked embarrassed. No one, however, thought of taking offense anymore. And now the shopboy was called to bring new bottles. Chapter 6. This went on until midnight. Kunicke, who lived diagonally across the street, wanted to stay and made sharp remarks about how tired Szulski, who had already reminded him to leave several times , was. But Szulski wouldn’t be deterred any longer by mockery or kind words; “He has to be in Frankfurt tomorrow by nine.” And with that, he took the candlestick that was ready and went up to his gable room. Only when he already had the doorknob in his hand did he turn again and say to Hradscheck: “So, four o’clock, Hradscheck. I have to leave at five. And, of course, coffee. Good evening, gentlemen. Good rest to all!” The peasants left too; a heavy rain fell, and everyone cursed the dreadful weather. But less than an hour later, the rain slowed, and a violent southeast wind swept over the Bruch instead . Its violence grew from minute to minute, causing all sorts of damage to houses and roofs, but nowhere more so than to old Jeschke’s house, which lay directly in the wind current that, from the other side of the street, swept right through Kunicke’s stable and barn. The tiles clattered down from the ridge of the roof and struck the softened ground with a dull thud .
“That’s right, if the evil comes,” said the old woman, sitting upright as if she were about to get up. Climbing out of the high-sided bed, however, seemed too much effort for her, so she just fluffed up the pillow and tried to go back to sleep. In vain, of course. The noise outside and the growing fear of seeing her already damaged chimney crash down into the room prevented her from getting very far with her attempt, and so she finally got up and groped her way to the hearth, where she lit a thread of sulphur from a small ember, and then lit the light. At the same time, she threw up plenty of pine cones, which she had never been short of since last autumn when she cured Forester Nothnagel’s four-year-old boy, over in the Neumark heath, of his spontaneous limp . The light and warmth did her good, and a few minutes later, when the coffee pot, always at the ready, began to steam and bubble, she squatted down next to the hearth and, in her contentment, forgot the storm howling outside. Suddenly, there was a crash, as if something were collapsing, a tree or a bush, and so she went to the window with the light and, because the light was blinding, from the window into the kitchen, where she quickly opened the upper shutter to see what it was. Sure enough, a section of the garden fence had been knocked down, and as she followed the fallen section to the left as far as the cone house, she saw, between the posts of the lattice gutter, that there was still light in the Hradscheck family’s house. It flickered back and forth, now here, now there, so that she couldn’t quite see where it was coming from, whether from the cellar below or from the window of the wine bar directly above. “My God, are you still eating?” Jeschke asked to herself. “Well, Kunicke is a friend. And then he sees that the weather is like school and he can’t do anything else.” With this thought, she closed the shutter again and returned to her hearth. But her urge to spy gave her no peace, and although the wind had grown stronger, she went back to the kitchen and opened the shutter once more, hoping to see something. She stood there for a while without anything happening, until , as she was about to leave, she suddenly saw the Hradscheck garden gate fly open and Hradscheck himself appear in the doorway. Something dark, which he must have brought earlier , lay next to him. He was visibly agitated and looked intently over at her house. And then it seemed to her again as if he wanted to be seen. For what else was the light for, in whose flickering glow he stood there? He was still holding it in front of him, shielding it with his hand, and seemed to waver as to where to put it. But finally, he must have found a safe place, for the light itself was gone, and in its place there was only a glow, far too faint to reveal the dark object still lying in the doorway . What was it? A chest? No. It was n’t long enough for that. Or a basket, a box? No, not that either. “What do you have?” she murmured to herself. But before she could answer her question based on her speculations, she saw Hradscheck, who had disappeared from her sight for a few minutes, step out of the door into the garden and, with a spade in his hand, quickly approach the pear tree. Here he dug diligently and with obvious haste and must have already thrown out a good deal of earth when he suddenly gave up digging and looked around again in all directions. But even now, at least to her, it seemed more tense than fear and worry. “What’s he got?” she repeated. Then she saw him quickly fill the hole in again. Another moment and the garden gate closed and everything was dark again. “Hmm,” grumbled Jeschke. “It’s just as if he ‘d killed someone. Well, it wouldn’t be that stupid… No, no, because we don’t have the light. But I don’t believe him. And I don’t believe him either.” And with that, she went back to her bed and climbed in. But proper sleep eluded her, and in her half-awake state she constantly saw the flickering in the cellar, then the light that fell into the garden, and then Hradscheck again, standing under the tree and digging. Chapter 7. At four o’clock the servant went upstairs to wake Szulski. But he found the room locked, so he contented himself with knocking and calling through the keyhole: “It’s four o’clock, Mr. Szulski; get up.” He listened for a while longer, and when all remained quiet, he tugged at the rickety doorknob and repeated: “Get up, Mr. Szulski, it’s time; I’ll get it started now.” And then he went back downstairs and through the shop into the kitchen, where the Hradscheck maid, a good-natured person with curly hair and lots of freckles, was still half-asleep at the stove, lighting the fire. “Well, Maleken, all out too? What do you say? Clock four. It’s just human nonsense. What’s not sweet? We’re still sweet for time. Well, now cook us something, please.” And with that, he was about to head out of the kitchen into the yard. But the wind ripped the door out of his hand and slammed it shut again. “God, Jacob, I’ve lost myself so much. That could wake a dove .” “Well, too, Male. He’s got a dove. Now he’s going to come upstairs. ‘ Half an hour later, the horse-drawn carriage stopped in front of the front door, and Jacob, whose hands were already quite clammy from holding the reins, looked impatiently into the hallway to see if the traveler had arrived. But he was still nowhere to be seen, and instead of him, only Hradscheck and said, “Go upstairs, Jacob, and see what it is. He fell asleep again at the end. And tell him his coffee is getting cold… But no, never mind; stay. He’ll come.” And sure enough, he did, and while Hradscheck spoke, he descended the not-too-high stairs. They were still dark, but a glimmer of light from the shop made the stranger’s figure somewhat clear. He held onto the railing and walked with particular slowness and caution, as if the large fur coat was uncomfortable and burdensome. But now he was downstairs, and Jacob, who was curiously following everything that was happening, saw Hradscheck approaching him and politely escorting him from the hallway into the living room, where the coffee had been waiting for a quarter of an hour . “Well, now it’s definitely time,” consoled the man, growing increasingly impatient outside. “Come Tied, come Roath.” And indeed, before five minutes had passed, the couple reappeared in the hall and stepped from there onto the street, where the obliging Hradscheck now strode quickly to the carriage and lowered the step, while the traveler, despite his fur hat sitting low enough on his face, also turned up the collar of his wolf-tail. “That’s right,” said Hradscheck. “Better safe than sorry. And now hurry, Jacob, and fetch the trunk. ”
He did as ordered, and when he returned downstairs with the coat-bag, the traveler was already sitting in the carriage and had placed the guilder he had designated as a tip on the leather in front of him. Without saying anything, he pointed to it and simply nodded when Jacob thanked him. Then he picked up the leash rather clumsily, which might have been due to his large fur gloves, and rode toward the Orth farmstead and the mill standing in shadow at the edge of the village. It wouldn’t move; the wind was blowing too hard. Hradscheck watched the cart slowly moving along the poor road for a while, his head uncovered and his sparse blond hair flying around his forehead. But it was as if the coolness refreshed him. When he stepped back into the hallway, he found Jacob looking at the guilder piece. “Do you like it? Not everyone gives a guilder. A fine gentleman!” “That’s what it should be. But why were you so quiet? He did n’t say any words.” “No, he probably hadn’t slept enough yet,” laughed Hradscheck. “It’s only five.” “Of course.” I don’t talk much about the clock either.” Chapter 8. The wind persisted, but the sky cleared, and at midday, in bright sunshine, a hunting carriage pulled up to the Czech inn. It was the Friedrichsau district councilor; there were black Trakehner stallions, and the coachman was in livery. Hradscheck appeared in the shop door and greeted me respectfully, almost devoutly. “Good day, dear Hradscheck; bring me a ‘Luft’ or better yet, two; my coachman won’t mind. Isn’t that right, Johann? It’s really cold. And all this sunshine, too. ” Hradscheck bowed and called into the shop: “Two peppermints, Ede; hurry!” and then turned back with the question: ” Nothing for me, dear Hradscheck, but for other people. Or at least for the authorities. ” There’s a wagon down in the Oder, probably went astray and fell off the dam in the darkness.” “Where, Councillor?” “Right here. Not a thousand paces beyond Orth’s Mill.” “Good heavens, is it possible! But wouldn’t the Councillor like to go with us to Schulze Woytasch?” “Can’t, Hradscheck; it’s too far out of my way. The Count of Reitwein is expecting me and I’m already late. And there’s nothing I can do now anyway, I’ve seen that much. But everything must have its fate, even death and misfortune. Goodbye… Onward!” And with that, he tapped the coachman on the shoulder, who urged his Trakehner horses on again and at least made an attempt, despite the To make up for lost time, if possible, in a groundless way. Hradscheck immediately made a fuss and sent Jakob to Schulze Woytasch, while he himself went over to Kunicke, who was just taking his afternoon nap. “Don’t disturb yourself at this hour, Kunicke; sleep is always sacred to me, and especially yours! But it’s no use, we have to get out. The Friedrichsau district councilor was just here and told me that a wagon was lying in the Oder. My God, if it were Szulski!” “It’s likely,” yawned Kunicke, sleep still evident in every limb, “it’s likely… But he didn’t want to listen when I said to him last night: ‘Not so early, Szulski, not so early…’ Just think of last year, how the post fell down and the poor fellow postillion died instantly. And he knew our dam! And now such a Pole, such a Krakauer. Well, we’ll see.” Meanwhile, Kunicke had gotten ready, first putting on high boots and then a thick gray-green down coat. And now he took his cap from its hook and a pike from the corner. “Come!” With that, he and Hradscheck stepped out of the hallway onto the stairway. The wind blew ever stronger, and as they both looked around from above as best they could, they saw Schulze Woytasch, who must have heard about the accident from somewhere else, coming down the village street. He had his ponies, brilliant little trotters, harnessed and, in defiance of all police regulations, rode along the raised walkway, which he was entitled to do as the village authority. Moreover, he was entitled to apologize urgently. When he was close to Kunicke’s ramp , he stopped and called to them both: “Want to go out too? Of course.” Always mount. But quickly.” And the next moment, they continued at full trot along the raised path toward Orth’s farm and the mill. Hradscheck sat in front next to the coachman, Kunicke next to the mayor. That was the rule, because a farm comes before an inn and a general store. Immediately behind the mill, the slope began, slowly and gradually rising to the dam. At the top, the road was somewhat better, but still bad enough that it was advisable to ride close to the edge of the dam, where, because the ground was less soggy, the wheels cut in less deeply. “Watch out,” said Woytasch, “otherwise we’ll end up at the bottom.” And the coachman, who might have been anxious himself, immediately steered toward the middle of the dam, even though he had to slow down here. Apart from the danger of the situation, it was a wonderful ride, and the picture presented from afar was of a certain magnificence. To the right, green winter crops stretched as far as the eye could see, interspersed with only isolated pools, houses, and poplar willows. To the left, however, the Oder, swollen by heavy rain, more of a lagoon now than a river. A furious southeast wind came in from the opposite bank , driving the gray-yellow waves against the dam with such force that it was like a surf. And in this very surf stood stunted willows, their ugly heads only above the water, while, on the Neumark side, the blue-black stripe of a pine forest lay in bright, eerie sunshine. Until then, not a word had been heard except the mayor’s call to the coachman , but now Hradscheck said, turning to the two people sitting behind him: “The wind must have blown him down.” “Nonsense!” laughed Woytasch. “You must see, Hradscheck, the wind is coming from there, from over there.” If he were to blame, he would be lying here to the right of the dam and not to the left in the Oder… But just look, there are already some staggering around, holding on to their hats. Drive on, so we’re not the last ones.” And a minute later, they stopped right at the spot where the accident had occurred. Sure enough, Orth was already there, with him a few of his millhands, as well as Mietzel and Quaas, whose converted farms were very close by. Everyone greeted one another and then climbed Together they went down the dam to see exactly what the situation was below. The embankment was slippery, but they held on to the willow and willow thickets that grew everywhere. Arriving at the bottom, they saw what no one had doubted from the beginning confirmed: Szulski’s horse-drawn carriage lay capsized in the water, its deck down, its wheels up. Only an occasional glimpse of the horse’s hindquarters, washed by the waves, could be seen, while the scissors in which it had been harnessed, rose from the stream like a landmark. The waves had washed the sack onto the dam, and only Szulski himself was nowhere to be seen. “He’s been swept away toward Kienitz,” said Schulze Woytasch. “But he can’t be far away; the surf is slanting against the dam.”
And so they marched on in groups, from thicket to thicket, searching every spot. “The fur must float to the surface.” “Yes, the fur,” laughed Kunicke. “If only it were just the fur. But the Pohl is in there.” It was Kunicke’s troop that was chatting, just like they do when digging badgers or hunting chickens, while Hradscheck, who was leading the other troop, suddenly exclaimed: “Ah, there’s his hat!” Indeed, Szulski’s fur hat was hanging from the short branches of a goiter willow. “Well, if we have that,” Hradscheck continued, “we’ll soon have him ourselves.” “If only we had a boat. But it can’t be deep here, and we’ll always have to sound and look for bottom.” And so it happened. But all the measuring and sounding helped, and all that remained was the hat, which one of the two miller’s apprentices had meanwhile fetched up with a hook. At the same time, the wind grew increasingly biting and colder, so that Kunicke, who still had rheumatism from Möckern and Montmirail, no longer felt like continuing. Neither did Schulze Woytasch. “I’ll send Gendarme Geelhaar to Kienitz and Güstebiese,” he said. “He has to get going somewhere. And then we’ll give him a proper burial. Isn’t that right, Hradscheck? The community can pay half.” “And we’ll pay the other half,” Kunicke added. “Because we’re actually a little to blame. Or actually quite a bit. He was damned fussy last night, and everyone was just so-so. Was he a Catholic then?” “Of course he was,” said Woytasch. “If someone’s name is Szulski and he comes from Krakow, he’s a Catholic. But that doesn’t matter. I’m for enlightenment. Old Fritz was for enlightenment too. To each his own…” “Of course,” said Kunicke. “Of course. And then in the end, we don’t know either, that is, I mean, we don’t know for sure whether he was a Kattolian or not. And what you don’t know does n’t bother you. Isn’t that right, Quaas?” “No, no. What you don’t know doesn’t bother you. And neither does Quaasen .” Everyone laughed, and even Hradscheck, who had shown dignified restraint up until then, joined in. Chapter 9. The dead man was not found, but the wagon, which had been laboriously retrieved from the water, was taken to the village and placed in Kunicke’s large barn. There it had been for two weeks, either to be picked up or auctioned off at the request of the Krakow firm . Meanwhile, there was a lot of gossip in the village, which everywhere boiled down to this: “Something had happened and there was something wrong with the Hradschecks.” Hradscheck was certainly a fine fellow and a joker and could tell jokes and stories, but he was a little slow on his feet, and as for Mrs. Hradscheck, who could not speak because of her refinement, everyone knew that still waters ran deep. In short, neither of them could be trusted, and the Polish man was probably lying somewhere else entirely than in the Oder. To make matters worse, our friend, the cantor’s son, who delighted in taking advantage of every scandal, also played the strings of his lyre, and every evening, when the servants with whom he on first-name terms, and as they walked through the village from the inn, they sang to the well-known melody: Morgenroth! Abel slew Cain. Yesterday, with full bottles, in the morning, emptied pockets and a cool, cool glass of beer. All of this eventually reached the ears of the Küstrin court, and although it was little better than gossip, lacking any conclusive evidence, the presiding judge, Justice Councillor Vowinkel, nevertheless felt compelled to ask his lodge brother Eccelius a few questions , and to inquire about the Hradschecks’ previous lives . That was on December 7, and that same day Eccelius wrote back: “Dear brother. I am very pleased to be able to speak in this matter and testify in favor of the two Hradschecks. They are slandered because they are envied, especially their wife. You know our burglars; They are arrogant and increase their conceit to the point of hatred against everything that considers itself equal to them, or even superior to them. But ad rem. He, Hradscheck, is a child of lowly people from Neu Lewin and, as his name testifies, of Bohemian extraction. You know that Neu Lewin was occupied by Bohemian colonists in the 1880s. But that’s incidental. Our Hradscheck’s father was a carpenter who, in the manner of such people, designated his son for the same trade. And our Hradscheck is said to have actually traveled as a carpenter and worked in Berlin. But he didn’t like it, and so, when he returned to Neu Lewin about 15 years ago, he started a general business, which was successful until, due to an uncomfortable ‘relationship’, he gave up the shop and decided to go to America. Specifically, via Holland. However, he only got as far as Hanover, where he stayed in a large, inn-like village inn near Hildesheim, a Catholic region. Here , it so happened that on the same day, the daughter of the family, who had been traveling the world for years, returned sick and miserable from her travels and adventures—she had presumably been an actress—and had a terrible scene with her father, who not only called her the most nasty names, but also refused her shelter and shelter. Hradscheck, moved by the misfortune and probably even more by the young woman’s unique and winning nature, took her side, asked for her hand in marriage, which suited both the father and the entire family perfectly, and married her after he had abandoned his plan to emigrate. Soon after, around St. Martin’s Day, the two moved here, to Tschechin, and on the very first Sunday of Advent, the young woman came to me and said that she wanted to adhere to the state church and be married in the Protestant church. Whatever happened at that time, and now in its tenth year, made a profound impression on the peasants. That the little god with the bow and arrow played a role in the lives of both of them is beyond doubt to me, as is also the fact that both succumbed to his temptations. Furthermore, as cannot be denied, some obscure points remain, although there was never a lack of apparently open confessions. But be that as it may, it is my duty to testify that they are decent people who, for as long as I have known them, have behaved well and have always lived in a Christian marriage. Certain things that were said about him, from the opposite side, some time ago , may be true, all the more so since I fundamentally abhor moral pride and moralistic judgment. The woman has my particular sympathy. The fact that she had renounced the old superstition made her dear and valuable to me from the very beginning, as you will understand.” The effect of this letter from Eccelius was that the Küstrin court dropped the matter for the time being; however, when it became known to the court “that night watchman Mewissen, according to recent statements made before Schulze Woytasch, on the day the accident occurred, Between five and six, around the time when the weather was at its worst, Mrs. Hradscheck claimed to have seen her among the poplars by the mill, just as if she were coming half-furiously from the dam” – the grounds for suspicion against Hradscheck and his wife had grown so much that the court decided to intervene. But even now, of course, they avoided any scandal, which is why Vowinkel addressed the following lines to Eccelius, to whom he still owed a letter of thanks : “Thank you, dear brother, for your detailed letter of the 7th of this month, which, insofar as it expresses a judgment, I wholeheartedly agree with. Hradscheck is a thoroughly nice fellow, far above his station, and you will remember that he was even nominated last winter , at my specific request. All this is certain. But, to my regret, the story with the Pole won’t go away; indeed, the grounds for suspicion have increased since your knowledge has recently spoken out. On the other hand, there is still too little substance to warrant an arrest without further ado, which is why I intend to question the Hradscheck servants, who, after all, must know everything best, and make my further actions or inactions dependent on their testimony. Under all circumstances, however, we want to avoid anything that could cause a stir, if possible. I will arrive in Tschechin tomorrow around 2:00 a.m., drive straight to your place, and ask you to ensure that I find the servant Jakob and the two other people, whose names I have forgotten, in your house.” This was the letter from the Justice Councilor. He himself stopped in front of the rectory at the appointed time and entered the hallway where the three summoned servants were already standing. Vowinkel greeted them, spoke a few friendly words to each of them with the intention of encouraging them, and then, after unwrapping his coat, went to Eccelius’s study, where not only the large black tiled stove but also the well-arranged coffee table must have made everyone who entered feel extremely homely. This was certainly the case with Vowinkel. He pointed it out with a laugh and said, “Excellent, friend. Most inviting. But I think we’ll leave that until later. Business first. The best thing would be for you to ask the questions, and I ‘ll be content with the role of assessor. They’ll answer you more impartially than they answered me.” “He sat down in a high armchair next to the stove, while Eccelius, out into the hall, called for Ede and, only now, after completing all the preliminaries, made himself comfortable at his massive writing table, whose large alabaster cross, standing between a sand and an inkwell, towered over him from behind . Meanwhile, the man he had called had entered and remained standing by the door. He had evidently done his best to make himself a well-mannered person, but with only limited success. His fiery red hair lay mostly bald at his temples, while what little remained stood at his head like a pointed flame. Worst of all, however, were his wintry hands, which protruded, like a world apart, from his ordination coat, which had become too short everywhere . “Ede,” said the pastor kindly, “you must tell us what you know about Hradscheck and the Pole.” The boy was silent and trembling. “Why aren’t you saying anything? Why are you trembling?” “I’m trembling like this.” “Before whom? Before us?” Ede shook his head. “Well, before whom then?” “Before Hradscheck…” Eccelius, who wished to see everything turned in the Hradschecks’ favor , was not very satisfied with this statement, but pulled himself together and said: “Before Hradscheck. Why before Hradscheck? What’s wrong with him? Is he treating you badly?” “No.” “Well, how?” “I don’t know… He’s so different.” “Very well. Different. But that’s not enough, Ede. You must tell us more. How is he different? What is he doing? Is he drinking? Or is he swearing? Or is he afraid?’ ‘No.’ ‘Well, how? What then?’ ‘I don’t know… He’s so different.’ It was obvious that nothing more could be extracted from the intimidated boy, so Vowinkel signaled to his friend to drop the matter. He actually broke off and said: ‘Well, it’s all right, Ede. Go. And send the paints in.’ She came and was barely recognizable in her head and breast cloth, which she had worn today as if it were a Sunday. Her eyes were clear, her manner unprejudiced, and, after Eccelius had asked his question, declared that she knew nothing. She hadn’t seen Szulski at all, ‘and at four o’clock or another hour later,’ Hradscheck had come to her bedroom door and told her to get up quickly and make coffee. She had done so, and just as she was splitting the jaw, Jacob came along and told her in passing , “that he had woken Pohl’s son; but Pohl had been so sleepy and hadn’t answered at all. And then he banged on the door.” She recounted all this several times, one after the other, and when the pastor finally asked her if she knew anything else, she said: “No, she knew nothing else, or only one thing: that when she took out the coffee things, the pot was almost full . And yet the weather had been dreadful, cold, and wet. And when someone else leaves in the morning, they usually drink the pot empty, or rather, always, and there’s no question of leaving any sugar . And some even take him with them.” But the Pohl man had n’t even drunk three sips, and everything was actually still as she had brought it in. She didn’t know anything else.” Then she left, and the third to arrive was Jakob. “Well, Jakob, how was it?” asked Eccelius; “You know what it was about . You don’t need to repeat what you told Malen and me before . You woke him up and he didn’t answer. Then he came down the stairs and you saw him holding on to the banister as if walking in his fur coat was difficult for him. That’s how it was, isn’t it?” “Yes, Pastor.” “And nothing more?” “No, nothing at all. And all I know is that he prayed so little, and…”
“And what?” “And that he was so quiet and didn’t say a word.” And when I said to him, ‘Goodbye, Mr. Szulski,’ they were again as quiet as a clam and just nodded.’ After this statement, Jakob also left, and the pastor’s cook brought the coffee. Vowinkel took one of the cups and, leaning against the windowsill, said, ‘Yes, friend, things are worse than you’d like to believe, and almost worse than I expected.’ ‘Perhaps,’ replied the pastor. ‘However, according to my feeling, which I naturally subordinate to your better experience, all these things mean nothing, or precious little. The boy, as you saw , could hardly speak for fear, and the cook’s statement really only concluded one thing: that there are people who drink a lot of coffee and others who drink little.’ ‘But Jakob!’ Eccelius laughed. ‘Yes, Jakob. ‘He will pray to little’, that was one thing, ‘and he will pray to stillness’, that was another. Do you want to make a noose for the Hradschecks out of this?’ ‘I don’t want to, but I fear I must. In any case, the grounds for suspicion have increased rather than diminished by what I have just heard, and proceedings against such a man who has been accused on so many different levels can no longer be postponed. He must be imprisoned, if only to prevent the facts from being covered up.’ ‘And the woman?’ ‘Can stay. In general, I will limit myself to the bare essentials, and to avoid any further fuss, I intend to in my carriage, as if it were a leisurely drive, to Küstrin.” “And if he is guilty, as you almost believe, or at least consider possible? Doesn’t such proximity make you somewhat anxious?” Vowinkel laughed. “It’s clear, Eccelius, that you’re no criminalist. Guilt and courage don’t mix well. All guilt paralyzes.” “Not always.” “No, not always. But usually. And always where the law is already above them.” Chapter 10. Hradscheck’s arrest took place ten days before Christmas. It was now mid-January, but the Küstrin investigation was making no progress , which is why the word in Tschechin and the neighboring villages was: “Hradscheck will be released next day because there is nothing against him.” Indeed, people began to scold the court and the court director , and it naturally happened that all those who had previously dreamed most passionately of an execution now set a good example in their censure and abuse. Vowinkel had a lot to endure, no doubt about it. But the most fulsome insults were directed at the witnesses, and the attacks against them would have been even more severe if they hadn’t simultaneously laughed at them. The stupid shopboy, Ede, they assured each other, couldn’t be taken seriously, and the Marks, with their freckles and their unfinished coffee, perhaps even less so. Everyone knows that you can often get wonderful coffee at the Hradschecks , and if all those who left the funneled chicory stuff standing were to be sued for murder and confiscated, half the gang would soon be behind bars. “But Jakob and old Mewissen?” was the question they would probably ask. Meanwhile, the majority, which had suddenly shifted its stance in favor of Hradscheck, wanted nothing to do with these two either . That silly Jakob, about whom so much was being made these days—well, what did he actually contribute? Nothing more than the eternal “He, we pray in silence.” But good heavens, who wants to have a long chat at five o’clock in a stiff southeasterly wind ? And especially old Mewissen, who, for as long as he lived, had considered heaven a bagpipe? Truly, he could say a lot before you could believe it. “With a checkered shawl over his head. And if it wasn’t a checkered shawl, then it was a horse blanket.” Oh, heavenly goodness! With a horse blanket! Hradscheck with a horse blanket! Are there horse blankets without fleas? No. And now this snippy Prise, who’s always flaunting her Turkish shawl and is even more euphemistic than the Reitwein Countess! So went the gossip, which, in and of itself favorable enough for Hradscheck, became more favorable with each passing day as a result of small incidents . Among them was one with a particularly strong impact. The following: On Christmas Eve, a letter from Hradscheck arrived at Eccelius’s house , stating: “He was well, which is why he would be happy if his wife would come over to the celebration and chat with him for a quarter of an hour; Vowinkel had given his express permission, of course, in the presence of witnesses.” “This was the written communication to which Mrs. Hradscheck, upon hearing of it from Eccelius, had immediately replied to the latter: “She would not make this journey because she did not know how to behave towards her husband . If he was guilty, she would be separated from him forever , firstly for her own sake, but even more so for the sake of her family. She would therefore rather go to Communion and present her case before God, and at the same time, fervently pray to Heaven to reveal her husband’s innocence very soon.” The Czechs, who were all extremely impious, liked to hear such things, but, like most impious people, had tremendous respect for anyone who “would rather go to Communion and present his case before God” than to Küstrin. wanted to travel there. In short, everything was going well, and one could have spoken of a total “reconquest” of the village, which was initially quite hostile to the prisoner , if it hadn’t been for one stalwart who, as soon as Hradscheck’s innocence was asserted, regularly asserted: “Hradscheck? I know him. He must go to the knife.” This stalwart was none other than Gendarme Geelhaar, a very important figure in the village, on whose authority the majority would have immediately sworn, had they not known his bitter hostility towards Hradscheck and the petty reasons for it. Geelhaar, a good gendarme, but an even better drunkard, had been an intimate of Hradscheck’s for many years, for the sake of cognac and rum, until one day, tired of the constant free pouring, the latter said with more arrogance than wisdom: “Listen, Geelhaar, rum is good. But rum can also convert you. ” At this provocation , Hradscheck loved such jokes. Geelhaar, who now suddenly mounted his high horse, replied with a bright red face: “Certainly, Mr. Hradscheck. What can’t convert you? This for one person, that for another. And with you, my dear sir, it’s not the end of the world yet.” The whole village knew about the enmity that had arisen from this dialogue, and so it came about that they didn’t pay much attention to it and essentially just laughed when Geelhaar assured him for the hundredth time: “Him? He has to go to the knife.” “He has to go to the knife,” said Geelhaar, but with each day the Czechs were saying more and more: “He’ll be free again.” And “he’ll come back again,” was also the cry in old Jeschke’s house, where her blonde niece, Line – the same one Hradscheck always asked about during his garden encounters with the old woman – had been visiting since Christmas and was working on an outfit, though admittedly not her own. She was an exceptionally clever person who, although not yet 27, had always tried her hand at various positions in life with success: early on as a childminder and housemaid, then as a seamstress, and finally as the parish cook in a village in Neumark, in which latter capacity she not only attended all the prayer services but also distinguished herself through an exemplary moral lifestyle. For she was one of those who, when engaged, do everything required of them within their commitment, including prayer, virtue, and loyalty. Jeschke, of course, dismissed such demands. Instead, whenever she spun the thread of her woollen garb, she only wanted to hear stories of favored and successful lovers, especially about a Küstrin forage official who had been forced to wait in the snow for three hours . And in vain, no less. All of this pleased Jeschke immensely, who would then regularly add: “Yeah, Line, that’s how I am too. But you don’t get too stupid.” And then Jeschke would reply: “How am I becoming, Mother Jeschke!” For she never called her aunt, as she was ashamed of her close relationship with the old witch . Chatting was a pleasure for both of them. And today, the two women sat chatting again. It was a rather cold day, and outside there was a foot of snow. Inside, however, it was cozy; the robin was chirping, the wall clock was chiming loudly, and the tiled stove was doing its thing. Jeschke was squatting closest to the stove, while Line sat far away at the window, which was completely covered in frost patterns, and had blown herself a peephole through which she could now easily see what was going on in the street. “There comes Gendarme Geelhaar,” she said. “Just over the dam. He must have been over at Kunicke’s. Of course, Kunicke is having breakfast at this time. And he looks so red, too. What does he want? He’ll probably want to pay that poor woman, Hradschecken, a visit eventually . She’s been a straw widow for four weeks already.” “No, no,” laughed the old woman. “That won’t do. He’s all too busy, she’s so small. No, no, I know him. Geelhaar is man blot still for so.” And with that she made the gesture of drinking from the bottle. “You’re right,” said Line. “Look, he’s coming straight toward our house. And sure enough, during this conversation, the one Jeschke had been having with her niece, Geelhaar had entered from the village street into a narrow, man-wide passage that led past the Hradscheck bowling alley into old Jeschke’s garden. From here was also the entrance to the old woman’s little house, which stood with its gable facing the street. “Good day, Mother Jeschke,” said the policeman. “Ah, and good day, Lineke. Or I should probably say Mamsell Linchen now.” Line, who, despite all the old woman’s disrespectful hints, had by no means struck the stately Geelhaar—he had served in the Cuirassiers’ Guard—from her list, immediately propped her left foot against a rush chair opposite her and, winking, looked at him across the large piece of linen that she stretched out in front of her with an energetic tug and puff, as if she were measuring it. The effect of these little tricks was not lacking. At least, that’s how it seemed to Line. Jeschke, on the other hand, knew better, and when Geelhaar answered her deliberately spoken High German question, “What exactly brings her this honor?” with a joking finger point at Line, she just laughed and said, “No, no, Mr. Gendarme.” I already know, I already know… But now they’re sitting down… Yes, this Hradscheck… he’s coming out again.” “Yes, Mother Jeschke,” repeated Geelhaar, “he’s coming out again. That means he’ll get out again if he doesn’t stay in.” “Well, well. If he doesn’t stay in. But why should he stay in? Nobody has seen anything, and nobody has found anything out. And you don’t either, Geelhaar.” “No,” said the policeman. “Me neither. But something will turn up, or at least be found, and you must help with that, Mother Jeschke. Yes, yes. I know this much: Hradscheck hasn’t slept for a long time and is always running up and down stairs. And when people say it’s just because she’s worried about her husband, I say: nonsense, he’s not like that and she’s not like that.” “No, no,” repeated Jeschke. “He’s not like that and she’s not like that. The Hradschecks, no, they’re not like that.” “So she doesn’t get a proper sleep,” Geelhaar continued, “not by day and not by night, and she’s always staggering around, sometimes in the yard, sometimes in the garden. I get that from the time… Listen, Mother Jeschke, if I could stand guard here at night! That would be great. Line stays up with us, and then we sit by the window and watch and watch. Isn’t that right, Line?” Line, who had already put the linen aside and half-braided her blonde braid, now slapped the loose tuft over her left hand and said: “I’ll think about it, Mr. Geelhaar. A poor girl has nothing but her reputation.” And as she said this, she laughed. “Take care, Geelhaar,” consoled Jeschke, although consolation was not really necessary. “Take care. I’m going to bed. What there is to see, I mean here, I’ve seen it, I know it all. And it’s always the Sülwigte.” “The Sülwigte?” “Yeah. Not me now. But as if there is no snow yet. There…” “There. What then?” “They’re always around here at night.” “Oh, so,” said the gendarme, cautiously asking all sorts of further questions. And since Jeschke could only expect advantages from good relations with the village police, she became more and more communicative despite all her usual reserve, telling the gendarme new and old things, especially what she had observed from her kitchen door that stormy November night. Hradscheck had stood there for a long time, a flickering light in his hand. “And he looked as if he wanted someone to look at him.” And then he took a spade and went to the pear tree. And there he saw a hole. dug. But by the garden gate there had been something like a suitcase or a basket or a box. What? She hadn’t been able to see it clearly. And then he filled the hole in again. Geelhaar, who until then, despite all his zeal for duty, had been as busy with Line as with Hradscheck, indeed, had perhaps been more of a courtier than a civil servant, had become very serious at this report and said, while shaking his swollen head from side to side with an air of importance: “Yes, Mother Jeschke, I’m sorry. But it will cause you inconvenience.” “What? What, Geelhaar?” “Inconvenience, because you’re coming out with this so late.” “Yeah, Geelhaar, what does that mean? What do you mean by ‘too late’? Nobody asked me. And you didn’t either. And what do I know then?” I don’t know anything. I don’t know anything, anyway.” “You know enough, Mother Jeschke.” “No, no, Geelhaar. I don’t know anything.” “That’s just enough for someone to dig a hole in their garden at night and fill it back in again.” “Yeah, Geelhaar, I don’t know, but anyone should be able to dig a hole in their own garden.” “Of course. But not at midnight and not in weather like this.” “Well, don’t let me in. And don’t talk to me… Line, Line, just say something. ” And indeed, in response to this request, Line approached the policeman and said, breathing deeply, as if struggling with a sudden and powerful excitement: “Leave it alone, Mother Jeschke. Mr. Geelhaar will know what he has to do. And we will too. That goes without saying. Isn’t that right, Mr. Geelhaar?” He nodded trustingly and said in a suddenly changed and friendlier tone: “I’ll do it, Miss Line. Schulze Woytasch is willing to talk, thank God, and so is Vowinkel. The main thing is that we get the fox in the shoes at all. And in the end, it doesn’t matter when we get him or whether his skin is pulled today or tomorrow.” Chapter 11. Twenty-four hours later—namely, in response to the report that Geelhaar had made to the authorities immediately after his conversation with Jeschke —an open carriage arrived from Küstrin, in which, in addition to the coachman, sat the Justice Councilor and Hradscheck. The wind was sharp and the sun was blinding, so Vowinkel, to protect himself against both, had opened his coat, while the coachman had pulled his head up into his fur collar up to his nose and ears. Only Hradscheck sat there, greedily inhaling the air and light he had been deprived of for more than four weeks . The carriage drove along the top of the dam, from which the village below could be comfortably surveyed and almost every single house could be seen with complete clarity. That one, with the black, tar-coated beams, was the schoolhouse, and the yellow one, with the glass observation tower, must be Kunicke’s—Kunicke’s “villa,” as the Czechs mockingly called it. But the low one directly opposite was his; he could tell by the pear tree whose black branches reached out above the snow-covered roof. Vowinkel noticed how Hradscheck involuntarily sat up, but there was no concern in his expression or gestures, only joy at seeing his home again. In the village itself, people seemed to have been anticipating the arrival of the Justice Councilor’s carriage . In the forecourt of the Igel’s Brett and Schneidemühle, which was the first farm one had to pass when coming from the Küstrin side, just as the Orth mill was on the Frankfurt side, stood the old Brett and Schneidemüller, sweeping the snow from the top layer of boards with a short, brittle broom, apparently most diligently occupied with this task, but in truth only eager to have seen the approaching Hradscheck before anyone else in the village. For Schneidemüller Igel, or the “Schneidigel,” as he was called simply and in who usually called him with deliberately unclear pronunciation, was a pot-cooper. But as pot-cooper as he was, he was also proud and arrogant, and so the moment the carriage passed him, he quickly turned back towards his house, simply to avoid having to greet him. Here, so as not to betray his curiosity, of which he was perhaps ashamed, to anyone, he took his hat and stick from the latch with particular slowness and then followed the carriage, which, incidentally, he soon saw pull up in front of the Hradscheck house. Mrs. Hradscheck was not there. Instead, Kunicke took over, whom she may have asked to act as host and, so to speak, the honors of the house. He then led the Justice Councilor from the hallway into the shop and from there into the wine bar behind it, where refreshments had been laid out. Vowinkel, however, after a friendly initial decline, took only a small glass of port and then stepped out into the garden, where everyone belonging to the village authorities had already gathered: Mayor Woytasch, gendarme Geelhaar, night watchman Mewissen, and three peasant court officials. Geelhaar, who, to celebrate the day, had donned his state cap with the arm-length black lamp-cleaner , towered, with the help of these showpieces, almost three heads above the rest of those present. This was the inner circle. In the wider circle, however, stood those who had gathered merely out of curiosity, among them the cantor’s son and the village poet, who had already had a hearty breakfast, while about twenty boys, freshly arrived from school , had climbed onto the bowling alley in their clogs to witness what the outcome would be. For the time being, however, they contented themselves with making snowballs, which they threw at the girls, big and small, who stood behind old Jeschke’s garden fence. Everyone chattered, laughed, and craned their necks, and if it weren’t for Hradscheck himself , who, avoiding the gaze of his old friends, gazed gravely and silently ahead, one might have thought it was a funfair or a winter fair scene. The court officials whispered and put their heads together, while Woytasch and Geelhaar looked around. Something seemed to be missing, which was true. But when the old gravedigger Wonnekamp appeared shortly afterwards with two of his men, they moved closer to the pear tree and began to shovel away the snow that lay there. This went easily enough, until the snow gave way to frozen earth, where the pickaxe had to be used. The frost, however, had not penetrated deeply into the earth , and so not only were they able to pick up their spades again soon , but they also made faster progress than they had initially hoped. The clods and pieces of clay thrown up grew larger and larger as the ground became softer, until suddenly the old gravedigger fell into the arms of one of the workmen and said, with the calmness befitting his position: “Now give me some; now what comes next.” With that, he took the digging log from his hand without further ado and began to dig himself, but obviously with great caution. Everyone pressed forward, wanting to see. And lo and behold, before long, a dead body was uncovered, largely still wrapped in remnants of clothing. The commotion grew, and all eyes turned to Hradscheck, who, as before, continued to stare straight ahead , only occasionally glancing shyly sideways into the pit. “Now they have,” ran a murmur along the garden fence, leaving it unclear whether they meant Hradscheck or the dead man. The boys on the bowling alley, however, craned their necks even more than before, although they were neither close nor high enough to see anything. A pause ensued. Then the judge took the accused’s arm and , leading him close to the grave, said: “Now, Hradscheck, what do you say?” He didn’t flinch, folded his hands as if in prayer, and then said firmly and solemnly: “I say that this dead man has proved my innocence.” will testify.” And as he spoke, he looked over at the old gravedigger, who also understood his look and, without waiting for further questions, said businesslike: “Yes, the one lying here has been lying here for a long time. I think twenty years. And the Polish man, who it’s supposed to be, hasn’t been dead for ten weeks.” And lo and behold, barely had these words been spoken when their meaning was already proven, and everyone was ashamed of having shown so little coolness and so little foresight and consideration. In a certain zeal for discovery, everyone had been blind and had failed to notice that a skull, to become a real skull, also requires its share of time, and that the dead have their differences and their degrees, just as much as the living. The most embarrassed was the Justice Councilor. But he quickly collected himself and said: “Gravedigger Wonnekamp is right. That is not the dead man we are looking for. And if he has been lying in the ground for twenty years, which I don’t doubt for a moment, then Hradscheck can’t be guilty of this death. And there can be no question of any earlier guilt either. For Hradscheck has only been in this village for ten years. All of this has now been proven. Despite all this, a few obscure points remain that must be clarified. I live in the confidence that this clarification will not be lacking, but until it is provided, I cannot dismiss you, Mr. Hradscheck, from the investigation. What I express here as a further hope is that it will only be a matter of hours and, at most, days.” And with that, he took Kunicke’s arm and returned to the wine bar, where, in the company of Woytasch and the court officials, he bravely enjoyed the breakfast served for him. Hradscheck, too, was invited to sit down and have a snack. He declined, however, saying he ‘d rather wait until he was in Küstrin prison to eat his meal. Those were his words. And the peasants liked them immensely. “He doesn’t want to sit at his own table as a guest and eat the bread he baked as a gift. He’s right. I wouldn’t want that either.” That’s what most people said, and that’s what most people thought. But not all of them, of course. Gendarme Geelhaar walked along the fence, over which Mother Jeschke, along with the other women, had been looking away. Line too, of course. Geelhaar tapped his finger on the pigtail of his hair and said, “Now, Line, how’s your braid?” “Mine?” she laughed. “Listen, Gendarme, now it’s your turn.” ”
It won’t be that bad, Lineke… And Mother Jeschke, what does she say?” “Yeah, what should she say?” He’s out again now. But he’ll come back soon, too.” Chapter 12. A week had passed, during which the Czechs had experienced much. The most important thing was: Hradscheck, after having undergone a final interrogation in Küstrin, was back. Simply and impartially, without gaps or contradictions, the obscurities had been cleared up, so that his innocence could no longer be doubted. According to his statement before Vowinkel, through carelessness, for which he himself was to blame, he had spoiled several large sides of bacon, and that day he had intended to bury them as unnoticed as possible in the garden . Therefore, immediately after his guests had left the wine bar, he had set to work and, just as Jeschke had seen and told, had tried to dig a hole in the old pear tree. But when he realized that something was buried there, yes, apparently a dead body, he was seized by a terrible fear, as a result of which he stopped digging and quickly filled the hole again . The suitcase that Jeschke claimed to have seen was precisely those bacon strips that had been lying, tightly packed on top of each other, at the garden gate. “But why the secrecy and the night?” Vowinkel had asked somewhat pointedly after this explanation, whereupon Hradscheck, continuing his story, had replied without embarrassment or anxiety: ” There were two reasons for this secrecy. First, he wanted to avoid the reproaches of his wife, who was only too inclined to speak of his carelessness in business matters . And he might well add that anyone who is married knows this and knows only too well how much one likes to avoid such accusations and arguments. The second reason, however, was even more important : consideration for the customers. The peasants, as the Justice Councilor knew, were the most difficult people in the world, eternally distrustful, and even though they didn’t buy things like ham and bacon in his shop, because they had enough of them in their own smoke, they immediately jumped to conclusions . He had experienced something like this more than once and then had to hear for weeks from all corners that he wasn’t paying attention. Yes, just last autumn, when a ton of herring had gone stale through no fault of his own , Schneidigel had staged a coup all over the village and, among other things, had said to Quaas and Kunicke: ‘He wo n’t get to us with that; but the little people, those who… ‘” The Justice Councillor had smiled and nodded in agreement at this, because he knew the peasants almost as well as Hradscheck, so that, after this point had been dealt with, nothing remained but the question, “what had become of the bacon that should have been disposed of, under such circumstances ?” A question which, however , had only served to fully demonstrate Hradscheck’s innocence. “He had buried the bacon that same morning in another part of the garden; Immediately after Szulski’s departure.” “Well, we ‘ll see,” Vowinkel had replied , and dispatched one of his bailiffs to ascertain the accuracy or inaccuracy of this statement in Tschechin. And when everything was quickly confirmed, or in other words, the buried bacon was actually found at the location indicated by Hradscheck , the proceedings were discontinued, and that same afternoon, the man under such grave suspicion returned to Tschechin and drove up to his house in a stately Küstrin livery . Ede, quite astonished, had only found time to call into the living room where Mrs. Hradscheck was : “The Lord, the Lord…” whereupon Hradscheck himself, with his characteristic jovial manner and calling out, “Well, Ede, how are you?”, entered the hallway of his house, but at the same moment, he recoiled again with a startled “What is it, wife?” An exclamation he was well within his rights. For, Ursel, aged, with her eyes sunken in, and her skin like parchment, had met him at the door. Hradscheck was there; that was one Czech event. But the other was hardly less important: the following Sunday, Eccelius had preached on Zechariah 7, verses 9 and 10, which read: “Thus says the Lord of hosts: Judge righteously, and show kindness and compassion to each one his brother.” And do not wrong a stranger, and do not think evil against his brother in his heart.” The peasants had already listened attentively during the reading of the text and the introductory reflection that followed it; but when the pastor dropped the generalities and, without mentioning names, began to describe the Hradscheck case and demonstrate the deceptiveness of appearances, a movement arose such as had not been seen since the Sunday—now in its fifth year—on which Eccelius had pointed out the grave moral transgressions of a rich peasant’s son standing before the altar as a bridegroom and admonished him to a better life . Both Hradschecks were present in the church and followed every word of the priest, who today quoted many Bible verses, even more than usual. It was inevitable that this justification speech simultaneously became an indictment against all those who had behaved so unneighborly in the Hradscheck affair and who, through all sorts of informants, had demonstrated either their ill-will or at least their frivolity and thoughtlessness. There could be no doubt as to who was primarily meant , and many eyes, except those of the peasants, who, as was customary, remained impassive, were turned to Mother Jeschke, who was sitting with her “Lineken” on the second-to-last pew , directly opposite the pulpit, right under the organ. Line, usually a model of unembarrassedness, didn’t know what to do today and cursed the old witch, next to whom she had to endure the crossfire of so many eyes . Mother Jeschke herself, however, only nodded her head gently, as if approving of every word spoken by Eccelius, and , when the sermon was over, quietly sang along to the final verse. Indeed, she herself remained unconcerned as she hobbled outside, past the women standing on either side of the churchyard path, first enduring the reproachful glances of the older women and then the giggles of the younger ones . At home, Line said, “That was a lovely story, Mother Jeschke. I could have been ashamed to bite my eyes out.” “But you shouldn’t be like that.” “Oh, you shouldn’t be. Is he right or not? I mean, that old man over there?” “I don’t know, Line,” Jeschke soothed. “He just needs to know.” Chapter 13. “He just needs to know,” Jeschke had said , expressing her true stance on the matter. She still distrusted Hradscheck; But the fact that Eccelius had delivered a vindication speech for him from the pulpit had not left her unimpressed and caused her to somewhat doubtfully confront her own suspicions. She respected Eccelius, even though she was hardly less than a real old witch and viewed the sacred rites of the Church entirely in the manner of her sympathetic cures. Everything that worked in the world was sympathy, discussion, and haunting, but this haunting had two sources, and the white haunting was stronger than the black one. Accordingly, she submitted herself to Eccelius, who represented the white haunting, especially when he spoke from the altar or pulpit, granting him, so to speak, the more reliable source of information. Under all circumstances, however, she sought to get back on good terms with Hradscheck, because she understood the value of good neighborliness. Hradscheck, for his part, instead of playing the sensitive one as many others would have done, met her halfway and was generally so unpretentious that, before the Shrove Eve pancakes had even been baked, the whole Szulski story was practically forgotten. Only on Sundays in the pub did it still come up now and then. “If only the fur could be brought back into the skin…” “Well, you wouldn’t want to touch the Pole’s fur, would you?” “Not touch it? Why not? That the Pole is in there doesn’t do him any good. And not me either. And what else is in there, well, that should be clear by now.” “Yeah, yeah. That should be clear by now.” And then they laughed and changed the subject. Such jokes were the norm, and only rarely did anyone seriously address the case and express surprise that the body had not yet been found . But then it was said, “The dead man was lying in the mud, and the mud would not yield anything, or at least only after fifty years, when the alluvial foreland had become arable land. Then he would be found while plowing , just as the Frenchman had been found.” Yes, just as the Frenchman, who was now the main focus, much more so than the traveler who had had an accident with his wagon, which was hardly surprising. For accidents like Szulski’s were frequent, or at least not rare, during the The Frenchman buried under a pear tree had everything it took to capture the imaginations of the Czechs. All sorts of stories were spun, including love stories, one of which stated that in the year 1313, a Frenchman in love with a pretty Czech woman came from Küstrin to Czechoslovakia almost daily until a rival killed him and buried him. Even the maids insisted on this story, although older people clearly remembered that a chasseur, or according to another opinion, a voltigeur corporal, had been taken aside and silenced simply for foraging too harshly . These know-it-alls, however, failed to get their story across with their prose, and under all circumstances, the Frenchman remained the hero and center of conversation. All of this suited our Hradscheck. But what benefited him even more was that he knew how to use this same “Frenchman under the pear tree” not only to restore, but even to brilliantly enhance his reputation. And this is how it happened. Not long after his release from pretrial detention , at a church council meeting presided over by Eccelius in person , there was talk of granting the Frenchman a Christian burial in the churchyard. “The Frenchman was indeed,” Kunicke, who had made the request, had stated, “very likely a Catholic, but one shouldn’t take that too literally; Catholics , when you look at it closely, are also Christians, and if someone has been lying in the ground for so long, then it really doesn’t matter whether he has a purified faith or not.” Eccelius had agreed to this truly Kunicke-like speech, albeit with a smile, of course , and the matter had already been considered accepted and settled when Hradscheck had asked to speak at the last moment . “If the preacher considers burial in the churchyard, which, as a true Christian cemetery, must be something absolutely holy to every Christian, Protestant or Catholic, to be appropriate or even obligatory, then it should not occur to him to say a word against it; but if it were not quite so—in other words, if a burial there were not absolutely obligatory—then he hereby expresses his wish to be allowed to keep the Frenchman in his garden. The Frenchman had become, so to speak, his patron saint, and not a day went by without him thinking of him with gratitude and love. That was what he couldn’t help saying here, and he only added that, if desired, he would provide the spot with a fence or surround it with a boxwood tree.” Hradscheck had spoken the entire speech with emotion, and the part of his gratitude had even been spoken with a trembling voice , which had a profound effect on the peasants. “You’re a good fellow,” Kunicke, like all breakfasters, easily prone to tears, had said. A quarter of an hour later, as he accompanied Woytasch and Eccelius to the rectory, he added emphatically: “And if it were a Russian! But it’s all the same to him, Russian or French. The Frenchman helped him, and now he’s helping him again and has him fenced in. Or at least a border put up. And if it’s a grille, it won’t cost less than twenty thalers. And I’m not counting the paint or the gilding. ”
All this had been in mid-March, and four weeks later, when the swallows flew through the village street for the first time again, to announce themselves and at the same time to look around for the old people and places , Hradscheck had a conversation with master carpenter Buggenhagen, to whom he took the opportunity to present a plan. “You see, Buggenhagen, the house is too small everywhere, there are extensions and tacks everywhere, the kitchen right next to the shop, and there’s nothing for the strangers, except for the two gable rooms upstairs. That’s not enough, so I’ll add another story. What do you think? Will the substructure be a Floor?” “What won’t it!” said Buggenhagen. “Of course half-timbering!” “Of course half-timbering!” repeated Hradscheck. “Also because of the cost. Everyone these days acts as if my wife had at least inherited a manor. Yes, there’s something to be said for a manor. A pitiful thousand thalers.” “Now, now.” “Well, let’s say two,” laughed Hradscheck. “But nothing more, on my honor. And you know that you can’t spin silk with that. No silk to spin, and no palaces to build. So as cheaply as possible, Buggenhagen. I think we’ll use clay as filling. Stone is too heavy and too expensive, and what we save that way we’ll use for the furnishings. A couple of stoves with white tiles, right ? I’ve already written to Feilner and asked. And, of course, all wallpaper! It always looks good and can’t cost the earth. I think white; It’s the cleanest and also the cheapest.” Buggenhagen had agreed and started the renovation right after Easter . And before long, the weather had favored the construction, and the house, which now had an additional story, was roofed again. But it was the same old roof, the same old stones, for Hradscheck never tired of demanding thrift and repeatedly emphasizing “that he was still a poor man.” Four weeks later, the Feilner stoves were also in place, and only regarding the wallpaper had different decisions been made, choosing a few brightly colored ones instead of the white ones. At first, while the roof was being covered, Hradscheck, obviously nervous, had constantly urged everyone to hurry. Only when the gable wall facing the bowling alley to the right was torn down and instead of the rooms above, only the beams and rafters were visible, did his haste and restlessness subside, replaced by cheerfulness and good humor. He was and remained in this good mood , and only one day had disturbed it . “What do you think, Buggenhagen?” Hradscheck had said one day as he opened a bottle of port wine he had brought up from the cellar. “What do you think, couldn’t the cellar be vaulted a little higher? Of course not the whole cellar. For God’s sake, not a stone would be left standing, and the shop, the winery, and the living room—in short, everything would have to be changed and brought onto a different plank. That’s not possible. But it would be a great achievement if we could raise the middle section, which runs directly under the hallway, a little higher. Whether the floorboards would be two feet lower as a result is pretty unimportant; because the barrels lying there still have enough room, even upwards , and don’t immediately hit the ceiling. Buggenhagen never contradicted, partly out of prudence, partly out of indifference, and the only thing he allowed himself now and then were half-proposals, for which he was indifferent whether they were approved or rejected. And so he proceeded again this time and said: “Of course, Hradscheck. It will work. Why shouldn’t it work? Everything will work. And the cellar really isn’t high enough— I don’t think it’s five and a half feet—and the windows are much too small and too low; everything will get moldy and muddy. So it has to be done. But why vault it straight away? Why not dig it out instead? If we take out ten loads of earth, we’ll have five feet everywhere in the entire cellar, and no one will bump into the bare slab anymore. Vaulting upwards just adds expense and trouble. We might as well go downstairs.” Hradscheck, as Buggenhagen spoke thus, had changed color and momentarily wondered, “If all this perhaps meant something?” But soon, convinced by the speaker’s impartiality, his composure had returned. “When I think about it, Buggenhagen, let’s leave it. We also have to think about the groundwater. And if it has gone on like this for so long, it can continue like this. And in the end, who will come into the Keller? Ede. And he’s not even close to five feet.” That had happened some time before the maneuvers began, and if it had lingered for a few days, both annoying and disgruntled, it quickly disappeared when the troop marches began at the beginning of September and the Schwedt Dragoons arrived in the village as quarters. Having the house full of guests was Hradscheck’s pleasure, and his favorite visitors were the captains and lieutenants, who not only drank their bottles but also knew all sorts of things and had their mouths in the right place . Some conspired that war was very near. Emperor Nicholas, thank God, was extremely dissatisfied with the new French economy, and the unsafe passenger, Louis Philippe, who was really just a wimp and half-cretin, should be pushed aside with his entire constitution and a Bourbon regency installed in his place, or perhaps the exiled Charles X should be brought back, which would actually be the best thing. Emperor Nicholas was right, always right. Constitutions were nonsense, and the whole bourgeois monarchy was pure empty phrases. When conversations like this went on, our Hradscheck’s heart swelled, even though he was actually for freedom and revolution. But if it couldn’t be revolution, then he was also for tyranny. It just had to be peppered. Excitement, blood, killings – whoever gave him that was his friend, and so it came about that he sat in judgment on Louis Philippe , as if he shared the hyper-loyal sentiment of his guests. He considered himself surpassed only by Ede, and when the latter went through the wine bar bringing a new steak or a new bottle, there was always a stupid laugh on his face, as if he were saying: “Right, down with him! Everything must be cut short by a head .” A couple of very young lieutenants, noticing this comical frenzy, were heartily amused by him and let him drink with them, which soon led to the usually shy boy completely coming out of his shell and occasionally even engaging in a semi-conversation with the otherwise feared Hradscheck . “There, sir,” he called one day as he was coming back up from the cellar with a basket full of bottles. “There, sir; I just found these downstairs. ” And with that, he shoved a black-covered toggle button toward Hradscheck. “They’re the same as the ones Pohl had on his coat.” Hradscheck turned chalk-white and stammered: “Yes, you’re right, Ede. They are. You’re right. That is, Pohl’s were bigger. Small ones like those that Hermannchen, our Little Hermann, had on his fur coat. Do you remember? But no, you were n’t even here then. Take it to my wife; don’t forget. Or better yet, give it back to me; I’ll take it to her myself.” Ede left, and the officers sitting nearest, who had noticed Hradscheck’s agitation but weren’t quite sure what to make of it, stood up and turned to talk with other comrades. Hradscheck also rose. He had tucked the toggle button away and went into the garden, angry with the boy, but most angry with himself. “It’s a good thing they were strangers, and strangers at that, too, who only think about girls and horses. If it was one of us here, even if it was just that oil idol, Quaas, I’d have the whole thing on my plate again. Watch out, Hradscheck, watch out. And that damned flinching and turning color! Cool blood, or there will be disaster.” Saying this to himself, he had already paced the center aisle a few times, his gaze fixed on the ground. When he looked up again, he saw that Jeschke was standing behind the raspberry fence, picking a few late berries. “The old witch. She’s lurking again.” But despite all this, he walked up to her, shook her hand, and said: “Well, Mother Jeschke, how are you? Long time no see. Are you billeted too?” “No, Hradscheck.” “Or is Line back?” “No, Lineken isn’t either. He’s in Küstrin now.” “With whom then?” “They’re school inspectors. And they don’t want to leave… Hey, Hradscheck, I think the school inspectors are also like that… But what have they got then? They look really good. And here’s a wrinkle. Oh, you should n’t be upset, Hradscheck.” “Yes, Mother Jeschke, that’s what you say. But you have to be upset. There are the young officers now. Well, they’ll be leaving soon and they’re not so bad in the end and they’re actually nice men and always cheerful. But Ede, that Ede! That boy spilled half a barrel of oil again yesterday. That’s just too funny. Where are you supposed to get the money from? And then the drudgery up and down the stairs, and half-slipping on the narrow cellar steps. It’s enough to break your neck.” “Well, they’ve got Buggenhagen by now. They can’t even fix any stairs.” “Oh, him, him. He’s no good either; it annoys me too. I should raise the cellar higher for me. But he doesn’t want to and has all sorts of excuses. Or maybe he just doesn’t understand. I’ll have the Küstrin master mason come over, who’s currently patching up the casemates. Casemates and cellars are practically the same thing. He has to come up with a solution. And soon. Because the cellar isn’t really a proper cellar at all; it’s just a hole where you hit your head.” “Yeah, yeah. The Vienna building sits on its back.” “Of course. And the whole thing has no air or light. And why not? Because there aren’t any proper windows. Everything’s too small and too low. Everything’s too close together.” “Well, well,” Jeschke agreed. “God, I still remember that the Pole is here and that light’s always blinking. Yeah, where’s the light? Is it in the room or is it in the cellar? I do n’t know.” Everything sounded so clever and malicious, and it was obvious that she wanted to take advantage of her neighbor’s embarrassment. This time, however, she hadn’t reckoned with the innkeeper, and the embarrassment ultimately stayed on her side. Hradscheck had long been willing to strike a different tone with her whenever the opportunity arose . And so he looked at her sharply with his piercing eyes and said, suddenly addressing her in the third person: “Jeschken, I know where she’s going. But does she even know what a libel suit is? I hear everything she blabs about; but be careful, or she’ll have to deal with the Küstrin court; she’s an old witch, everyone knows that, and the justice councilor knows it too. And he’s just waiting for an opportunity.” The old woman jumped in alarm. “I mean, man, Hradscheck, I mean , man… You know, it has to be a good joke.” “Well, all right. A little fun, maybe. But if I can advise you, Mother Jeschke, not too much. You hear, not too much.” And with that, he went back to the house. Chapter 14. Anxieties and annoyances like those described above occurred now and then , but on the whole, to repeat, the construction period had been a happy time for our Hradscheck. The shop was never empty, customer base grew, and the piece of farmland belonging to the property, located outside on Neu Lewiner Straße, yielded a particularly good harvest that summer . The same was true of the garden behind the house; everything thrived there, the asparagus magnificent, thick stalks with yellow-white heads, and the parsnip and dill beds stood tall in umbels. Most of all, however, was the old pear tree, which exerted itself more than it had in years. “That’s the French,” the farmhands would say on Sundays in the pub, “it’s doing well for them,” and when picking time arrived, Kunicke, who had just arrived for a game of skittles, called out, “Listen, Hradscheck, you could bring us some of your French pears.” French pears! The word was greatly admired and quickly spread from mouth to mouth. Mouth, and before three days had passed, no one was speaking of Hradscheck’s “Malvasia” anymore, but only of the “French pears.” Hradscheck himself, however, was pleased by the word, because he realized that, despite all of old Jeschke’s barbs, people were increasingly beginning to take the events of the past winter in a lighthearted manner . Yes, the summer and construction months brought bright days for Hradscheck, and they would have had even more light and even fewer shadows if it hadn’t been for Ursel. While everything else went smoothly and well, she filled his soul with pity and worry—with pity because he loved her, at least in his own way, and with worry because she occasionally said quite strange things. Fortunately, she had no need to socialize or see people; rather, she lived a more withdrawn life than ever, contenting herself with going to church on Sundays. Her usually deep-set eyes would pop out of her head, so eagerly did she follow every word that came from the pulpit, but the word she was waiting for never came. In her longing, after the sermon, she would go over to the good Eccelius, who always remained equally inclined towards her , to pour out her heart and soul to him as far as she could and to hear something of liberation or redemption. But pastoral care was not his strong suit, and even less his passion, and when she had confessed to sin and exhausted herself in self-accusations, he would take her hand with a smile and say: “Dear Mrs. Hradscheck, we are all sinners and fall short of the glory we should have before God. You have a tendency to torment yourself, which I disapprove of. Constantly accusing oneself is often conceit and vanity. We have Christ and his conduct as our example, which we should humbly strive to emulate in the awareness of our weakness.” But let us guard ourselves against self-righteousness, especially that which expresses itself in contrition. That is the main thing.” When he had said this in a dry, businesslike manner, without pathos and even without any trace of unction, he would immediately drop the matter and, moving on to more natural and, to him, more important matters, ask, “How far along is the construction?” For he also wanted to build next spring. And then, when Mrs. Hradscheck, to please him, had chatted about all sorts of little things, but most fondly and in detail about the disagreements between her husband and master carpenter Buggenhagen, he would rub his hand, grinning and nodding to himself, and say quickly, evidently afraid of seeing the inner conversation resume: “And now, dear Mrs. Hradscheck, I must show you my carnations.” Around Midsummer’s Day, everyone in Czechia knew that Mrs. Hradscheck wouldn’t be around much longer . No one missed it. Only she herself didn’t see it as so serious and didn’t want to hear from any doctor. “You don’t know anything anyway. And
then the carriage and all that money.” She now began to talk about the latter, the “lots of money,” with great pleasure, finding it all unnecessary or too expensive. And while only the year before she had been in favor of a Polysander fortepiano, to emulate, if not the district councilor in Friedrichsau, then at least the domain tenant at Solikant Castle, she was now frugal to the point of stinginess. Hradscheck let her have her way, and only once, when she was pawing at the pods, did he pluck up the courage to say: “What’s all this about , Ursel? You’re wringing every penny out of your soul.” She remained silent, turned the bowl over and over, and continued paving. But when he stopped and seemed to be waiting for an answer, she said, setting the bowl aside quickly and forcefully: “Is it all for nothing ? Or do you want…« She got no further. A heart attack, which she suffered from more frequently these days, struck her again, and Hradscheck jumped in to help her. She managed her household punctually, and everything went smoothly, as before. But she was only interested in one thing, and that one thing was the building. She wanted to build it, surpassing Hradscheck’s zeal in this, She wanted to see it completed as quickly as possible, and however frugal she had become , she was still not against any additional expenditure that promised acceleration and faster completion. Once she said, “If only I get up there. Once I’m up there, I’ll be able to sleep again. And once I sleep again, I’ll get well again.” He tried to calm her down and stroked her forehead and hair with his hand. But she avoided his affection and began to tremble violently. In general, it was often as if she were afraid of him. Once she said quietly, “If only he weren’t so smooth and trusting. He’s so lively and talks so much and can do everything. Nothing bothers him… And the one over there in Neu Lewin was suddenly gone too.” Such moods came to her from time to time, but they were fleeting and passed again. And now were the last days of August. “Tomorrow, Ursel, everything will be ready.” And indeed, when the next day arrived, Hradscheck offered her his arm with a certain friendly solemnity to lead her upstairs to one of the new rooms. It was the one facing the bowling alley, now the prettiest, wallpapered in light blue, and painted on the ceiling: a wreath of blossoms and fruit, around which doves flew and pecked. The bed had already been brought up and stood against the central wall, exactly where the bed wall of the old gable and lodging room had once been. Hradscheck expected to hear thanks and kind words. But the sick woman only said: “Here? Here, Abel?” “They’re new stones,” stammered Hradscheck. Ursel, meanwhile, had already stepped back from the threshold and walked along the corridor to the other gable side, where there was a room of the same size, overlooking the courtyard. She went to the window and opened it; Kitchen smoke, more welcoming than disturbing, wafted toward her from the side, and a hen with her little chickens drifted by below . But Jacob, who was sawing wood in front of an open shed, was teasing Male, who was washing clothes by the well. “I want to stay here.” And Hradscheck, more shocked than disconcerted by the scene, agreed and had all the furnishings in the light-blue wallpapered room intended for Ursel moved to the other side. And lo and behold, Mrs. Hradscheck really did recover, and even more quickly than she herself had dared hope. Sleep came, the sharp contraction around her mouth disappeared, and by the time the aforementioned days of maneuvers arrived, with her dragoons quartered, her appearance and mood had improved so much that she could occasionally act as hostess and chat with the officers. Her gaunt, hectic demeanor, combined with her excellent dress code, gave her a distinguished air, and an old squadron commander, who courted her with astonishing chivalry, said, as he watched her at breakfast and twirled his long blond mustache with both hands : “Fantastic woman. My honor. How does she ever get here?” And then he expressed his admiration to Hradscheck, to which the latter replied, not a little flattered: “Yes, Captain, one must have luck! Some get it in their sleep.” And then the squadron commander laughed and clinked glasses with him. All this was in mid-September. But as quickly as her well-being had come, it vanished again, and before the harvest festival had even arrived, her strength had already dwindled so much that the sick woman could barely walk down the stairs. She therefore stayed upstairs, looked out over the courtyard, and, in order to get something done , began redecorating all the upper rooms. She only avoided the gable room, facing the bowling alley. Hradscheck, who had always considered the possibility of a restoration, now saw the situation, and when Dr. Oelze, who had been secretly consulted, spoke of emaciation and neurological consumption , Hradscheck prepared himself for her passing. That he had been waiting for it could not be said; on the contrary, He remained true to his old inclinations, was extremely considerate, and never complained about missing his wife. He refused any help from anyone else and arranged everything that needed to be done around the house. He did a lot himself. “He’s a real tough guy,” said Kunicke. “He can do whatever he wants. I think he can even skin a hare and cook aspic.” On the evening Kunicke spoke thus, the meeting in the wine bar had once again lasted quite a long time, and Hradscheck hadn’t been in bed for half an hour when Male, who was now sleeping upstairs with the sick woman, came downstairs and knocked on his door. “Mr. Hradscheck, get up. The woman sent me. They should all come up.” And now he sat upstairs by her bed and said: “Should I send for Küstrin, Ursel? Should Oelze come? The road is good. He’ll be here in three hours.” “In three hours…” “Or should Eccelius come?” “No,” she said, struggling to stand up, “it won’t work. If I take it, I’ll say so.” He shook his head sullenly. “And if I don’t say so, I’ll eat my own meal.” “Oh, never mind, Ursel. What’s the point? Nobody thinks of it. And least of all me. He should just come and talk to you. He means well and can give you a word.” It was as if she were considering it. But suddenly she said: “Blessed are the peacemakers; blessed are the pure in heart; blessed are the meek. All these will enter Abraham’s bosom. But where are we going?”
“I beg you, Ursel, don’t speak like that. Don’t ask like that. And why?” You ‘re not ready yet, not by a long shot. It will all pass. You’re alive and will become a healthy woman again.” But it all just sounded to her, and dwelling on thoughts that already extended beyond death, she said: “Locked… And what unlocks is faith. I don’t have that… But there’s something else that unlocks, and that is good works… Listen. You must write to Krakow without a name, to the bishop or his vicar. And you must ask that they let them say requiem masses… Not for me. But you know… And have the letter posted in Frankfurt. It won’t work here, and it won’t work in Küstrin either. I’ve been saving it up for the last six months, and you’ll find it wrapped up in my linen cupboard under the damask tablecloth. Yes, Hradscheck, that was it, if you thought I’d become stingy. Do you want it?” “Of course I do. But there will be demand.” “No. You don’t understand that.” That’s a secret. And they’re granting a poor soul peace!’ ‘Ah, Ursel, you talk so much about peace and you worry and fear whether you’ll find it. Do you know what I think?’ ‘No.’ ‘I think life is life, and death is dead. And we are earth, and earth will return to earth. The priests have invented the rest. It’s just a game of tricks, I say, nothing more. Believe me, the dead have peace.’
‘Are you so certain of that, Abel?’ He nodded. ‘Well, I tell you, the dead rise again…’ ‘On Judgment Day.’ ‘But there are some who don’t wait that long.’ Hradscheck was terrified and urged her to say more. But she had already sunk back into the pillows, and her hand, escaping his , only clutched convulsively at the comforter. Then she calmed down, placed her hand on her heart, and murmured words that Hradscheck didn’t understand. “Ursel,” he called, “Ursel!” But she didn’t hear any more. Chapter 15. That had been the night from Saturday to Sunday, the last day of September. When the church bell rang the next morning, the windows in the room stood wide open, the white curtains swayed back and forth, and everyone who passed by looked up at the gable room and knew that Hradscheck was dead. Schulze Woytasch drove up, saying what he would have thought under similar circumstances. was accustomed to saying, “that she was well now” and “that she was a good step ahead of them all.” Afterward, as he did every Sunday before the sermon, he drank a small glass of Madeira to strengthen him and then walked the short distance to the church. Kunicke also came and shook Hradscheck’s hand understandingly, his eyes just blurry enough to evoke the idea of ​​a tear. The oil miller also spoke, and immediately after him, Farmer Mietzel , who always boasted about the “advantages of his infirmity from his youth” at deaths, spoke again today. “Yes, Hradscheck, man thinks and God directs. I’ve been squeaking for so long now; but it’s still going.” Others came and said a word. Most, however, passed by without showing any sympathy and made observations that dealt with the dead woman in a less than friendly manner. “I don’t know,” said one, “what the castle checks have in store for you. They’re just looking askance.” “Yeah,” laughed the other. “They will. And at the end, they could have something here too.” “And then the Hanoverian money. You throw it away and start to scrimp on it with a shilling. ” The conversation among some of the older people went on in this vein; the young women, however, limited themselves to a single question: “Wake him up, will he come tomorrow?” The funeral was scheduled for four o’clock on Wednesday, and many curious onlookers were already standing in a wide semicircle around the funeral home beforehand. It was mostly maids who chatted and giggled, and only a few were serious, among them the twin granddaughters of a poor old widow, who always helped the Hradschecks do the laundry when the laundry was at the Wrathschecks. These twins had appeared in their black funeral gowns, which had been given to them by Mrs. Hradscheck, and they wept terribly, which intensified when they realized that their howling and sobbing had made them the object of everyone’s attention. Meanwhile, the bells rang continuously, and everyone crowded closer together, wanting to see. But when it had rung for the third time, life came to those gathered inside and outside, and the procession began to move. In front were the schoolchildren led by Cantor Graumann, who, as was customary, sang the hymn “Jesus, My Confidence.” After them appeared the coffin, carried by six bearers; then Eccelius and Hradscheck. Behind them the peasants in black overcoats and tall black hats, and finally all the curious onlookers who had been standing around the house until then. It was a beautiful day, fresh autumn air under a clear blue sky. But the village dignitaries, gazing majestically ahead, paid no attention to the blue sky, and only Farmer Mietzel, who still had hay outside that he intended to harvest the next day, squinted up with half an eye. Then he saw a harrier come across the river from the other side of the Oder and fly towards the Czech church tower. And he nudged the oil miller walking beside him and said: “Look, Quaas, there it is again.” “Are you?” “The harrier. Do you remember?” “No.” “Well, what that is with Szulski.” I tell you, the priest, you know something.” As they spoke thus, the head of the procession turned into the churchyard, at the highest point of which, close to the tower, the grave had been dug. Here the coffin was placed on beams laid across it, and immediately after the circle had closed, Eccelius stepped forward to deliver the funeral speech. He praised the deceased for having, shaking off the superstition instilled in her , walked the path of light of her own free choice and decision, something only he who had stood as close to her as he could know and testify to. And just as she had loved the light and the pure doctrine, she had no less loved justice, which had never been revealed more beautifully and brilliantly than in those difficult days imposed on the blessedly departed according to the decree of God. At that time, when he had not without effort she had obtained the concession to be allowed to see again the one to whom her heart and soul clung, even if only in front of witnesses and for a short half hour, then she had spoken the words that everyone here remembers: “No, not now; it is better that I wait. If he is innocent, I will see him again, sooner or later; but if he is guilty, I do not want to see him again.” He was happy that he could repeat these words here at the grave of the departed, to her glory and honor. Yes, she had always proven herself in her faith and her sense of justice. But above all in her love. She had counted the hours with anxiety , wasting her strength in sleepless nights, and when the hour of release had finally come, she collapsed. She was the victim of serious misunderstandings prevalent at the time, that much was beyond doubt, and all those who had stoked and nurtured these misunderstandings instead of eliminating them had burdened her soul with a heavy responsibility. Indeed, this early death, he must repeat, was the work of those who had disregarded the commandment : “You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.” And as he said this, he looked sharply toward a leafless rosehip bush, beneath whose red fruits Jeschke stood, following the proceedings, as she had done in church, more curious than embarrassed. Immediately afterward, however, Eccelius concluded his speech, signaled for the coffin to be lowered, and then recited the blessing. Then came the three handfuls of earth, concluding with a look of pain and a handshake, and before the globe of the sun hovering on the horizon had completely set, the grave was closed and covered with wreaths of asters. Half an hour later, as dusk was already falling, Eccelius was back in his study, wearing the velvet cap that Mrs. Hradscheck had embroidered for him just a year ago. The peasants, however, were sitting in the wine tavern, with Hradscheck between them, and summed up all the consolation they had to offer in the words: “Courage, Hradscheck! The old god still lives!” – these consolations and sayings of wisdom were almost immediately followed by all sorts of remarriage stories . One of them, the best, was about an old Captain von Rohr, who had had four wives and, at the passing of each one, had said with a certain defiant determination: “If God takes them away, I’ll take them back.” Hradscheck listened to all this quietly and nodded, but was nevertheless glad to see the dinner party leave earlier than usual. He accompanied Kunicke to the shop door and then, not knowing why, went up to the room where Ursel had died. There he sat down by her bed and stared into space , while all sorts of shadows passed across the wall and ceiling. After sitting like that for a quarter of an hour, he left the room again and saw, as he passed, that the gable room to the right was half open—the same room in which the deceased had so emphatically refused to live or sleep after the remodeling was complete . “What are you doing here, Male?” asked Hradscheck. “What am I doing? I’m dragging her bed over.” “Whose?” “We’ve arrived. Another one with a fur coat.” “Oh, I see,” said Hradscheck and slowly went down the stairs. “Another… another… Still not forgotten.” Chapter 16. Mrs. Hradscheck was now buried, Male had received the shawl she had long desired, and everything would have been fine if it hadn’t been for the deceased’s last will : sending money to the Bishop of Krakow for the requiem masses to be celebrated. This worried Hradscheck, not because of the money—he would have easily parted with it, partly because saving and stinginess were not in his nature, but above all because he wanted to keep the promise he had made to his wife, if only out of superstitious fear. So it wasn’t the money, and if he nevertheless fell into hesitation and procrastination, it was because he himself did not want to contribute to perhaps bringing the barely buried story back to light. Ursel had certainly spoken of the seal of confession and the like, but he mistrusted such security, and most of all the letter that was to be posted in Frankfurt without a signature. In this embarrassment, he finally decided to consult Eccelius and tell him half the truth, or if not half, then at least as much as was necessary to ease his conscience. Ursel, he began, had, to his deepest regret, suffered serious Catholic relapses and, for example, in her final hour, had given him a sum of money to have requiem masses said for her – the one for whom it was actually intended was embezzled here. He, Hradscheck, had also promised her everything to make her death easier, but his Protestant conscience now rebelled against keeping his promise to the letter and in every detail , which is why he asked whether he should really hand over the money to the Catholics or whether he should instead travel to Berlin and order a marble or perhaps cast-iron grave cross, as was currently fashionable . Eccelius didn’t hesitate for a moment to answer, saying exactly what Hradscheck wanted to hear. Promises made to a dying person are, of course, binding; piety demands it; it is the rule. But every rule, as is well known, has its exceptions, and if the promise made to a dying person is false and sinful, then the recognition of this sinfulness annuls the promise. This is not just a right, it is even a duty. The whole matter, as Hradscheck described it, was one of his most painful experiences. He had thought highly of the deceased and had always taken pride in having won her over to the purified doctrine. That he had been mistaken, or at least half- mistaken, in this was, among other things, also personally insulting to him, something he would not deny. This personal insult, however, was not what had determined his just-pronounced verdict. Hradscheck should confidently stick to his plan and travel to Berlin to commission the cross. A cross and a kind inscription at the head of the deceased would suffice, but it would be an ornament to the churchyard and a joy to the heart of everyone who passed by it on Sunday. It was at the end of October that Eccelius and Hradscheck had had this conversation, and when spring arrived and the entire Czech churchyard, bare as its trees still were, was covered in snowdrops and violets, the cast-iron cross appeared, which Hradscheck had ordered with great importance and after long and meticulous deliberation at the royal iron foundry. Along with the cross, a stonemason arrived with two journeymen, men who had a thorough understanding of erecting and soldering. After the village youth had watched for a few hours as the lead was melted and poured into the hole in the base, the cross stood there with its motto and inscription, and many curious onlookers came to see the shiny gold decorations: below, an angel lowering a torch , and above, a butterfly. All this was admired by young and old . Some also read the inscription: “Ursula Vincentia Hradscheck, born in Hickede near Hildesheim in Hanover on March 29 , 1790, died September 30, 1832.” And below it, Evangelical Matthew 6:14 . On the back of the cross, however, was a saying presumably written by Eccelius himself, in which he expressed his pride, but also his pain. This saying read: “We walked in darkness until we saw the light. But the darkness remained, and a shadow fell on our path.” Among those who had viewed the cross on the day of its erection were Gendarme Geelhaar and Mother Jeschke. They They had the same route home and were now walking together down the village street, Geelhaar somewhat embarrassed because he knew Jeschke’s reputation, which ill-suited his own dignity, better than anyone else. His curiosity, however, overcame his embarrassment, and so he stayed by the old woman’s side and said: “It’s pretty. And the butterfly so natural; almost like a lemon bird. But I don’t understand why Hradscheck buried her so close to the tower. What’s she doing there? Why not with the children? A mother has to lie where the children lie.” “Well, well, Geelhaar. But Hradscheck is smart. And he always knows what ‘s going on.” “Of course he knows that. He’s clever. But precisely because he’s clever…” “Yeah, yeah.” “Well, what then?” And the six-foot-tall man bent down to the old witch, because he probably noticed that she wanted to say something. “What then, Mother Jeschke?” he repeated his question. “Yes, Geelhaar, what should I say? Eccelius has to know. And he made the inscription again. But there is one, he still knows a prayer for us.” “And who is that? Line?” “No, not Line. But Hradscheck, the only one. Hradscheck, he does n’t want the children and the woman together. Not like that in a pile.” “Very well, very well. But why not, Mother Jeschke?” “Well, he’ll think about it when it starts. ” And now she stopped and explained to Geelhaar, who was listening half-surprised, half-horrified, that on the day “it starts,” Hradscheck would of course grab her children, provided she had them at hand. “And old Hradscheck would n’t do that.” “But, Mother Jeschke, do you really believe in such things?” “Yeah, Geelhaar, why not? Why shouldn’t I believe in such things?” Chapter 17. When the cross was erected, it was afternoon, Hradscheck also arrived, dressed for Sunday and as if for church service. And the curious onlookers, of whom there was no shortage all day long, even after Geelhaar and Jeschke had long since left, saw him read the inscription and fold his hands. This pleased them immensely, but what pleased them most was that he had commissioned the expensive cross at all. For spending money, and a lot of it at that, was what impressed the Czechs most as true peasants. Hradscheck stayed for about a quarter of an hour, picked violets that sprouted next to the burial mound, and then returned to his apartment. When it got dark, Ede came with a light, but found the door locked from the inside. When he went out into the street to close the shutters from the outside as usual, he saw Hradscheck sitting on the sofa , resting his head on a small lamp with a green folding shade. So the evening passed. The next day, too, he stayed in his room, barely taking a snack, reading and writing, and letting his business go as it would. “Now, Jacob,” said Male, “it’s just as if she’s dead now. Look where he is. He can’t start again now.” “No,” said Jacob, “he can’t. ” And Ede, who came along and was having his High German day today, agreed, albeit with the caveat that he didn’t want to hear much about the previous “first mourning” either. “Start again! Yes, what do you mean by starting again? Back then, it was like that, too. Three days and no longer. And watch out, Male, this time he’ll get even more for it.” And indeed, Ede, who, despite all his stupidity, knew his master well, was right, and before the third day was over, Hradscheck abandoned his daydreaming and resumed the social life he had been leading during the previous winter months. This included traveling to Frankfurt every two weeks and to Berlin every four weeks, where, after completing his business, he indulged in no other pleasure than an evening at the theater. Therefore, he regularly stayed at the “Gasthofe zum Kronprinzen” (Crown Prince Inn), located on the corner of Hohen Steinweg and Königsstraße. From there, it was only a few hundred steps to the then flourishing Royal City Theater. Once he was back in Tschechin, he not only performed scenes from Angely’s “Fest der Handwerker” and Holtei’s “Altem Feldherrn” and “Wiener in Berlin” for his friends and regulars in the wine bar, among whom Schulze Woytasch now also belonged, but also sang them all sorts of songs and arias: “Was it perhaps at one, was it perhaps at two, was it perhaps three or four?” And then again: “In Berlin, he says, you must be, he says, always be, he says, etc.” For he possessed a good tenor voice. But he was particularly successful, far beyond the Singspiel arias, with the barrel organ song from “Mr. Schmidt and his seven marriage-minded daughters,” the first verse of which ran: Mr. Schmidt, Mr. Schmidt, what’s Julchen getting? “A veil and a plumed hat, that suits Julchen too well.” This song by Mr. Schmidt and his daughters delighted Kunicke, that was self-evident, but Schulze Woytasch also assured anyone who would listen: “I’m not worried about Hradscheck; he can go to the theater every day. I’ve seen Beckmann; well , Beckmann is good, but Hradscheck is better; he has something else, yes , how should I say it, he has something else that Beckmann doesn’t have.” Hradscheck grew accustomed to such applause, and even though it occasionally happened that he didn’t see anything new during his stay in Berlin, during which he always wore gold-rimmed glasses, he never returned empty-handed, because he was never satisfied until he had discovered something comical and incredibly witty in the bookshop windows. That never held up, because it was precisely the “glass burner or burning glass era,” and if it couldn’t be such glass burner stories, well, it was collections of old and new anecdotes, which were then offered for sale in small, meager four-penny booklets under all sorts of names and titles, such as “Brausepulver” (Brause Powder). Indeed, these booklets were particularly popular with the Czechs because the stories told in them were always short and never left you waiting long for the punch line, and if the conversation ever faltered, Kunicke had the stock joke: “Hradscheck, a effervescent powder. ”
It was the beginning of October when Hradscheck was in Berlin again, this time for several days, whereas he usually always came home on the third day. Ede, who was now running the shop, was attentive to his duties, and only between 1 and 2, when hardly anyone was in the shop, did he enjoy playing the gentleman and, just as Hradscheck was wont to do, walking up and down in the garden with his hands behind his back. He did that again today, but at the same time he called to Jacob and told him, in a rather commanding tone, to put a new hoop around the water barrel . Then he looked at the starlings on the pear tree and pulled a branch down to pick another of the ripened “French pears.” It was a magnificent specimen, which he immediately bit into. But when he let go of the branch, he saw that Jeschke was standing over by the fence . “Dag, Ede.” “Dag, Mother Jeschke.” “Well, does it taste good?” “I mean, not?” It’s a Malvasia.” “Yeah. Before it was a Malvasia. But now…” “Now it’s a ‘Franzosenbeer’. I know. But that’s all one.” “Yeah, who knows, Ede. There’s something here now. Haven’t you noticed anything yet?” The boy dropped the pear in alarm, but the old woman bent down to pick it up and said: “I don’t mean the berry. I mean the other.” “What then? Where then?” “Well, around the house.” “No, Mother Jeschke.” “And not down in the cellar either? Haven’t you seen anything yet?” “No, Mother Jeschke. You just…” “And don’t you grab anything?” The boy had turned pale. “Yeah, Mother Jeschke, sometimes you see me like that. Sometimes you see me like that, like something grabs me by the heels. Yeah, I think it’s grabbing.” Jeschke saw her goal achieved and skillfully backed down . “Hey, you’re a scaredy-cat. I was just joking. It’s all such stupid things.” And with that, she walked back toward her house and left the boy standing there. Three days later, Hradscheck returned from Berlin, in a more cheerful mood than he had been for a long time, for he had not only successfully completed all his business matters, but had also made the acquaintance of a young lady who had shown himself to be both favorable to him and his marriage plans. This young lady was the daughter of a distillery owner, tall and strong, with slightly protruding, always laughing eyes, a true Berliner. “Bold and cheerful” was her motto, which also corresponded to her favorite saying: “Ah, that’s hilarious.” But this only lasted for days. When her heart warmed, so did her phrases, and she would say: “I’m sure an old wall must be shaking,” or “That’s all the same, to get a lump in my stomach.” Her favorite pastimes were country outings, including social games like Zeck or Plumpsack, accompanied by sour milk and black bread, and the journey home with lanterns and songs: “We lead a free life,” “Come on, comrades,” “Lützow’s wild, daring hunt,” and “I stand in the dark of midnight.” As a result of this pronounced preference, she had set her mind on marrying only in the country. And she had lived to be 30 years old, all purely out of stubbornness and rebelliousness. Her mother, however, had shortened her name, “Editha,” to Dittchen. This was the acquaintance Hradscheck had made during his last stay in Berlin. He was practically at peace with Editha herself , and only her parents still had minor reservations. But what did that mean? His father was used to not being consulted anyway, and his mother, who was only somewhat hesitant about the nine-mile distance, wouldn’t have been a real mother if she hadn’t ultimately wanted to be a mother-in-law. So Hradscheck was in excellent spirits, and one expression of this was that this time he returned to Tschechin with a particularly large supply of Berlin witty literature, including a comic romance that had been performed just last Sunday by the court actor Rüthling in the concert hall of the Royal Theater , at a matinee attended by Hradscheck and Editha, along with the entire haute volée of Berlin . This romance dealt with the famous story of the cornerman who woke a poor apothecary’s apprentice at midnight , “because the incense candle simply wouldn’t stay lit.” This story had so deeply absorbed not only the entire upper class, but especially Hradscheck, who was obsessed with all Berlin jokes , that he could hardly wait for the moment to read them aloud to his Czech convivium . But now the time had come, and he celebrated triumphs that were almost greater than he had dared to hope. Kunicke roared with laughter and offered triple the price if Hradscheck would let him have the little book. “He had to read it to his wife when he got home, that very night; something like that had never happened before.” And then Schulze Woytasch said: “Yes, the Berliners! I don’t know! Even if someone gave me a thousand thalers, I couldn’t do something like that. They’re confounded fellows. ” The “Romance of the Cornerman,” however, however brilliantly its performance had been, had been merely a prelude and skirmish in which Hradscheck had not yet used up his best powder. His best, or at least what he personally considered to be such, came later and was the story of a gendarme assigned to the political police, who had arrested a man suspected of high treason and living in Kurstrasse. He was supposed to track down a Baden student named Haitzinger, which he succeeded in doing, and some time later led to the official report that he had found pp. Haitzinger, whose name, incidentally, was Blümchen, despite the fact that he lived not on Kurstraße but on Spittelmarkt, and was not a Baden student, but a Saxon linen weaver . “And now, gentlemen and friends,” Hradscheck concluded his story, “this exceptionally clever gendarme, what was his name? Geelhaar, of course, wasn’t he?” But no, gentlemen, backfired, his name was just Müller II. I inquired about it carefully, otherwise I would have sworn until the end of my life that his name must have been Geelhaar.” Kunicke shook himself and refused to know any other name than Geelhaar, and when everyone had finally exhausted themselves and cheered, only Woytasch, as the village authority, looked somewhat disapproving. Quaas said: “Children, we don’t get this every day, because Hradscheck doesn’t come from Berlin every day. So I think we’ll make another punch: three Moselle, one Rhine wine, one Burgundy. And not too sweet. Otherwise we’ll have a headache tomorrow. It’s only half past eleven, five minutes to go. And if we keep up, we’ll have the acid test at midnight.” “Bravo!” they all agreed. “But not too early; midnight is too early.” And Hradscheck rose to send Ede, who was sitting sleepily in the shop on a sugar crate, down to the cellar to fetch the five bottles. “And watch out, Ede; the Burgundy is mixed up, red and white, the one with the green lacquer.” Ede rubbed the sleep from his eyes, took the light and the basket, and lifted the trapdoor that led from the hallway into the cellar, between the stacked oil barrels, in the only remaining space . After a few minutes, he was back upstairs and knocked on the door from the shop, to signal that everything was there. “Right away,” called Hradscheck, who, as usual, was in the middle of a speech, “right away,” and only after he had finished his sentence did he enter the shop from the wine bar. Here, he comfortably arranged a tureen he had previously summoned from the kitchen and reached for the corkscrew to open the bottles. But when he picked up the Burgundy , he tapped the boy on the shoulder, half angrily, half good-naturedly, and said: “You’re a fool, Ede. With green varnish, I told you. And this is yellower. Go and get a real bottle. If you don’t have it in your head, you must have it in your legs.” Ede didn’t move. “Well, boy, will it work? Be quick.” “I’m not going.” “You’re not going? Why not?” “It’s spooky.” “Where?” “Down… Down in the cellar.” “Boy, are you crazy? I think you’re already feeling the midnight terror. Call Jacob. Or no, he’s already gone to bed; call Male, she’ll come and shame you. But don’t.” And with that, he himself went to the kitchen door and called out: “Male.” The woman he called came. “Go to the cellar, Male.” “No, Mr. Hradscheck, I’m not going.” “Neither do you. Why not?” “It’s spooky. “In the name of the devil, what’s this nonsense?” And he tried to laugh. But he could only stay on his feet with difficulty , for he felt dizzy. At the same time, he clearly felt that he mustn’t show any sign of weakness, but rather, on the contrary , he should try to make the two men’s refusal comedic, and so he threw the wine bar door wide open and called in: “Some news, Kunicke…” “Well, what’s up?” “There’s something haunted down there. Ede doesn’t want to go into the cellar anymore, and Male, of course, doesn’t either. Things are looking bad for our punch. Who’s coming with us? If two people come, it won’t be haunted anymore.” “All of us,” Kunicke cried. “All of us. This will be great fun.” But Ede has to come too.’ And with these words, taking one of the lights at hand, they set off – with the exception of Woytasch, who disliked the whole thing – Babbling and blaring, in a kind of procession, as if someone were being buried, they went from the wine bar through the shop and hallway, and slowly, one after the other, they descended the cellar stairs . “Good heavens, this is a hole!” said Quaas, looking around downstairs . “It’s enough to make you creepy. Just take a few more with you, Hradscheck. It helps. The more good cheer, the fewer ghosts.” And with such conversation, in which Hradscheck joined in, they packed the basket full and climbed the cellar stairs again. Upstairs, however, Kunicke, who was already quite tipsy, slammed the heavy trapdoor shut, echoing through the entire house. “So, now he’s in there.” “Who?” “Well, who? The ghost.” Everyone laughed; the drinking continued, and midnight was long past when they parted. Chapter 18. Hradscheck, otherwise moderate, had competed with the others in drinking, just to have a peaceful night. He succeeded, and he not only slept soundly but also well beyond his usual hour . He didn’t get up until eight o’clock. Male brought the coffee, the sun shone into the room, and the sparrows, which had been pecking at the fodder that had fallen from the chaff bags, flew onto the windowsill when they were finished and called out. Their twittering had something cheerful and trusting about it, which did the master of the house, who threw them plenty of breadcrumbs, immense pleasure. Indeed, he almost felt as if he understood their morning greeting: “Beautiful day today, Mr. Hradscheck; fresh air; take it all easy!” He finished his breakfast and went into the garden. Between the boxwood borders grew many delphiniums, half still in bloom, half already in seed pods, and he broke off one of the pods and scattered the black seeds into his palm. As if by chance, he remembered what Mother Jeschke had told him years ago about fern seeds and making oneself invisible. “Fern seeds sprinkled in my shoes…” But he didn’t want to imagine it, and said, as he sat down on a bench that had recently been placed around the pear tree: “Fern seeds! Now all that’s missing is the light from the unborn lamb. All old wives’ talk. And truly, I ‘m going to become an old woman myself… But here she comes…” Sure enough, as he rambled on like this, Jeschke approached him from the asparagus beds. “Dag, Hradscheck. How’s it going?” They don’t even bother me.” “Yes, Mother Jeschke, where do you find the time? One has so much to do. And the gentleman is getting dumber and dumber. But sit down. Here. It’s sunny here.” “No, sit down, Hradscheck, sit down. I’ve been sitting so much. But you should stay seated.” And as she did so, she drew all sorts of figures in the sand with her stick. Hradscheck watched her without saying a word himself, and so after a pause she continued: “Yes, there’s a lot to do. We’ll have another clock yesterday . Can’t Kunicke get away again? I know him. Well, your father, old Kunicke, we’re like that too. Just pray for us.”
“Yes,” laughed Hradscheck, “it was late. And just imagine, Mother Jeschke, at twelve o’clock or thereabouts, the five of us went down into the cellar. And why? Because the old man didn’t want to go any further.” “Well, look. And what didn’t he want to go?” “Because it was haunted down there. The boy was crazy with his constant ‘he’s spooking’ and ‘he’s grabbing’. And because he persisted, and we still wanted our punch, we ended up going ourselves.” “Well, look,” repeated the old woman. “We should have given him a muzzle .” “I wanted to, too. But when he stood there trembling, I could n’t. And then I thought…’ ‘Oh, what, Hradscheck, it’s all just stupid nonsense… And if there is something, well, then it must be the French.’ ‘The French?’ ‘Yeah, the French. Just look; you’re going to pray here. He must want to pray, it’s slipping.’ ‘It’s slipping,’ repeated Hradscheck and laughed with the old woman around the Bet. “Yes, the Frenchman slipped. Everything’s fine. But if only I could get the boy back on track. He’s making the whole village rebellious. And the way people are when they hear about ghosts, they get uncomfortable. And then finally that stupid story comes up again. You know…” “Well, well, I know.” “And then, Mother Jeschke, ghosts are nonsense. Of course. But there are some…” “Yeah, yeah.” “There are some who say: ghosts aren’t nonsense. Who’s right? Now, come on, spit it out. ”
The old woman didn’t miss the pain and anxiety Hradscheck was in, which is why she answered, as she always did, with a “yes” that could just as well have been a “no,” and with a “no” that could just as well have been a “yes . ” “My dear Hradscheck,” she began, “you want to know something about me. Well, what do I know? Spook! Sometimes it seems like that. And not again on the Enn. And I always say: if you rule, it’s something for you, and if you don’t rule, it’s nothing for you.” Hradscheck, who had followed with rapt attention, nodded in agreement, while the old woman, who suddenly sat down next to him, continued with growing confidence: “I want to tell you something, Hradscheck. You just have to have a cure. And you do. What is spook? Spook, that it’s just like when the mice nibble. If you always listen, well, it doesn’t work; But when it’s all said and done, ‘Well, what aren’t they supposed to nibble on?’, she slouches.” And with these words she quickly got up again and walked between the flowerbeds towards her apartment. But suddenly she stopped and turned around again as if she had forgotten something. “Hey, Hradscheck, what else I want to tell you, Line will come back too. She wrote yesterday. What do you mean? She’ll do something for you.” “It’s not possible, Mother Jeschke. What would people say? And she’s only a year old.” “Very well. But they’ll also take care of your Martini… And then, Hradscheck, they don’t need to rest right away.” Chapter 19. “The Frenchman has slipped,” Jeschke had said, and she had been so strangely confidential again, all intentional and calculated. For even if the conversation in which her otherwise compliant neighbor had threatened her with libel suit more than a year ago was still having an impact , she could not, despite everything, give up the habit of speaking in dark hints, as if she knew something and was only holding it back. “Damn!” Hradscheck muttered to himself. “And then there’s Ede with his eternal fear.” He clearly saw the whole story coming back to life, and a dizziness seized him when he thought of everything that, given the state of things, each day could bring. “This can’t go on like this. He has to go. But where to?’ And with these words, Hradscheck paced back and forth, pondering. ‘Where to? They say he’s lying in the Oder. And he must go there… the sooner the better… Today. But I wish this piece of work were done. Back then, it was okay; the knife was at my throat. But now! Truly, the burial wasn’t as bad as the reburial .’ And driven by fear and anxiety, he went to the churchyard and stood by his wife’s grave. There was the angel with the torch, and he read the inscription. But his thoughts couldn’t tear themselves away from what he had planned, and when he returned, it was clear: ‘Yes, today… Whatever you want to do, do it soon.’ And as he did so, he pondered how it should be done. ‘If only I had some fern. But where can I find fern here? Only grass and barley grow here, nothing more, and I ca n’t drive ten miles around the world just to come home with a large bush of fern. And why should I? It’s nonsense.” He went on like this. But finally he remembered having seen an entire forest of fern in the neighboring Gusow Park . And so he called out into the yard and had the horses harnessed. He returned at noon, and in front of him, on the back seat of the car, lay a huge fern bush. He scraped the seeds and carefully placed them in a paper capsule, and the capsule in a drawer. Then he went through everything he needed once more, carried the digging log, which usually stood next to the garden gate, down to the cellar , and was transformed when he was finished with these preparations. He whistled and sang to himself and went into the shop. “Ede, you can go out this afternoon. There’s a fair in Gusow with a carousel and there are also trick riders, that is, tightrope walkers. I saw the rope being stretched this morning. And you don’t need to be back here before eight. Take this, it’s for you, and now have fun . And there’s also a waffle stand there, with eggnog and punch. But nice and moderate, not too much; Listen, don’t do anything stupid.” Ede beamed with happiness, set off, and returned promptly at eight. The regulars arrived with him, taking their seats in the wine bar as usual. Some had already learned that Hradscheck had been in Gusow that morning and returned with a large bush of fern. “What do you want with the fern?” asked Kunicke. “Plant it.” “It’ll grow rampant. If it’s been in your garden for three years, you won’t know where to put it because of the weeds.” “And so it should. I’ll put a high fence around it. And the faster it grows, the better.” “Well, be careful with it. It’s like waterweed; once it ‘s established itself, there’s no getting away from it. And it’ll eventually drive you away from home and farm.” Everyone laughed until finally the conversation turned to the trick riders and Hradscheck asked what he had actually seen of them. “Just the rope. But Ede, who was here this afternoon, must have been surprised.” And then Hradscheck the Broader told him that the man who now owned the troupe was old Kolter’s son-in-law, and that his wife still called herself after her father and had n’t even taken her husband’s name. He said all this as if he knew the Kolters very well, which prompted the oil miller to ask various questions about the famous tightrope-walking family . For jumpers and trick riders had been Quaasen’s constant passion ever since, as a 20-year-old boy , he had once been on the verge of running off with a trick rider. His mother, however, had gotten wind of it and not only locked him in the milk cellar , but also persuaded the troupe’s director, in return for a substantial cash gift, to send the “dangerous person” ahead to Reppen . All of this, as one can imagine, gave rise to much teasing today, all the more so since Quaas already enjoyed the privilege of being the keeper of the Round Table. “But what’s that about Kolter?” asked Kunicke. “You wanted to tell us about him, Hradscheck. Is he a rider or a knight?” “Just a knight. But what kind!” And now Hradscheck began to recount one of his main stories , namely that of old Kolter, who had already been very famous in 1414 and had been at the Congress in Vienna. “What, what? At the Congress?” “Of course.” And why not?’ ‘At the congress, then.’ And then, Hradscheck continued, the King of Prussia said to the Emperor of Russia: ‘Listen, my dear brother, whatever you may say about your Stiglischeck, Kolter is better, watchword, Kolter is the first jumper in the world, and whatever may happen to him, he will always know how to cope. ‘ And when the Emperor of Russia denied this, they made a bet, the only condition being that nothing should be said beforehand. And they kept their wager. And when Kolter had already halfway across the rope stretched between two towers, suddenly, from the other side, another tightrope walker came at him. Stiglischeck had been there, and not a minute longer, they had stood facing each other, and the Russian, for which no one could blame him, had simply said: “All lost, brother: you lose, I lose.” But Kolter had only laughed and whispered something in his ear—some say a pious saying, others say the opposite—and then, with great effort and skill, had walked backward ten steps, while the other squatted down. And then Kolter had taken a run-up and jumped over the others in one, two, three steps . There was a terrible round of applause, and some had wept loudly and said over and over again, “that’s more than Napoleon.” And the Emperor of Russia had lost his bet and had actually paid. “He will, he will,” said Kunicke. “The Russian always pays. He did… Bravo, Hradscheck! Bravo!’ Thus, Hradscheck was rewarded with applause and performed many other things every quarter hour, until finally, at eleven, the regulars left the house. Ede had already been sent to bed, and a deathly silence reigned in the spacious house . Hradscheck paced back and forth in his room, but had to sit down, for the excitement of the day had been so numerous that, despite his strong nerves, he felt close to fainting. While he had been telling stories over there, more cheerfully and cheerfully, or so it seemed, than ever before, not a drop of wine had passed his lips. But now he took cognac and water and felt his strength and determination quickly return. He went to the drawer where he had hidden the capsule, immediately took off his shoes, and sprinkled some of the fern seed into it. ‘So!’ And now he stood in his shoes again and laughed. ‘I’ll give it a try! If I’m invisible now, I should n’t be able to see myself either.” And taking the light in hand, he stepped in front of the narrow trumeau with the white-lacquered frame and looked into it, nodding at his reflection . “Good day, Abel Hradscheck. Truly, if everything helps as much as the fern seed, I won’t get far and will only have the pleasant feeling of having been a fool and a simpleton led astray by an old woman. The damned witch! Why is she alive? If she were gone, I would have had peace long ago and wouldn’t need this nonsense. And I wouldn’t need…” A shudder ran through him, for the terrible thing he had planned suddenly resurfaced in his mind. But he quickly controlled himself. “One thing leads to another. If he says A, he must say B.” And when he had spoken thus and straightened himself up again, he went to a small corner cupboard and took out a lantern, which he had already converted into a kind of lantern by covering it with paper. The old woman over there should not see the glimmer of light again and should not drive him into rage and despair for the umpteenth time with her “I don’t know, Hradscheck, will it be in the study or will it be in the cellar?” And now he lit the light, closed the lantern door again, and stepped quickly and decisively out into the hallway. Everything he needed, including a piece of old carpet woven from long strips of cloth, had long been lying ready downstairs. “Forward, Hradscheck!” And between the large oil drums he walked to the cellar entrance, lifted the trapdoor, and slowly and carefully descended the steps. But when he got downstairs, he saw that the lantern, despite its screen, gave off far too much light and cast a bright glow upwards, like a chimney. This couldn’t be allowed, so he climbed the stairs again, stopping halfway up and simply grabbed a conveniently located plank, which had been pushed up against the nearest oil drum to prevent the entire row of drums from rolling. It was narrow, but still just wide enough to close the cellar window below. “Now she can look out her eyes over there. For all I know. She won’t be able to see through a board. A board is better than fern seeds…” And with that, he closed the trapdoor and went back down the stairs. Chapter 20. Ede was up early and served his customers. Now and then he looked at the small clock hanging in the next room, which already showed a quarter past eight. “Where is the old man?” Ede was entitled to ask, for Hradscheck usually appeared at the stroke of seven, said good morning, and opened the small door leading to the kitchen, which was always the signal for the cook to bring the coffee. Today, however, Hradscheck was nowhere to be seen, and when it was nearly nine o’clock, only Male poked his head into the shop instead and said: “Where are we, Ede?” ” I don’t know.” “I’ll go and pray to his door.” “Yeah, that’s it.” And indeed, Male went to wake him. But she came back, very agitated. “He’s not here, not in the front room or even in the back room. Everything’s open and no doors open.” “And his bed?” asked Ede. “Everything’s flat and unwrinkled. He’s not even in the west.” Ede also became uneasy. What should they do? He, as well as Male, had a vague feeling that something quite strange must have happened, a feeling they were only reinforced by Jacob’s eventual appearance . After some deliberation, it was agreed that Jacob should go over to Kunicke and ask about the previous evening; Kunicke must know, he was always the last to arrive. Male, on the other hand, was supposed to quickly run to the inn, where Gendarme Geelhaar was having breakfast at this hour and was in the habit of saying nice things to the old innkeeper, who had experienced many a storm . This was exactly what happened, and less than a quarter of an hour later, Geelhaar was seen coming down the village street, with him Mayor Woytasch, who also happened to be in the inn for a meeting . Both of them met Kunicke at Hradscheck’s door . They greeted each other silently and crossed the threshold with a certain solemnity. Meanwhile, the scene inside the house had changed. Ede, who had been searching in every nook and cranny for a while , now stood in the middle of the hallway as the group approached, pointing to a large oil barrel that had rolled forward a little, only two fingers’ breadth, only reaching the large iron ring, but still just far enough to close the trapdoor. “There he sits in,” shouted the boy. “Don’t shout like that!” Schulze Woytasch snapped at him. And Kunicke added, with more bluntness, but also with greater joviality: “Shut up , boy.” Kunicke, however, couldn’t be swayed, and pushing his little temple hair ever higher, he continued in the same Weimar tone: “I know everything. That’s the ghost. The ghost grabbed him. And then he wanted to go out and couldn’t.” Around this time, Eccelius had also come over from the rectory, deathly pale and so frightened by his forebodings that when the barrel was pushed back and the trapdoor opened, he didn’t want to go down with them, but first went into the shop and immediately afterward out onto the village street. Geelhaar and Schulze Woytasch, already put on better nerves by their official duties, had meanwhile completed their descent, while Kunicke, with a light in his hand, shone his light down into the cellar from above. Since there weren’t many steps, he could easily see what was next: Hradscheck lay below, apparently dead, a gravestone in his hand, the broken lantern beside it. Our old Anno Thirteener was shaken from his usual indifference at this sight, but recovered and, having reached the bottom, crawled, together with Geelhaar and Woytasch, toward the spot where the wine cellar lay behind a slatted partition. The door stood open, some earth had been dug up, and one could see the arm and hand of one of the Buried. Everything else was still hidden. But, of course, what was visible was just enough to clarify everything that had happened. No one spoke a word, and with a shy sidelong glance at the lifeless man lying on the ground, all three climbed the stairs again. Even upstairs, where Eccelius rejoined them, few words were exchanged, which was hardly surprising. After all, with the sole exception of Geelhaar, everyone had been far too friendly with Hradscheck for a conversation about him to have been anything but embarrassing . Embarrassing and tinged with self-reproach. Why hadn’t they paid more attention during the judicial investigation , hadn’t they looked more closely? Why had they allowed themselves to be duped ? Only the bare essentials were established. Then they left the house they had so fondly visited for so many years, which had now become a house of horror for everyone. Kunicke walked across the dam toward his apartment, Eccelius toward his parish. Woytasch was with him. “The Küstrin court,” Eccelius began, “will have little more to say. Everything is clear, and yet nothing has been proven. He is before a higher judge.” Woytasch nodded. “At most, what will become of the inheritance,” he remarked, looking ahead. “He has no relatives around here, and neither does his wife, if I’m not mistaken. Perhaps the Pole will get it back. But the Czechs won’t want that.” Eccelius replied: “None of that worries me. What worries me is only this: how do we bury him and where? Should we bury him among the good people? That won’t work; the peasants won’t tolerate that and will throw a churchyard revolt. And what’s worst is, they’re right to do it. And no one will want to give up their field for that either . No one wants a place like that on their honest land.” “I think,” said the mayor, “we’ll take him to the churchyard. In the end, nothing has been proven. The Frenchman is lying in the garden, and the Polish man is in the cellar. Who can say who put him there? No one knows, not even Jeschke. In the end, it’s all just suspicion. So he has to go to the churchyard. But to the side, where the nettles are and the rubble is.” “And the woman’s grave?” asked Eccelius. “What will become of that? And of the cross?” “They’ll probably tear it down; I know my Czechs. And then , Pastor, we’ll have to pretend we don’t see it. Churchyard order is good, but people also demand their own order.” “Good, Mayor Woytasch!” said Eccelius, shaking his hand. “Always keep your heart in the right place!” Geelhaar had stayed behind in the Hradscheck house. He had the police “Don’t sweep me” on him and didn’t make much of it. What was it, anyway? One more case. The world was n’t going to fall apart just because of that. And so he went into the shop, put his hand on Ede’s head, and said: “Listen, Ede, that was a bit strong today. Two drinks at nine in the morning! Now, pour something. What shall we have?” “Well, a rum, Mr. Geelhaar.” “No, rum’s too weak for me today. First pour me a cognac. And then a rum.” Ede poured with a trembling hand. But Geelhaar’s hand was all the more sure. After he had emptied a few glasses, he went into the garden and strolled up and down as if everything were now his. The whole property seemed to him like ownerless property, where one could wander about uninhibitedly. Jeschke, as one might imagine, didn’t take long to arrive. She already knew everything and looked over the fence again. “Day, Geelhaar.” “Day, Mother Jeschke… Well, what’s Line doing?” “He’s coming for Martini. She doesn’t need to rule us now.” “Before Hradscheck?” laughed Geelhaar. “Yeah. Before Hradscheck. But now he’s almost there.” “He is. And caught in his own trap.” “Yeah, yeah. The old bastard! Now he’s not coming out again. Find him.” Awers to fien, let man sien!’ What still had to happen happened quietly and quickly, and already at 9 o’clock the following day, Eccelius entered the following note in the Czech church register: ‘Today, October 3rd, early before daybreak, the merchant and innkeeper Abel Hradscheck was laid without song or music in the local churchyard field. Only Schulze Woytasch, Gensdarme Geelhaar, and Farmer Kunicke attended the quiet burial ceremony. The dead man, if all signs were not misleading, was struck by the hand of God after he had succeeded in calming the suspicions that had already been aroused against him through a particularly clever act . But he finally caught himself in his cunning and, with the gravestone in his hand, dug his grave at the very moment in which he could hope to see his crime forever banished from the world. And in doing so, he once again testified to the proverbial wisdom: ‘Nothing is so finely spun that it all comes to the sun.'” The ending of ‘Under the Pear Tree’ leaves the reader with many questions and inspires reflection on the human psyche and the consequences of decisions. Fontane masterfully manages to tell a story that is simultaneously an insight into the 19th century and a timeless exploration of human nature.

🎧 **Unterm Birnbaum** von Theodor Fontane ist eine packende Erzählung über die tragische Geschichte von Dorothea und ihrer Beziehung zu dem geheimnisvollen Birnbaum. 🌳 In diesem dramatischen Werk entwirft Fontane ein faszinierendes Porträt des menschlichen Schicksals, das in der Natur und den emotionalen Konflikten der Charaktere verwoben ist. 💔💭

🔍 **Handlung:** Dorothea fühlt sich von ihrem Ehemann enttäuscht und wird von der Begegnung mit einem fremden Mann, der unter einem Birnbaum sitzt, in ihren Bann gezogen. Doch das Geheimnis des Birnbaums und der Mann, der ihn unterhält, führen zu dramatischen Ereignissen, die Dorotheas Leben für immer verändern werden. 🌪️

🌟 **Warum du es hören solltest:**
• Ein Meisterwerk der deutschen Literatur, das Spannung und Emotionen vereint.
• Entdecke die faszinierende Charakterzeichnung und die tiefgründige Symbolik des Werkes.
• Ideal für alle Liebhaber klassischer Literatur und dramatischer Erzählungen.

🔔 **Abonniere unseren Kanal** für mehr spannende Klassiker: [https://bit.ly/HörbücherDeutsch](https://bit.ly/HörbücherDeutsch) 🔔

-Tonio Kröger 🎭✨ von Thomas Mann – Ein Meisterwerk der Literatur[https://youtu.be/IcM2Jj4I2-g]

🎧 **Höre jetzt das vollständige Hörbuch und tauche in die faszinierende Welt von Theodor Fontane ein!** 📖

#TheodorFontane #UntermBirnbaum #klassischeLiteratur #Literatur #Drama #Hörbuch #Emotionen #Schicksal #Birnbaum #deutscheLiteratur #Literaturklassiker #romantischeGeschichten #geheimnisse #tragödie #spannung #gefühlvoll #Hörbuchliebe #kulturschätze #Literaturgeschichte #klassischeErzählung #Literaturgenuss

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