FOOTNOTES:
[15] “Kater,” a slang term for the demoralized condition consequent upon alcoholic overindulgence.—Tr.
[16] “Corona,” meaning all the drinkers present; a student’s expression.—Tr.
[17] “Liebesmahl,” a fraternal banquet arranged, on special occasions, by the officers of a garrison or of a regiment for the purpose of celebrating joyous events.—Tr.
[18] “Dämelsack”—a low term of opprobrium.—Tr.
Chapter VII
AN AIRY STRUCTURE COLLAPSES
Seated at his desk in his elegantly furnished apartments, we see First Lieutenant Borgert.
Before him lay a large sheet of paper covered with rows of figures, and all around him whole mountains of documents, bills, and vari-colored envelopes.
One after another he took up these bits of paper, and from them noted down amounts on the big sheet. He had already reached the third column when he suddenly ceased his labors and threw the pencil disgustedly away. Then he grasped the whole pile and threw it into the fire, where in a few moments it was consumed in the leaping flame and reduced to a tiny mass of ashes.
His laudable purpose had been to go through all the claims against him, so far as they had been presented. Usually his simple method was to throw bills, as they reached him, into the stove; but for once he had been curious to find out how much he really owed in the world, or at least to gain an approximate idea of his indebtedness.
But we have seen that he gave it up as an impossible task. To tread the mazes of these bundles of dunning letters, plaints, simple bills, and formal orders issued to him by the colonel to discharge certain debts submitted to his authority, was more than Borgert felt himself equal to, especially as the conviction had very soon dawned on him that his was labor lost. This much had become quite clear: to pay his debts was impossible, for their total rose far and away above his surmises. When he had left off in sheer disgust, the neat little sum of eleven thousand marks had been reached, and to that had to be added the other mountain of bills which he had just consigned to the flames.
Most of all, the seven hundred marks which he owed to Captain König lay on his conscience; but there were some other items that pressed him hard, for they were “debts of honor,” contracted with his equals in the social scale; and the first of these, amounting to two thousand three hundred marks, was due in about six weeks. How and where should he raise these large amounts?
He began to reflect. The furniture had already been saddled with a chattel mortgage, one of his horses even been mortgaged twice, and for the other, his former charger, he probably would not get more than three hundred marks, and that was nothing but a drop on a hot stone. Of his comrades there was none remaining with whom an attempt to borrow would have had the slightest prospect of success,—possibly König alone excepted. But should he go to him again with such a request? It could not be easily done,—at least not before the old item of seven hundred marks had been paid back. The only safety anchor he could think of was a formal request for a large loan from a Berlin usurer with a large clientèle in the army. In fact, he had tried it; but the fellow had not yet been heard from, although three weeks had gone since this same individual had been furnished with a surety given by First Lieutenant Leimann, and with a life insurance policy in the amount of twenty thousand marks.
For the moment nothing could be done. He would try to pacify in some way the most pressing of his creditors, and to pay in small instalments only those who either should begin legal proceedings against him, or lodge their complaints with the regiment. Perhaps—who could tell?—an undiscovered source might open somewhere; perhaps luck at the cards, so long unfaithful to him, would return, or one of his many tickets in various state lotteries would draw a big prize. And who could tell but what the biggest prize of all, a wealthy bride with a good fat dowry, might not fall to his share? He had formal applications of the kind on file with several of the most prominent and successful marriage agencies at the capital and elsewhere, and only recently one of these centres for the radiation of connubial bliss, so much in vogue with his kind throughout the empire, had been heard from to some apparent purpose.
“Quite a bundle of bright hopes,” he said to himself, and with that his plastic mind resumed its equilibrium. His good humor returned, he lit himself a cigarette, and whistled a gay tune, while pacing the thick Smyrna rugs in the centre of his study.
His alert ear heard a whispering in the corridor. He discerned the soft tread of nimble feet on the hall carpet, and then there was a knock at his door.
That must be Frau Leimann, he thought to himself, for she frequently paid him hasty visits at the afternoon tea hour, because at that time her husband used to go to the “Dämmerschoppen.”
To his “Come,” however, a poorly clad woman with a basket on her arm stepped over the threshold. Her youthful face showed already the unmistakable stamp which care and sorrow had imprinted on it, and she gazed shyly at the officer who had remained standing in the centre of the room, whence he eyed his visitor with undisguised displeasure.
“And what is it you want again, Frau Meyer?” he blurted. “I’ve told you once before that I will give you no more washing to do.”
“I beg the Herr First Lieutenant will excuse me, but I wanted to ask whether I cannot have to-day those forty marks, or at least a part of them. I badly need money, for my husband has been lying sick for three weeks past and is unable to work.”
“Oh, bother!” replied Borgert, roughly. “Come back to-morrow night; I have no small change about me, and I haven’t any time to spare.”
“But I hope you will keep faith with me this time, Herr First Lieutenant; you have promised so often to pay me.”
With that she diffidently opened the door and left, but Borgert undid one of the windows and let the pure autumn air stream in. The odor of these poverty-stricken wretches was insupportable to him. Disgusting! He took from a carved cabinet on the wall a large perfume bottle, and sprinkled a good portion of its contents upon the costly rugs and the upholstery of his furniture. Then he rang the bell for his servant.
The man stepped in briskly. It was Private Röse, whom the captain no longer wanted in the front, since he had proven unreliable, and with his deficient conceptions of military discipline would only be an injury to the squadron.
“What did I order you to do, you swine?” the officer shouted.
“I was to let nobody in without being announced,” answered Röse with diffidence; “but the woman passed me by, and I could not hinder her from going in.”
“Then throw the carrion out, thou sloppy beast! The first time somebody is let in again without my consent, I’ll cowhide you within an inch of your life!”
In saying which, he struck Röse with both fists in the face, then thrust open the door and kicked him out.
“If the hag should come back to-morrow night, you tell her I’ve just gone out!” he called after him.
Borgert had just seated himself, with a newspaper, by the window when the floor bell once more sounded. It was a short, energetic tinkle. The servant came in and announced, with a face still wet with tears:
“A gentleman would like to see the Herr First Lieutenant!”
“What is his name? I told you always to get the name first.”
The man left the room, but immediately returned.
“He will not give me his name, but he says he must speak with the Herr First Lieutenant in any event.”
“Then ask him in!”
A moment later a man stepped in, carrying a large wallet under his arm, and introduced himself,—“Bailiff Krause.”
“Begging the Herr First Lieutenant’s pardon in case I should disturb him, but I have a mandate from the court. Please, here it is!”
And he took from his wallet a voluminous envelope and handed it to Borgert, who, however, did not lose his presence of mind, and answered in a pleasant tone:
“Ah, I know. Has already been settled yesterday; for I presume it is for that small amount which I owe to my tailor.”
“As far as I know, Herr First Lieutenant, it is about the matter of the firm of Froehlich & Co., the sum demanded, on bills of exchange signed by you, being four thousand marks, for furniture sold and delivered.”
“Oh, that’s it! The firm might have spared itself that trouble; the whole amount was transmitted by my bank day before yesterday.”
“So much the better, then,” jested the official. “I have the honor.”
“Farewell, Herr Krause; I would say au revoir, but your visit always means a doubtful pleasure.”
When the man was gone, Borgert tore open the envelope and scanned the contents of the document it contained.
That was a most disagreeable business. The furniture had not yet been paid for, but already mortgaged, although the explicit terms of the contract forbade his doing so until after payment in full to the merchant had made the whole his own property.
Four thousand marks! A heap of money! He would have to speak to Leimann; perhaps he could do something.
Then suddenly he remembered that the bailiff had not passed out into the street through the front garden. He called his servant and asked him:
“Where did the man go to?”
“Upstairs, Herr First Lieutenant.”
“To Leimann’s?”
“Just so, Herr First Lieutenant.”
Well, now, what had he to do up there? Could it be possible that they also were in his toils? That indeed would be bad, for Leimann had, in spite of all, remained something like an aid and help to him in becoming surety for payments promised or in calming obstreperous creditors.
Meanwhile Herr Krause handed to Frau Leimann, scared almost out of her wits, the summons in an action begun by the firm of Weinstein & Co., to which she owed a matter of four hundred marks for a silk robe furnished by them.
She was in despair, and scurried to and fro in the room, vainly cudgelling her brain for an idea that would bring her succor. What could she do? Where should she get the money? She would go to Borgert and ask him for the amount. But what would he think of her? Would he not lose all respect for her?
For a moment she stood undecided in her room, and pressed both hands against her wildly beating heart. Then she went resolutely to the door and hastened down the back stairs.
She found Borgert musing in an easy-chair, and he did not even rise when she entered, but merely waved his hand in greeting to her. But she stepped up to him and kissed him tenderly on the forehead, and then she sat down close by him. He was puzzled by her demeanor, and looked up questioningly into her face.
“What kind of visitors do you receive nowadays?” he said pleasantly.
“I? Visitors?” Frau Leimann retorted with some embarrassment. “I have received nobody,—truly not, nobody.”
And while she said it her eyes wandered about the room without meeting his.
“You have received no visitor? Oh, but that is a big fib!”
“Why should you say so, George; who should have been to see me?”
“Well, I merely thought a certain Herr Krause called on you.”
“How do you know that?” she cried, startled by his knowledge.
“I know everything, my child; even that the bailiff was just in to see you.”
Frau Leimann was covered with confusion, and mechanically began to fondle the seam of her little silk apron.
“Well, if you know, it is unnecessary for me to tell you. Yes, he was to see me.”
“And what did he want?”
The pretty woman told him the details. With a tear-choked voice she exclaimed:
“I am lost if my husband hears of it!”
“But I don’t see. If he has bought it he must, of course, pay for the dress.”
“He knows of nothing. I had to have the dress, the red silk, you know. I told him at that time that my mother had sent it; for he would have refused me, and I had to have it, and so I took it on my own account.”
“That was very stupid of you. Where will you take the money from now?”
“I really don’t know. Cannot you help me?”
“I will go to those people and ask them for time.”
“There would be no use in doing that, George; I must have the cash. I need at least a thousand marks, for I have to pay for other things as well—the dressmaker, the hair-dresser, the shoemaker, etc. Get me the money, George, and show me that you really love me as much as you always say you do.”
“I?” Borgert set up an unpleasant laugh. “Good heavens, I don’t know myself what is to become of me.”
“How so? Are you in debt too?”
“If you would take the trouble to devote some attention to that big sheet of paper over there on my desk, you might be able to tell. That sort of thing I get every day.”
Frau Leimann stepped up to the desk, unfolded the big sheet, and stared with wide-open eyes at the formidable columns.
“Why, I had no idea of this, George! What is to become of all this? You were my only reliance, and now I am entirely undone.”
She sank, sobbing, down on the divan and covered her face with both hands.
“Don’t lose courage at once, you little goose; you won’t die for the lack of these few hundred marks!” Borgert consoled her, affectionately passing his hand over her blonde hair. “I will see what can be done, and in a week’s time you’ll have your thousand marks.”
For an answer she put her arms passionately around Borgert’s neck, and thanked him.
“I knew that you would not leave me in the lurch, thou best one!”
When Leimann returned home about eight o’clock, he found all the rooms dark and silent.
To his question about his wife the maid answered:
“The gracious lady has gone out.”
“Where to?”
“I do not know, Herr First Lieutenant!”
He lit a lamp and then went to the letter-box to ascertain whether anything had arrived by the evening mail. He found two letters with bills inside, amounting to over six hundred marks.
He did a little grumbling to himself, and then locked up the two “rags” in his desk.
In doing so he noticed a large yellow envelope. Supposing it to be an official letter, he seized it, intending to open it. But he found that it had been already opened, and his curiosity grew as he drew from it three large sheets.
Without at first catching its purport, he gazed at the clerical handwriting in it, and then he sat down at the table and read the whole document from beginning to end.
Ah, indeed, his wife too? Why, that was quite a charming surprise! If her funds were running so low as to oblige her to contract debts it would be vain, he thought, to expect any help from his mother-in-law, and yet he had always counted on her as a last resort. In a rage he flung the summons and the legal statement into a corner and went up and down in the room, musing on the financial embarrassment of his wife.
Probably Frau Leimann had heard the steady tramp of his feet through the ceiling, for now she entered with exuberant excuses.
“My dear George,” said she, breathlessly, “I had a pressing engagement with my dressmaker, and I ran after you in the street. I saw you passing before me, but I could not catch up with you.”
“What did you have to do with your dressmaker?” Leimann confronted her furiously.
“What else should I have had to do there than business for which I pay her? She is making a riding-habit for me!”
“You had better first pay for your old rubbish before ordering any new gear!” shouted he.
“Why this tone to me? And who tells you that I do not pay my bills? You think, I suppose, that I’m squandering my money as you are squandering yours.”
“If you do not wish me to see what the bailiff brings you, you had better not leave it directly under my nose.”
His wife for an instant did not quite understand what he meant by that, but then she recollected that she had left the summons on her husband’s desk.
“I must tell you very emphatically,” she flared up indignantly, “not to put your nose into my private correspondence. If the letter was lying open on the table, you had no right to read it. I never look at your bills.”
“Oh, do what you please; but I must request you not to bring the bailiff to my house.”
“That is not the worst, mon cher, that may happen to you; he will know now at least the way here when he’ll call on you next.”
“Hold your tongue, you impudent woman, or I will throw you into the street.”
“Many thanks for your kind offer, but I’m going of my own accord.”
She left the room, went into her bed-chamber, and retired to rest.
Meanwhile on the floor below Borgert was reading a book; but his thoughts were far away. He had serious forebodings that all his creditors, like a pack of hungry wolfhounds, were about to engage in a joint hunt for him, or rather for the money that he didn’t have. He was afraid that the colonel would soon demand the immediate payment of his load of debts, and that, if unable to comply with the order, resignation from the army was the only possible outcome. And what should he do then, without a penny, without any useful knowledge, and with many luxurious habits? Something must be done, he made up his mind, and he was going to employ the next day, a Sunday, to consider once more the various possibilities of raising a large sum, no matter how, to discharge all these liabilities, most of them small in themselves, but in their totality representing quite a fortune.
Solaced by the hope that after all some mild hand would open and drop into his lap a small mountain of gold, he fell asleep; the book slipped from his hands, and the lamp on the night table went out after midnight, since Borgert had forgotten to blow it out. He slept restlessly, and bad dreams pursued him. His load of debt developed into a nightmare that was pressing on his chest and threatening to crush out his life.
When he awoke in the morning it was past ten. Borgert began to rage. Almost half the day was gone now, and yet he had meant to do so much. Had this ass of a servant again forgotten to wake him? With that his head ached, and he felt nervous and out of sorts. Throwing his dressing-gown loosely about him he went into his servant’s room and found Röse laboriously penning a letter. When his master entered the poor fellow shot out of the seat and stood bolt upright.
“Why didn’t you wake me, you beast?” he thundered at him.
“I wakened the Herr First Lieutenant at seven o’clock, but the Herr First Lieutenant wanted to continue sleeping and said I need not come back any more to annoy him.”
“That’s a lie, you swine; I will teach you to do as you are told.” And he seized a leather belt lying on the fellow’s bed, and with it struck Röse violently, then kicking him, and letting the belt play around his face and neck until broad livid marks began to show.
Röse preserved his military attitude, and stood his punishment without in the least resisting. But that was a further cause of anger to Borgert, and the latter dropped the belt, and with his fist struck the man several hard blows in the chest. Then he took the man’s letter, half finished as it was, crumpled it up in his hand, and threw it into the coal-scuttle.
“Step upstairs lively and tell Herr First Lieutenant Leimann that I want to speak to him. Tell him if possible to step in here for half an hour before he goes to town.”
“At your orders, Herr First Lieutenant.”
Borgert stepped back to his chamber, finished dressing, and then went into the adjoining room.
Sure enough, there stood his coffee, but cold as ice. In that case Röse must have been before him in the room. Well, a drubbing or two would do the fellow no harm. That was good for preserving discipline and a respect for his superiors, even if now and then it should be applied not exactly at the right moment.
On his desk were lying several letters. Three of them contained bills, and the fourth was from his father. The three he threw unopened into the fire, and the fourth he read as follows:
My dear Son,—With growing concern I have seen from your last letter that you had again to incur large expenditures which harass you because you had not counted on them. Much as my desire would be to let you have the money you ask, with the best intentions it is not possible to do so. You know best how closely I have to economize to make both ends meet. If seventy-five marks would be any object to you, I could let you have them, although I had promised your mother this money for a new dress of which she stands in much need.
But I must frankly confess to you that I do not see why you should not be able to meet all your legitimate expenses with your pay and the two hundred marks allowance per month. At your age I did not have more than that myself, and yet I was able to undertake an extended trip every year. I give you the well-meant advice to live for a time a little more apart from your comrades, in order to reduce your expenses. Employ yourself diligently at home—there is so much to learn in your profession nowadays—and avoid carefully every opportunity which would force you into needless outlay which you would subsequently not be able to meet. Make your scale of living correspond to your income. If you will openly declare that this or that is too costly for you, every one will respect you the more, for they will see that you are not spending beyond your proper income. Do not live carelessly, and shun those amusements which you cannot afford. After all, it is both sensible and high-minded to live within one’s means.
Write to me soon how you have regulated this affair and whether the small sum I can offer you will be of advantage to you.
In the hope that no inconvenience of a serious character will grow out of your present embarrassment,
I remain,
Your affectionate
Old Father.
When Borgert had read these lines, he crushed the paper within his palm and then cast it likewise into the stove. With a sigh he sank into a chair and began to ruminate.
At this moment his servant entered and announced Leimann.
Borgert went to the door to meet his friend, and when they had stepped into his study, Leimann asked with considerable anxiety:
“Well, what important matter is it you have for me this morning?”
Borgert planted himself squarely on his legs in front of the other and said with assumed gaiety:
“You see, my dear fellow, we all have our troubles. I have just about reached the end of my tether and should like to appoint you receiver of my assets.”
“The end of your tether?” retorted Leimann with agitation. “What do you mean by that? Do you mean in money matters?”
“You have guessed it. I must have money right now, a whole bagful of it, or else I’m done for.”
“Is it as bad as all that? Have new complications arisen? Why, you told me the last time that you were out of your troubles just now.”
“Yes, I did; but yesterday I made something of an investigation, and I found that there is no other way out my difficulties than by means of a gigantic loan. I should like, therefore, to speak openly to you about the matter, for I’m in hopes that there must be still ways and means to keep me above water.”
Leimann lowered his eyes, looked fixedly at the pattern of the Turkish rug, and rubbed reflectively his unshaven chin. Then he replied with a shrug:
“How much is it?”
“Twelve thousand marks I must have, and not a penny less, for I’ll have to make a clear track. I’m about badgered to death by these unceasing dunning letters and complaints in the courts.”
“Hm, and how did you think you were going to manage this matter?”
“I have some more addresses of financial men, usurers, you know. If I could get you once more to go security for me, I think we ought to be able to attain our end.”
“Security? Security? Yes, it is easy for you to talk that way, my dear boy; but finally there must be something in the background in order to assume responsibility for another’s debts. I must tell you frankly that if you can’t meet this payment of three thousand marks of last month, there will be the devil to pay for me, since I went bail for you.”
“I do not think there is any need of your being so explicit; as a matter of course, I shall meet my obligations.”
“I don’t doubt it in the least; but for me it is indeed impossible to become security for you once more. Not only that, but I have to ask you to let me have some money, for I really do need some very badly.”
“With the greatest of pleasure,” said Borgert with a sinister smile; “but why don’t you raise money on your ‘commiss-fortune’?[19] That, it strikes me, would be the surest way of obtaining it.”
“My ‘commiss-fortune’? Very well put; but I’d have to have one in order to raise money on it.”
“What have you been marrying on, then?” asked Borgert in amazement.
“I only had it four weeks in my hands, when it was returned to the party who had lent it for a consideration until I had obtained the official consent.”
Borgert looked in consternation at his friend and then began to measure the room in nervous excitement.
“In that case,” he began, after making several turns of the room, “I will make another proposition: I become surety for you, and you for me.”
“Good,” cried Leimann, joyfully; “but it is a somewhat ticklish business, for some time or other there is bound to come a crash, and then if neither of us has a penny there will be the deuce and all.”
“That catastrophe will not happen, my most beloved friend, because if I can pull through once more there will be nothing to fear for me. I shall marry.”
“By the eternal gods, but you have amazing courage! Only let me tell you, be careful in the choice of your father-in-law, otherwise it is a worse than useless arrangement. I myself can speak from experience.”
“That is a matter of course; I shan’t marry on empty promises. For less than half a million they cannot do business with me.”
“Well, I wish you luck; but, come to think of it, how is it about König? Couldn’t he be induced to come out with a few thousand marks?”
“I’ve thought of him, but it seems to me doubtful whether he can be got at. For, first of all, we would have to pay him the old score.”
“All right; but we might make at least an attempt. He can’t say more than ‘no,’ and I shall sit down at once and write a few lines to him.”
Leimann took a chair at the desk and a sheet of letter-paper from one of the drawers.
Borgert sat down quietly in a corner, lit a cigarette, and blew its smoke into the slanting triangle of floating particles of dust which was formed by a ray of sunlight penetrating his window. The bluish wreaths of smoke formed fantastic bands, weaving and interweaving.
Now at last the letter was ended, and Leimann closed it, wrote the address on the outside, and Röse was told to take it immediately to its destination.
“That will pull his leg, I think, if anything will!” said Leimann, with a satisfied air, as he arose from his chair.
“What have you written him?” asked Borgert with some curiosity.
“Simply this,—that I needed money for a comrade and appealed therefore to his generous sentiments of friendship which he had so often proved. As a term for repayment I have indicated three months hence, and have pledged my word for the punctual refunding of the money; for you told me, you know, that you would have it here by that time.”
“Most assuredly I can. If the fellow will only give us the money now, everything else will be attended to at its proper time.”
Thus they chatted on for another half hour, when Röse returned with his answer from Captain König.
Leimann quickly grasped the letter, but then he hesitated before opening it. Undecided, he scanned the address and looked questioningly at Borgert, who was still comfortably seated in his chair.
At last, however, impatience mastered him, and Leimann tore open the envelope and unfolded the letter.
With consternation he read again and again. Borgert saw from the face of his friend, who with eyebrows lifted and hands trembling with nervous excitement stood there a picture of disappointment, that König’s answer had not brought joyful news. But he was more quiet and felt less disappointment than Leimann, although the whole matter concerned in the first place rather him than the latter. It was no longer new to him to receive denials to his letters requesting loans.
His face, though, assumed a wrathful expression when Leimann handed him silently König’s response, and he began to read it. In his letter the captain said:
“I earnestly regret that I’m not able to comply with your wishes. On the one hand considerations for my family restrain me, for sums of such magnitude I could only advance if perfect security for their repayment were offered. But the only pledge you offer me for punctual return of the money is your word of honor, and I am sorry to say I cannot look upon that as such an absolute security, since you as well as First Lieutenant Borgert have not yet refunded the divers amounts which I loaned you months ago, although you at the time passed your word to me to see that the debt was paid promptly within ten days. Besides, it seems to me, that your financial condition, as far as I understand it, is not of a description to guarantee the keeping of a promise of that kind made to me.”
Borgert rose from his chair and flung the letter aside in a rage. Then he stepped to the window and looked down into the street.
Neither of the two spoke a word; but as their glances met, Leimann remarked:
“Well, what do you say to this?”
“A piece of insolence, a vulgar bit of presumption it is on his part!” Borgert broke out. “How the devil does this fellow dare, anyway, to concern himself with our private affairs? It would have been merely an unfriendly act and would have shown a deficient spirit of comradeship to send us a reply refusing our request, but to do so in this offensive manner! We cannot quietly submit to this.”
“But what are you going to do about it?” retorted Leimann with a shrug. “If you openly take a stand against him, he has us by the throat if he merely states that we did not keep our pledged word, and we could not dispute that, for he can show it in black and white. Therefore it will be best for us to pocket his rudeness and to cut the fellow; he will not fail to notice that.”
“Apparently he has entirely forgotten that it would be an easy matter for us to break his neck. Did he not say himself at the time that he was going to take the amount in question from the squadron fund? I think we could make it very unpleasant for him if we were to use this fact against him.”
“True,” said Leimann, “but you could not in decency bring up the matter, since his touching those funds was done in our interest.”
“I don’t care. If he at present takes the liberty to throw impudent remarks in our faces, I will certainly show him that I’m in a condition to pay him back in the same coin.”
“But you cannot possibly sign a formal accusation stating that König had lent you money obtained from the squadron fund. Do you not see that that would throw a curious light upon yourself?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so clumsy as to do that. There are other ways in which the trick could be done, and I shall manage to let nobody suspect me as the author of the tale. But he will have to pay for this, you can take my word for that. D—— the ugly face of him, anyway!”
Both became silent once more, and a few minutes later Leimann took his leave, since he had to attend to several minor engagements in town before the dinner hour.
Nor did Borgert remain much longer at home. He went to the Casino and drowned his bad humor in a bottle of Heidsieck.
When Borgert awoke, a couple of days later, from a night’s troubled sleep, he noticed with concern that he had overslept himself and missed his earlier duties. He rang the bell for his servant, but Röse did not appear, not even on a second summons.
Borgert dressed and went to Röse’s room. He found it unoccupied. The bed was untouched, and on top of it lay the uniform and the cap of the man.
With astonishment the officer looked about him; the sticky, unventilated atmosphere of the little chamber, and a strong odor of soiled linen and worn-out clothes, was all that he noticed. Where could Röse have gone so early in the day, and that, too, without leave, even without a word to him? Had he been summoned to some unexpected duty? But no, that was impossible, for here lay his regimentals.
Borgert had already crossed over to the threshold to leave the room again when his eye lighted on a much-stained slip of paper on the table. He picked it up and his face paled while he read, for in the man’s scrawling handwriting there were the words:
“Farewell! And go to the devil!”
As if petrified, Borgert stared at the paper. The fellow, then, had deserted!
About his reasons for the step Borgert was not in doubt a minute, and a sudden feeling of shame and disquiet seized him at the thought that the man might be apprehended. In that case everything would come to light: the bad usage to which he had been subjected, the maltreatment which he had met at his hands, and, worst of all, all those big or little secrets of which he had become aware during his service with his master.
Too unpleasant! Borgert stepped again over to his room and sat down on the edge of the bed. His face was not pleasant to look at, and a nervous twitching of his features showed how much he dreaded an unlucky turn of affairs in case the fugitive should be caught and then blab out all he knew.
It seemed to him as if of late there was a perfect conspiracy against him. Anxiety, ill luck, and disappointment on every side, with not a single silver lining to the cloud, which, black and ominous, had suddenly begun to crowd his horizon.
For the first time the awful certainty flashed through his mind that he stood at the brink of a catastrophe against which there was no remedy unless a miracle intervened. But where under the sun should such a miracle come from? All faith, all hope, dissolved before his view in these few moments when the whole crushing weight of his guilt, the whole labyrinth of his failure in life, came clearly to his consciousness. An unreasoning terror, a fear of himself and a feeling of helplessness conquered the man, who at other times had never surrendered to untoward conditions, who had never hesitated to stamp down all obstacles in his path. Borgert was not capable of deep feeling or of noble sentiment; he had so far trodden the path of life with cold egotism, coupled with a superficial view of his surroundings and a lack of clearer insight into the motives impelling him and others.
For some time he sat there, pallid, motionless, gazing into the vast blank space of the unknown future; only the convulsive workings of his face betrayed the intense agitation of his mind. It was the psychological crisis in the life of a man who too late becomes aware of having destroyed his better self, of having annihilated all those hopes which on entering life had floated before his vision in roseate hue. And there was nothing to which he could cling, not even a straw for this man battling with the waves that threatened to engulf him, no human soul that could or would help him. Despair clutched his throat, and his breath came thick and short like that of one drowning.
Borgert had struck a balance with himself. He had taken stock, and now felt clearly that his life was one not only marred but destroyed by his own fault. He made up his mind to bear the consequences since escape there was none.
Mechanically he completed his toilet and then went to the barracks to report himself to the captain for having missed the morning service. He kept silence about Röse’s flight, saying to himself that if the deserter had the start of pursuit by a sufficiency of time, say forty-eight hours, he would be a bigger fool indeed than Borgert took him to be if he had not reached a safe retreat across the frontier. And that, of course, would spare Borgert himself the unpleasant predicament of facing a court-martial because of systematic maltreatment of a subordinate.
When he returned home at noon, Borgert found a letter. It was the reply of the financial man in Berlin to whom, in his quandary, he had turned. The letter told the recipient in curt terms that his application had been rejected. No loan could be made to him, it said, since inquiries about Borgert and his co-called bondsmen, and the endorsement of Leimann, had “demonstrated a financial status highly unfavorable.”
Borgert received this news almost with indifference, for since this morning he had abandoned all hope of a favorable turn, and hence felt no disappointment.
He knew he could obtain no money anywhere after this. In fact, now that he clearly envisaged things, it seemed astonishing that the bubble had not burst long ere this. It had been solely due, as he now felt, to Leimann’s extraordinary skill in hiding his own pecuniary embarrassments that Borgert himself had been able to run up large accounts without any tangible security whatever. For Leimann, he remembered, had backed him up throughout.
Dazed and spent, Borgert lay down on his divan.
He did not wish to go to the Casino, for he felt no appetite, and he was not in the mood to play his accustomed pranks and capers for the delectation of his comrades. He did not want to see or hear of anybody. He wanted to be all by himself and indulge in his morose reflections. His eye wandered around the elegant appointments of his dwelling. These fine paintings on his walls; this handsome and costly furniture, most of it carved in solid oak; the soft Oriental rugs underfoot which deadened every sound and made his bachelor home so comfortable and cosy; those heavy, discreet hangings of finest velvet which shut out the intrusive light and kept his apartments in that epicurean chiaroscuro which his sybarite taste demanded—what a pity, what an infernal shame, to have to surrender into the hands of these vermin of usurers all these trappings of his bachelor freedom! Of course, they would struggle and fight for it all, and each one of them would scramble to be the first to assert and enforce his rights. Rather amusing it would be, he thought, but alas! he himself would not be able to view the scene.
There was no help for it. Within a few days the crash must come; he could see no escape.
But what was to become of himself? He had never seriously thought of that before. Should he allow himself to be simply thrown into the street? Perhaps, after all, they would even put him in quod? Time pressed, and a decision must be reached quickly—at once.
Really, on sober reflection, he could not very well see why he should remain any longer in this vale of tears after all his glory and his pleasures would be gone. To learn anew, after losing all caste, after dismissal from the army in disgrace and dishonor, to learn a bread-winning calling and to have to work like everybody in that despised throng of perspiring, vulgar toilers—surely, that was not at all to his taste. From infancy up he had been reared in disdain of labor—had acquired, one by one, tastes and habits of thought that seemed irreconcilable with a life of sober, plain living and thinking, with a life where his part would be that of a subordinate. It seemed an impossible thing to him. Dimly he felt that to do so would require energy, self-denial, and diligence, and of all these he possessed not a trace. Should he then make an end of it, put a bullet in his brain?
But no, that was absurd, and, besides, that required courage. And courage, in its best sense, he had never had. He had only shown courage, or the semblance of it—a certain dash—the kind which in the army is known as “Schneid.”
But here, when facing the final realities of life, his courage entirely deserted him. And was it not possible, after all, that luck would come to his aid in this dire extremity? He had only the one life, and once thrown away the loss was irremediable. Suicide therefore would be rash and stupid—folly never to be redeemed. Life might smile on him again, and should he then with his own hand cut it off? No, on no account.
But no rescuing thought would occur to him, cudgel his brain as he might. And torturing, self-abasing reflections crowded again into his brain.
The thought of his servant, of poor Röse, curiously enough, was uppermost. Had not Röse, dolt that he was, cunningly managed to disappear from a scene which was, in a certain sense, as unbearable as his master’s at this juncture? And Röse by now was perhaps seated comfortably in a quiet corner where nobody was looking for him, and where it was possible to live without interference.
Could he himself, then, not do the same thing?
And this shadowy thought began to take solid form the more Borgert dwelt on it. It seemed to him the only egress from the situation.
In new surroundings, in another country, amongst people who did not know him, he might begin life afresh, and soon grass would grow over the short-lived sensation which his disappearance would create in this world-forgotten little hole of a town! Within a twelvemonth his very name perhaps would be no longer on anybody’s lips in this place. And even if in times to come this or that one of his comrades should mention his name, it would be with the thought that such a man had existed at some time or other, and that nobody to-day cared about him any more.
He was so lost in his dreary thoughts that he did not observe the door opening and giving admittance to Frau Leimann.
She looked pale and serious. Her face, so pleasant in its youthful, placid beauty at other times, now appeared aged, and her eyes wore an anxious expression.
Borgert did not rise, but contented himself with nodding to her, saying never a word. His glance enveloped this woman, an intrigue with whom had seemed to him but a short while ago an ambition worthy of his talents.
But to-day she appeared to him no longer so desirable; her motions seemed to him without grace or distinction, and her charms mediocre.
Her hair was arranged in negligent fashion, and the soft folds of her morning gown to-day seemed to enwrap another woman and not the one whose beauty had intoxicated him.
Two impressions stood out clearly in his mind: the woman as she now faced him, and as she had appeared to him on a memorable evening.
But Frau Leimann was so preoccupied herself that the unflattering and searching look of Borgert escaped her. She sat down on the divan beside him and took his hand in hers. Her eyes gazed with diffidence at the face of the man.
“You are ill, George?” asked she with anxiety.
He contented himself for all answer with a shake of his head.
“But tell me, speak to me. What ails you?”
“Why, it is nothing and it is everything,” Borgert answered with indifference.
“What do you mean by that, George? Talk sensibly, please.”
“What am I to say? I am done with the whole business. That is all.”
“Done! Done with what? How am I to understand you?”
“Done with everything,—with life and with myself.”
“You talk like a sphinx, George. Why not tell me frankly what has happened to you?”
“My money is gone. I’ll have to run away, or else there will be the deuce to pay.”
Borgert felt a tremor run through her body. She did not reply, but turned her face slowly away from him and stared at the window.
In his heart Borgert was thankful to her for receiving his communication with such composure, and not with the screams and hysterical sobbings which women habitually employ on occasions of the kind.
And as he regarded attentively her pale profile, clear-cut against the light, and saw a tear glistening in her eye, a passionate emotion, largely pity for this suffering creature by his side, so pathetic in her dumb resignation, took hold of him, and he drew her into his arms.
Then she murmured:
“Take me along, George!”
In amazement Borgert stared at her.
“For heaven’s sake, how did you get such thoughts? How can I do that?”
“Oh, George, you do not know. I cannot bear my life here any longer. Let me go with you, I beseech you.”
“But that is not to be dreamt of. Will there not be scandal enough when I disappear? And then take you along? Impossible.”
“In that case I shall go alone. I must leave here—I must.”
“But why all this so suddenly? What has come to you?”
Frau Leimann gave vent to her suppressed feelings by a violent fit of sobbing. “My husband has beaten me with his clenched fist—see, here are the marks!—because the bailiff had called on me. His treatment of me has become worse and worse of late, and now my hatred, my dislike of him has reached a point where I can no longer see him around me, breathe the same air he breathes; and then,—another thing,” and here she broke into weeping again, “I have no money—there is nothing with which I can pay my debts; something—some great misfortune will come—I’m sure of it, George, if I do not leave him peaceably.”
Borgert had great pains to quiet the excited woman.
He reflected. After all, her idea was not such a bad one. If she really had made up her mind fully to leave her husband, she might as well go with him; for in that case he would at least have somebody by his side to whom he could speak, to whom he could open his heart,—somebody who would be in the same situation as himself. And when Frau Leimann once more implored him with a tearful voice, he whispered:
“Then come with me. We shall leave to-morrow night.”
They began to make plans, and he said:
“Let us talk this matter over sensibly. First, how will you get away from here without being observed by your husband?”
“He is leaving for Berlin to-morrow morning. He has official matters to attend to there. Has he not yet told you about it?”
“No; but this is excellent. And now, have you some money?”
“Yes; I received this morning three hundred marks from my mother, and I have not touched the money because I had resolved on this step.”
“Then you are better off than I am, at least for the moment; but I shall raise some money. And third, how will you get your luggage to the station? for, of course, I cannot expect you to run away without some clothes.”
“Very simply, George; just ask my husband to lend you his big trunk, and tell him you are obliged to go home on a short leave. I will pack all my things into that, and the orderly will bring it down to you here. The trunk is big enough to hold enough for us both.”
“There it is again,” laughingly said Borgert. “Women are best for all underhanded work.”
“And by which train shall we leave?”
“You will go by the afternoon train, for we will not leave together; that would attract too much attention. I shall follow you on the evening train. I think it will be best to meet in Frankfort. We will meet in the waiting-room of the main station, and there we can talk over everything in quiet. I shall take a three days’ leave, so that they will not follow me at once.”
“Then we are agreed so far. I will come down here to-morrow forenoon, as soon as my husband has left, and then we can talk this matter over a little more in detail. Just now I’ll have to leave you.”
Frau Leimann turned towards the door. When she sent a parting nod from the threshold, she seemed once more enticing in his eyes. The heated face was animated, and the glowing eyes radiated life. Truly, she was charming. Borgert lost himself in pleasant speculations about the honeyed existence which they two were to lead hereafter, once that inconvenient husband was out of the way, and all scruples which still clung to them, as the last vestiges of respectability, had been thrown overboard.
Borgert had regained all his good humor; he felt almost buoyant, and as if he could dare undertake anything. There was another consideration with him. His flight, his desertion, his leaving his creditors unsatisfied, and a record of somewhat crooked financial transactions behind him,—all that would now be regarded by people in a wholly different light. The romantic element would predominate in the minds of all the gossips. They would say that these two had fled, because of an overmastering passion,—to become united, when unfortunate circumstances did not permit them to belong to each other in their present plight. There would, of course, be enough scandal even now, but the whole story was going to be lifted by this elopement into a higher sphere; it would take on, so to speak, an appearance vastly more interesting, less vulgar, nay, even aristocratic and excusable,—an entirely different matter from the bald statement that he, Borgert, had deserted for no other reason except a lot of bad debts and unclean financial machinations.
For a moment, it is true, his better conscience spoke, reproaching him with the intention of adding a new crime to his list of old ones; but this warning resounded so weakly within him that it had not the slightest effect. The principal thing, after all, was that he must not let such an advantage escape him simply to save the feelings of others. Such minor considerations could not be allowed to interfere with his plans.
Borgert therefore briskly walked to town, and at the post-office, where the telegraph bureau was located, he wired to a large second-hand dealer in the neighboring city, telling him to pay him a visit the following morning.
Then he returned home and stepped up to Leimann’s.
He found his friend busy packing.
“Well, I hear you are to start to-morrow. I only learned it this noon,” said Borgert, shaking hands with him.
“Yes; I am not at all charmed with the prospect of this trip, for I had made no arrangements for it; but you know how it is. It is always only at the last moment we receive orders of that kind, often barely leaving us time enough to reach the train.”
“Nevertheless, I envy you your trip. As for me, there is a less agreeable one awaiting me.”
“What, you are also planning a journey?”
“It is not a matter of choice with me; I simply have to.”
“And where are you going?”
“Home, starting to-morrow afternoon.”
“Ah, I see. Well, I wish you luck.”
“Thanks. By the way, could you lend me a trunk? I should like to take a number of things with me home, and my own trunk is too small.”
“Why, certainly; my servant will bring you down the large trunk. I suppose that will answer your purpose?”
“Oh, of course; it will do very nicely. Thanks again.”
Borgert could not help perceiving that his visit did not come quite opportunely. Leimann was in an ugly humor and did not let himself be interrupted in his occupation. He was so much engrossed with his own thoughts that the import of Borgert’s questions scarcely reached him, and the latter deemed it therefore wise to remain no longer. He made the promise, however, to join the Leimanns at their evening meal.
Reaching his own room again, Borgert felt himself free of a great burden. In his heart he rejoiced at the sudden turn his affairs had taken. The bother and vexation of uncertainty no longer weighed on his mind. “The die is cast!” he mumbled to himself. He would have liked to dance and scream for joy. Another day only, and he would be rid of the whole sorry outfit, and there would be no further occasion to worry. And with that, such a pretty travelling companion! He really wondered at himself now that this idea had not come to him sooner.
Suddenly it crossed his mind that he had not yet begun to pack. At least he should at once proceed to preliminaries,—arranging and putting aside things, and making ready for packing the more important objects which he meant to take along.
But what was worth while taking? That was the question. He began to pick out things. From over the sofa he took the large silver goblet—the farewell gift from his former regiment—and placed it in an adjoining room on the table.
Rapidly, then, he made his selections: an album of family portraits; sundry packages of letters; a couple of riding-whips and crops possessing an intrinsic value,—that is, a metallic one; two of the smaller and more valuable oil paintings; and a large bundle of letters,—these, besides some indispensable clothes, were all he intended to take with him.
When he entered the door at Leimann’s at seven, he found them already at table.
Leimann’s face wore a black look, and he hardly lifted his eyes to his guest as Borgert entered.
His wife sat opposite to him, her eyes red and swollen with recent weeping. She did not touch the food before her, but every little while cast a searching and anxious look at her husband.
Throughout the evening harmony was not restored; not even a bottle of Eckel succeeded in bringing gaiety back into this small circle. Leimann remained in an ugly mood, and whenever that seized him nothing could be done with him. Therefore the parting took place at an early hour, and it was cooler than it had been on similar occasions.
Next morning Borgert had just risen when the second-hand dealer arrived.
The officer saluted him pleasantly and bade him enter. Then he completed his toilet and began negotiations with the Hebrew merchant.
“Will you, please, take the trouble to examine the furniture and all the other equipments in these apartments?” said he. “I mean to sell all of it, just as it stands, since I have been transferred to another garrison. But as to this point—I mean my transference—I must beg to preserve silence for the moment, as it is not yet generally known. How much could you offer me?”
The Jew pensively let his keen eyes wander all about the dwelling, mentally going through a rapid process of addition, subtraction, and silence. Then he proceeded to a more minute examination. He handled every single piece, using his knuckles to ascertain its exact condition; he subjected hangings, rugs, and carpets, as well as the expensive carving of the book-cases and stands, to a similar process. Then he drew forth a small note-book, greasy and worn, and squinted at each single object as he noted down its price. Finally he turned to Borgert and said, with an obsequious smile:
“Fifteen hundred marks, Herr First Lieutenant, counting it out in gold on this table.”
“What! fifteen hundred marks?” and Borgert gave a snort of disapproval. “Why, man, you must be dreaming. I have paid almost ten thousand marks for the things.”
“Sorry, Herr First Lieutenant,” the Jew said, shrugging his shoulders in deprecation of such high figures. “Old things are not new things, and you won’t get any more from anybody.”
“That is not enough; that would be giving the things away.”
“Well, I will pay you two thousand marks, then, but not a penny more.”
Borgert sat down at his desk. He began to see that there was no time to lose, and that the man had him at a great disadvantage. Meanwhile the dealer had his eyes fastened on the officer’s face, and wore the same expectant and obsequious smile.
“All right, give me the money; you can have the whole stuff,” said Borgert, briefly.
With a smile that now broke over his face until it illuminated every nook and corner of the parchment-like wrinkles, the Jew drew a formal document, a bill of sale, from his breast pocket, stepped up to the desk, and wrote a few words on it. Then he requested Borgert to sign it.
After the dealer had left and Borgert had securely stowed away the purchase price, he felt that the last hindrance to his flight had now been removed, for a certain amount of cash was an indispensable requisite. Then he stepped into his bed-chamber, where he took from the clothes-press an elegant travelling suit. The remainder of his civilian clothes he packed carefully and compactly in the large trunk which Leimann meanwhile had sent down. He placed them next to Frau Leimann’s finery in the huge trunk, and on top of them the few other trifles above enumerated. Then he had the trunk taken to the station.
Leimann meanwhile was on his way to Berlin. His wife, however, was still very busy,—burning up packages of letters which she did not wish either her husband or her companion to read, and then put into a handbag a few objects of the kind which only women cherish, and the sole value of which lies in the recollections clinging to them. It is astonishing what resplendent images a woman can conjure before her inner vision when in the possession of such faded flowers, bits of ribbon, and the like.
Lastly came the leave-taking from Bubi, her little two-year-old son, and this she had fancied the day before a much harder achievement than it now turned out. She felt some qualms of conscience as she now, with a light heart, without a tear, left behind her her only child,—left it motherless, exposed to a future probably troubled and cheerless.
It was strange, she thought. From the first moment on she had experienced something like aversion for this child with the broad nose, the large mouth, and the small, shifting eyes. When but a couple of weeks old, the baby had shown a striking resemblance to his father, and the more the estrangement grew between his parents, the more dwindled the small remnant of her mother love. She regarded this tiny human being, ugly and eternally crying, as solely his child. It was in this way that the poor little fellow had spent nearly the whole of his short existence,—either in the kitchen or with the servants, fondled, scolded, and educated by hirelings. The mother herself frequently had not seen her child even for a minute a day.
She had the conviction that her husband had deserved no better treatment at her hands, and because of that she scarcely gave him a thought during these last hours spent at her home. When she boarded, at three o’clock in the afternoon, a first-class compartment of the express train for Frankfort, she did so with a spirit light and almost gay.
And the same was true of Borgert. He likewise cast to the winds any slight sentiments of regret at leaving the garrison, and as the train, some hours after Frau Leimann’s departure, went shrieking and thundering out of the little station, he felt that he was being carried on to a brighter future. That was enough for him.
When he and Frau Leimann met, late the same evening, in the dining-room of an elegant hotel, all their life seemed to lie before them draped in rosy hue, and no shadows of coming evils troubled them. After they had ladled their soup in comfort, and with the appearance of a fine game pie, for which this hotel is famous among gourmets, the ex-officer motioned to the black-frocked waiter with the immaculate shirt front, and said, curtly:
“A bottle of Mumm, sec!”
Thus these two celebrated the event of their flight.