CHAPTER I

I tell you,gentlemen, it's a rotten piece of business to be standing beside an old friend's open grave-simply disgusting.

You stand with your feet planted in the upturned earth, and twirl your moustache and look stupid, while you feel like crying the soul out of your body.

He was dead—there was no use wishing he weren't.

In him was lost the greatest genius for concocting and mixing punches, cocktails, grogs, cobblers—every sort of drink. I tell you, gentlemen, when you went walking in the country with him and he began to draw the air in through his nose in his peculiar fashion, you might be sure he had just conceived a new idea for a punch. From the mere smell of a weed he knew the sorts of wine that had to be poured over it to bring into being a something extra fine, a something that had never before existed.

All in all he was a good fellow, and in the many years we sat opposite each other, evening after evening, when he came to me at Ilgenstein, or I rode over to him at Döbeln, the time never dragged.

If only it hadn't been for his eternal marriage schemes. That was his weak side. I mean as far as I was concerned. As for himself—"Good Lord," he'd say, "I'm just waiting for that vile water to creep up to my heart, then I'll slide off into the next world."

And now it had come to that. He had slid off. He lay there in his black coffin, and I felt like tapping on the lid and saying:

"Pütz, don't play this dirty trick on me. Come out. Why, what's going to become of our piquet to-day?"

Nothing to laugh at, gentlemen. Habit is the most violent of all passions, and the number of persons that are ruined every year by having their habits interfered with are never sung in song or epic, to quote my old friend Uhland.

Such weather! I wouldn't send a dog out in such weather. It rained and hailed and blew all at the same time. Some of the gentlemen wore mackintoshes, and the water ran down the folds in rivulets. And it ran down their cheeks and into their beards—perhaps a few tears, too—because he left no enemies behind. Not he.

There was only one chief mourner—what the world calls chief mourner—his son, a dragoon of the Guards in Berlin. Lothar was his name. He had come from Berlin on the day of his father's death, and he behaved like a good son, kissed his father's hands, cried a good deal, thanked me gratefully, and did a dreadful lot of ordering around—a lieutenant, you know—when all of a sudden—well, I was there—and we had arranged everything.

As I looked out of the corner of my eyes at the handsome fellow standing there manfully choking down his tears, I thought of what my old friend had said to me the day before he died.

"Hanckel," he had said, "take pity on me in my grave. Don't forsake my boy."

As I said, that is what occurred to me, and when the pastor beckoned to me to come throw the three handfuls of earth in the grave, I silently sent a vow along with them, "I will not forsake him, old fellow, Amen."

Everything comes to an end. The gravediggers had made a sort of mound of the mud, and laid the wreaths on top, since there were no women at the funeral. The neighbours took leave, and the only ones that remained were the pastor, Lothar and myself.

The boy stood like a block of stone, staring at the mound as if to dig it up again with his eyes, and the wind blew the collar of his riding coat about his ears.

The pastor tapped him gently on his shoulder and said:

"Baron, will you allow an old man one word more—"

But I beckoned to him to step aside.

"Just go home, little minister," I said, "and get your wife to give you a glass of good hot punch. I fancy it's a bit draughty in that silk vestment of yours."

"Hee, hee!" he said, and grinned slily. "It looks as if it were, but I wear my overcoat underneath."

"Never mind," I said. "Go home. I'll look out for the boy. I know better than you where the shoes pinches him."

So then he left us alone.

"Well, my boy," I said, "you can't bring him back to life again. Come home, and if you want, I'll sleep at your house to-night."

"Never mind, uncle," he said. That's what he called me because they had once nicknamed me uncle in a joke. His face was hard and sullen, as if to say, "Why do you bother me in my grief?"

"But maybe we can talk over business?" I asked.

He had nothing to say to that. You know what an empty house is like after a funeral, gentlemen. When you come back from the cemetery, the smell of the coffin still clings, and the smell of fading flowers.

Ghastly!

My sister, to be sure, who kept house for me then—the dear good soul has been dead, too, these many years—had had things put into some sort of order, the bier removed, and so on. But not much could be done in such a hurry.

I gave orders for her to be driven home, fetched a bottle of Pütz's best port, and sat down opposite Lothar, who had taken a place on the sofa and was poking at the sole of his shoe with the point of his sword.

As I said, he was a superb fellow, tall, stalwart, just what a dragoon should be—thick moustache, heavy eyebrows, and eyes like two wheels of fire. A fine head, but his forehead a bit wild and low, because his hair grew down on it. But that sort of thing suits young people. He had the dash characteristic of the Guards, to which we all once so ardently aspired. Neither the Tilsit nor the Allenstein Dragoons could come up to it. The devil knows what the secret of it is.

We clinked glasses—to my old friend's memory, of course—and I asked him:

"Well, what next?"

"Do I know?" he muttered between his teeth, and glared at me desperately with his burning eyes.

So that was the state of affairs.

My old friend's circumstances had never been brilliant. Added to that his love for everything in the shape of drink. Well—and you know where there's a swamp, the frogs will jump in—especially the boy, who had been going it for years, as if the stones at Döbeln were nuggets of gold.

"The debts are mounting?" I asked.

"Sky high, uncle," he said.

"Pretty bad juncture for you," I said. "Mortgages, first, second, third—way over the value of the property, and a lot of rebuilding required, and there's nothing to be earned from farming on the estate. The very chickens know that."

"Then good—bye to the army?" he asked, and looked me full in the face, as if expecting to hear sentence pronounced by the judge of a court martial.

"Unless you have a friend to pull you out of the hole."

He shook his head, fuming.

"Then, of course."

"And suppose I should have Döbeln cut up into lots, what do you think I'd realise?"

"Shame on you, boy," I said. "What! Sell the shirt from off your back, chop your bed into kindlings?"

"Uncle," he replied, "you are talking through your hat. I am dead broke."

"How much is it?" I asked.

He mentioned a sum. I'll not tell what it was because I paid it.

I laid down my terms. Firstly, immediate withdrawal from the army. Secondly, his personal management of the estate. Thirdly, the settlement of the lawsuit.

This lawsuit was against Krakow of Krakowitz, and had been going on for years. It had been my old friend's favourite sport. Like all such things, it turned, of course, upon a question of inheritance, and had swallowed up three times as much as the whole business was worth.

Krakow was a boor, so the dispute took on a personal colour, and led to intense hate, at least on Krakow's side, because Pütz was phlegmatic and always took a slightly humorous view of the affair. But Krakow had openly declared and sworn that if any member or servant of the Pütz family set foot on his place, he would sick his dogs on him.

Well, those were my terms. And the boy agreed to them. Whether willingly or unwillingly, I did not enquire.

I made up my mind to take the first steps myself toward an understanding with Krakow, although I had every reason to believe his threat applied to me, too. I had had several tilts with him in the county council.

But I—look at me—I don't mean to boast—I can fell a bull with this fist of mine. So a few curs don't need to make me take to my heels.

Well, then.

CHAPTER II

So I let three days pass, gentlemen, to sleep on the matter—then my two coach-horses into the harness—my yellow trap—and heigho for Krakowitz. Beautiful bit of property, no denying that. Somewhat run down, but full of possibilities. Lots of black fallow—might do for winter kale or something of the sort. The wheat so-so. The cattle splendid.

The courtyard! Well, you know, a courtyard is like the human heart. Once you have learned to see into it, you cannot be bamboozled so easily. There are neglected hearts, but you can see gold nuggets peeping out through the dirt. Then there are hearts all done up and polished and smartened, hearts fed up, you might say, on arsenic. They glitter and glisten, and all you can say when you look at them is "By Jingo!" Yet they are rotten and mouldy. There are hearts in the ascending and descending scale, hearts of which the better is more hopeless than the much, much worse, because the worse improves while the other gradually declines. Well, and so on.

The Krakowitz yard was a little of all this. Bright, clean barns, miserable wagons, fine drains for the stables, but the stalls badly placed. An air of whimsicality about the whole place, with a touch of stinginess or lack of means. From appearances it is difficult to distinguish between the two. The manor-house—two stories, red brick faced with yellow stones and overgrown with ivy. In a word, not bad, something unstudied about it—well, you know what I mean.

"Is the Baron at home?"

"Yes. What name shall I give?"

"Hanckel, Baron Hanckel—Ilgenstein."

"Step in, sir."

So I walked in—everything old—old furniture, old pictures—worm-eaten, but cosy.

I heard some one begin to curse and swear in the adjoining room.

"The dirty blackguard—the impudence of him—always was a friend of that Pütz, the cur!"

"Pleasant reception," I thought.

Women's voices joined in.

"Papa, papa!"

"Good Lord! All right! All right!"

Then he came in—gentlemen, if I hadn't just heard it with my own ears!—holding out his hands, his old sinner's face beaming, his dachs eyes blinking slily, but with a beam of pleasure in them.

"My dear sir, delighted."

"See here, Krakow," I said, "look out. I heard every word just now."

"What did you hear, what did you hear?"

"The epithets you bestowed on me—dirty blackguard and heaven knows what else."

"Oh that," he said, without a twitch of his lids. "I tell my wife every day that the doors are no good. But, my dear sir, you mustn't mind what I said. I always have been angry that you stood by Pütz. And I tell you, sir, my womenfolk mix just as good punches as he. If you had come to us—Iolanthe!—Iolanthe's my daughter. Iolanthe!! The comfort of my soul! Doesn't hear, doesn't hear. Didn't I just say the doors are no good? But both those women are at the keyhole now! Will you get away from there, you hussies? Do you hear their skirts rustling? They're running away. Ha—ha! Those women!"

Gentlemen, who could take offence? I couldn't. Perhaps I'm too thick—skinned? But I couldn't.

What did he look like?

The creature didn't reach much above my waist-line. Round, fat, bow-legged. But that absurd body of his was topped by a regular apostle's head, either St. Peter's or perhaps St. Andrew's, or somebody's of the sort. A fine, round, broad beard, with a band of white running down from each corner of his mouth, yellow parchment skin, thick crows' feet at the corners of his eyes, the top of his head bald, but two huge grey bushes over his ears.

The fellow danced about me like wild.

Don't for a moment suppose, gentlemen, that I was taken in by his goings-on. I had known him long enough. I saw through and through him. But—call me a simpleton if you will—I couldn't help it—I liked him. And I liked his surroundings.

There was a little corner at the window with carved oak cabinets all around—the window overgrown with ivy—very cosy. The sun shone in bright and clear as in an arbour, and on the table in an ivory bowl was a ball of worsted, and a copy of Daheim,and a piece of nibbled cake.

As I said, altogether comfortable and cosy.

We sat down in the corner, and a maid brought cigars.

The cigars were no good, but the smoke curled so merrily in the sunshine that I did not pay much attention to their burning away like matches.

I wanted to begin to talk about my business, but Krakow laid his hand on my shoulder and said:

"After the coffee!"

"If you please, Krakow," I said.

"After the coffee!"

I courteously enquired about his farming and pretended great interest in his innovations, about which he boasted extravagantly, though they were as old as the hills to me.

Then the Baroness came in.

A fine old piece. A slender dame. Long narrow blue eyes, silver hair under a black lace cap, a melancholy smile, fine yellow hands. A bit too dainty for a country gentlewoman, and especially for such a boor of a husband.

She welcomed me with great propriety—while the old man kept screaming as if possessed.

"Iolanthe—girl—where are you hiding? A bachelor's here—a suitor—a—"

"Krakow!" I said, completely taken aback. "Don't joke that way about an old blade like me."

And the Baroness saved me by saying very neatly:

"Don't worry, Baron. We mothers gave you up as hopeless years ago."

"But the girl can come in at any rate," screamed the old fellow.

And finally she came.

Gentlemen, take off your hats! I stood there as if somebody had knocked me on the head. A thoroughbred, gentlemen, a thoroughbred! A figure like a young queen's, her hair loose, in a thousand wavelets and ringlets, golden brown, like the mane of a Barbary steed. Her throat full, white and voluptuous. Her bosom not too high, and broad and curving at the sides. In a horse, we call it a lion's chest. And when she breathed, her whole body seemed to breathe along with her lungs, so strongly did the air pulsate through that glorious young body.

Gentlemen, you don't have to go in for breeding animals as a passionate pursuit to know how much toil and effort it costs to produce a perfect specimen, no matter of what species. And I'm not a woman connoisseur, and one doesn't have to be, to fold one's hands at the sight of so perfect a creature and pray, "O Lord, I thank Thee for allowing such a thing to walk the earth. For as long as such bodies are created we need have no fear for our souls."

The one thing I did not quite like at first was her eyes. Too pale a blue, too languishing for such an abundance of life. They seemed to be soaring towards heaven, and yet, when they narrowed, a searching, lowering look came into them, the sort of look surly dogs get from being beaten too often.

Old Krakow caught her by both shoulders and began to brag outrageously.

"This is my work—this is what I brought into being—I'm the father of this," and so on.

She tried to shake him off and turned scarlet.

Aha, ashamed of him.

Then the ladies got the table ready for coffee. Fresh brown waffles, preserves after the Russian fashion, gleaming damask, knives and spoons with buckhorn handles, the fine blue smoke of charcoal puffing up from the chimney of the brass coffee machine, making everything still cosier.

We sat there drinking our coffee. Old Krakow blustered, the Baroness smiled a fine melancholy smile, and Iolanthe made eyes at me.

Yes, gentlemen, made eyes at me. You may be at the time of life when that sort of thing happens to you none too rarely. But just you get to be well on in your forties, conscious to the very depths of your soul of your fatness and baldness, and you'll see how grateful you'll be even to a housemaid or a barmaid for taking the trouble to ogle you. And a thousand times more so if she happens to be one of the élite like this one, a creature allowed to walk this earth by God's grace.

At first I thought I hadn't seen straight, then I stuck my red hands in my pockets, then I got a fit of coughing, then I swore at myself—"You blooming idiot! you donkey!"—then I wanted to bolt, and finally I took to staring into my empty coffee cup. Like an old maid.

But when I looked up—I had to look up now and then—I always met those great, light-blue languishing eyes. They seemed to say:

"Don't you know I am an enchanted princess whom you are to set free?"

"Do you know why I gave her that crazy name?" the old man asked, grinning at her slily.

She tossed her head scornfully and stood up. She seemed to know his jokes.

"This is how it was. She was a week old. She was lying in her cradle kicking her legs—legs like little sausages. And her little buttocks, you know—"

Ye gods! I scarcely risked looking up, I was so embarrassed. The Baroness behaved as if she heard nothing, and Iolanthe left the room.

But the old man shook with laughter.

"Ha—ha—such a rosy mite—such softness, and a shape like a rose leaf. Well, when I looked at her, I said, in my young father's joy, 'That girl's going to be beautiful and bad and will kick her legs the whole of her life. She must have a very poetic name. Then she'll rise in value with the suitors.' So I looked up names in the dictionary—Thekla, Hero, Elsa, Angelica. No, they were all too soft, like squashed plums. With a name like that she'll languish away for some briefless lawyer. Then Rosaura, Carmen, Beatrice, Wanda—nixy—too passionate—would elope with the manager of the estate. Because a person's name is his fate. Finally I found Iolanthe. Iolanthe melts so sweetly on your tongue—just the name for lovers—and yet it doesn't lead on to silly freaks. It is both tempting and dignified. It lures a man on, but inspires him with serious intentions, too. That's the way I calculated, and my calculations have turned out to be quite right so far, if in the end she doesn't remain on my hands on account of her affectation and squeamishness."

At this point Iolanthe came into the room again. Her eyes were half closed and she was smiling like a child in disgrace. I was sorry for the poor pretty creature, and to turn the conversation quickly, I began to speak about the business I had come on.

The ladies cleared the table without speaking, and the old man filled the half-charred bowl of his pipe. He seemed inclined to listen patiently.

But scarcely did the name Pütz cross my lips when he jumped up and dashed his pipe against the stove so that the burning tobacco leaves flew about in all directions. The mere sight of his face was enough to frighten you. It turned red and blue and swelled up as if he had been seized with a stroke of apoplexy.

"Sir-r-r!" he shouted. "Is that the reason you visited me—to poison my home? Don't you know that that d— name is not to be breathed in this house? Don't you know I curse the fellow in his grave, and curse his brood, and curse all—"

At this point he choked and was seized with a fit of coughing and had to sink down into his upholstered chair. The Baroness gave him sweetened water to drink.

I took up my hat without saying anything. Then I happened to notice Iolanthe standing there white as chalk, with her hands folded, and looking at me as if in her shame and misery she wished to beg my pardon, or expected something like help from me.

I wanted to say good-bye at least. So I waited quietly until I felt I might assume that the old man, who was lying there groaning and panting, was in a condition to understand me. Then I said:

"Baron von Krakow, you must realise, of course, that after such an attack upon my friend and his son, whom I love as if he were my own, our relations—"

He pounded with his hands and feet as a sign to me not to go on speaking, and after trying several times to catch his breath, he finally succeeded in saying: