Yes, Effi took the matter of inheritance lightly, as charming young women do; but when a very long time had gone by – they were in the seventh year of their new position – Frau von Briest finally called in old Rummschüttel, who had something of a reputation in the field of gynaecology. He prescribed Schwalbach. But because Effi had been suffering from a catarrhal infection since the previous winter and had even had her lungs sounded a few times, he concluded by saying, ‘Well then, Schwalbach to start with, my dear lady, for say three weeks, then the same length of time in Ems. When you’re taking the cure at Ems the Geheimrat can be with you. So the whole thing amounts to three weeks of separation. That’s the best I can do for you, my dear Innstetten.’
This met with their agreement, and in the event it was decided that Effi would make the trip with Geheimrat Zwicker’s wife, ‘for the latter’s protection’ as Briest said, and he was not entirely wide of the mark in this, since Frau Zwicker, though well into her forties, was much more in need of a chaperone than Effi. Innstetten, again tied up deputizing for colleagues on leave, complained he would probably even have to write off the days together in Ems, to say nothing of Schwalbach. Then the departure was set for June 24th, Midsummer’s Day, and Roswitha helped her mistress to pack and make a list of her linen. Effi’s old love for her was still there, indeed Roswitha was the only person she could talk to freely and without restraint about all that lay behind them, Kessin and Crampas, the Chinaman and Captain Thomsen’s niece.
‘Tell me Roswitha, you’re a Catholic. Don’t you ever go to confession?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I used to. Never told them nothin’ serious though.’
‘That’s very wrong. It can’t do any good then.’
‘Oh, my lady, that’s what they all did back in our village. Some of ’em just giggled.’
‘Have you never felt that it’s a good thing, if something is weighing on your soul, that you can be rid of it?’
‘No, my lady. That time my father came at me with the red-hot iron, I was really afraid then; but terrible fear is all it was, nothin’ else.’
‘Not fear of God?’
‘Not really, my lady. Once you’ve been terrified by your father like I was terrified, then you’re never as terrified of God. I’ve always just thought God is good and will help a poor mite like me.’
Effi smiled and dropped the subject, and she found it quite natural that poor Roswitha should talk as she did. What she did say was, ‘You know Roswitha, when I come back we must have a serious talk about it. It really was a great sin.’
‘About the child and it starvin’ to death? Yes my lady, it was. But it wasn’t me, it was the others – and anyway, it’s all so long ago.’
26
Effi had been away more than four weeks, writing happy, almost high-spirited letters, especially since her arrival in Ems where one was, as she wrote, among real people again, that was to say among men, of whom only the odd specimen was to be seen in Schwalbach. The medical appropriateness of their added presence had naturally, she reported, been raised by her travelling companion, Geheimrätin Zwicker, who had come down heavily against it, all of course with a look in her eye that said more or less the opposite; Frau Zwicker, wrote Effi, was charming, somewhat free, probably with a past even, but highly amusing and one could learn a great deal from her; never, in spite of her twenty-five years, had she felt so much of a child as since her acquaintance with this lady. And she was so well read, even in foreign literature; when for example Effi had recently mentioned Nana and asked if it really was so dreadful, Frau Zwicker had replied, ‘My dear Baroness, what do you mean, dreadful? There are much worse things than that.’ ‘She also seemed inclined,’ Effi concluded her letter, ‘to tell me all about these “worse things”. But I wouldn’t let her, because I know you think the immorality of our times derives from such things as these and you’re probably right. But it wasn’t easy. The other thing is that Ems lies in a hollow. We suffer terribly from the heat here.’
Innstetten had read this letter with mixed feelings, slightly amused but also a little put out. This Zwicker woman was not the right person for Effi, who had a strain in her that could be led astray; but he let it pass and did not write to her along these lines, partly for fear of displeasing her, but rather because he told himself it would do no good. Meanwhile he longed for his wife’s return and groaned at having not only to perform his own duties ‘on the appointed hour’s stroke’ but others’ too, since all the other senior staff were either away or about to go away.
Yes, Innstetten longed for a break from work and loneliness, and there were similar feelings in the kitchen, where Annie preferred to spend her time after school, which was quite natural in that Johanna and Roswitha not only loved the little Fräulein in equal measure, but were also, as always, on the best of terms with each other. This friendship between the two servants was a favourite topic of conversation with various friends of the house, so that Landgerichtsrat Gizicki observed to Wüllersdorf, ‘I see this as fresh confirmation of the wise old saying “Let me have men about me that are fat”. Caesar was a shrewd judge of character and knew that it takes embonpoint to be affable and get on with people.’ And this the two maids both had, one could safely say, except that the foreign word which was practically unavoidable in this context was flattering in Roswitha’s case, whereas in Johanna’s it was simply the mot juste. The latter could not in fact really be termed corpulent, just buxom and statuesque, with her blue eyes and her proud, all-conquering air, an expression which quite definitely became her, looking straight ahead over her firmly corseted bosom. Imbued with propriety and decorum, her whole life was lived in the elevating awareness that she was the servant of a good house, and this gave her such a sense of superiority over Roswitha, who was still one part peasant, that when, as occasionally happened, the latter seemed to be accorded preferential treatment, she merely smiled. This preferential treatment – well, if that was the way it had to be sometimes – was an endearing little foible of her mistress’s which there was no reason not to grant dear old Roswitha with her eternal tale of her ‘father with the red-hot iron bar’. ‘If one behaves properly that kind of thing can’t happen.’ All this went through her head without her ever actually saying it. Theirs was in fact a friendly coexistence. But what really maintained peace and harmony was that the care and almost the education of little Annie had, by tacit agreement, been split between them. Roswitha’s was the poetic department, telling her stories and fairytales, while Johanna was responsible for manners, a division that was so firmly established on both sides that disputes scarcely arose, something to which Annie’s character itself contributed, since she had a quite distinct tendency to put on the young lady of quality, and in this she could have had no better teacher than Johanna.
To resume then: both maids were equal in Annie’s eyes. During this time however, when they were preparing for Effi’s return, Roswitha had once again the soupçon of an advantage over her rival because the whole matter of the welcome had fallen to her, indeed it was deemed her prerogative. This welcome fell into two parts: a floral wreath with a garland on the door, and then the recitation of a poem. The wreath – after they had been undecided for a time between ‘W’ or ‘E.v.I.’ – in the end caused no special difficulties (a ‘W’ woven from forget-me-nots had been favoured), but the question of the poem promised to be much more awkward, and it might have remained unresolved had Roswitha not plucked up her courage and bearded the Landgerichtsrat on the second-floor landing, as he returned from court, with a bold request for a ‘verse’. Gizicki, a very kind gentleman, had instantly promised all they requested, and late that same afternoon his cook had handed in the desired verse, the contents of which were as follows:
Mamma, our longing is long-standing,
We’ve waited weeks and days and hours,
Now we greet you from balcony and landing,
We’ve woven wreaths of brightest flowers.
Now Papa laughs with happiness,
For the time of wife- and motherlessness
At last, at last to its end has come,
And Roswitha laughs, Johanna too
And Annie jumps right out of her shoe
And calls out, ‘welcome, welcome home.’
Of course this stanza had been learned by heart that same evening, but not without subjecting its poetic quality, or lack of it, to critical scrutiny. It had been Johanna’s opinion that though the stress on wife and mother had seemed at first to be in order, there was nevertheless something about it that might give offence, and she personally, if she were a wife and mother, would be hurt by it. Annie was somewhat dismayed by this remark and promised to show her school-mistress the poem the next day. She came back with the comment that ‘Miss was quite happy with “wife and mother”, but absolutely against “Roswitha and Johanna”’ – at which Roswitha had declared, ‘Miss is a silly ass; that’s what comes of too much learning.’
The maids and Annie had the above conversation on a Wednesday, the argument about the disputed line being settled on the same day. The following morning – a letter was expected from Effi to establish the day of arrival which would presumably not be until the end of the following week – Innstetten went to the Ministry. Now it was midday and school was over, and when Annie with her satchel on her back came along Keithstrasse from the canal she met Roswitha in front of the house.
‘Let’s see,’ said Annie, ‘which of us can get to the top of the stairs first.’ Roswitha would hear nothing of this race, but Annie rushed on ahead, and reaching the top she stumbled and fell so awkwardly that she struck her forehead on the boot-scraper which was right beside the stairs, and began to bleed profusely. Roswitha, panting laboriously after her, tugged the bell violently, and when Johanna had carried the somewhat frightened child inside, they discussed what to do next. ‘We should send for the doctor… We should send for the Master… the concierge’s daughter Lene must be back from school now too.’ These proposals were all rejected as taking too long, they had to do something straight away, so they put the child on the sofa and began to apply cold water to cool her. This seemed to help and they began to calm down. ‘Better get ’er bandaged now,’ Roswitha said at length. ‘The Mistress cut a long bandage when she twisted ’er ankle on the ice last winter, that must still be about –’ ‘Of course it must,’ said Johanna, ‘but where do we look for it?… Ah, now, it comes back to me, it’s in the sewing-table. It’s probably locked, but the lock is child’s play; just fetch a chisel Roswitha, we’ll force the lid open.’ With that they proceeded to wrench off the lid and rifle through the compartments from top to bottom, but there was no sign of the rolled-up bandage. ‘I know I’ve seen it,’ said Roswitha, and as she searched on in growing irritation, everything that came to hand landed on the broad window-sill: sewing things, pin-cushions, bobbins of thread and silk, little dried bunches of violets, cards, billets, and finally a little bundle of letters lying under the third tray down, right at the bottom, tied with a red silk thread. But they still hadn’t found the bandage.
At that moment Innstetten came in.
‘Oh dear me,’ said Roswitha, standing beside the child in her fright. ‘It’s nothing sir; Annie fell on the boot-scraper… oh dear me, what’s ’er ladyship goin’ to say? A good thing she wasn’t ’ere when it ’appened.’
Innstetten had meanwhile taken off the temporary compress and saw that it was a deep cut but nothing serious. ‘It isn’t bad,’ he said. ‘All the same Roswitha, we must see that Rummschüttel comes. Lene can fetch him, she’ll have time now. But what in heaven’s name has happened to the sewing-table?’
And now Roswitha told him about the search for the rolled bandage; but she’d give that up now and cut a fresh piece of linen.
Innstetten was in agreement and sat down beside the child after the two maids had left the room. ‘You’re so wild Annie, you get that from your Mamma. A regular whirlwind. Nothing comes of it, or at least only this kind of thing.’ And he pointed to the cut and gave her a kiss. ‘You didn’t cry though, and that was good, so for that I’ll forgive you your wildness… I think the doctor will be here in an hour; just do everything he says, and once he’s bandaged you, don’t pull it or move it or fiddle with it, and it’ll get better quickly, and by the time Mamma gets back everything will be in order again, or nearly. It’s a good thing after all that that’s not till next week, the end of next week according to what she wrote to me; I’ve just had a letter from her; she sends you love and kisses and is looking forward to seeing you again.’
‘Could you read me the letter Papa?’
‘Of course I could.’
But before he had time to, Johanna came in to say that lunch was served. Annie got to her feet with him in spite of her cut, and father and daughter sat down at table.
27
Innstetten and Annie sat facing one another silently for a while; in the end, when he found the silence awkward he asked her a few questions about the headmistress and who her favourite teacher was. Annie answered without much enthusiasm because she sensed that Innstetten’s mind was elsewhere. Things only improved after the second course when Johanna whispered to her little Annie that there was something still to come. And good, kind Roswitha, who felt she owed her little treasure something on that unfortunate day, had indeed made something extra, an omelette with apple slices, no less.
The sight of this made Annie a little more talkative and Innstetten’s frame of mind too appeared improved when immediately afterwards the doorbell rang and Geheimrat Rummschüttel came in. Quite by chance. He had just dropped in without any inkling of their having sent to ask him to call. The compresses they had applied met with his approval. ‘Just send for some lead-water and keep Annie at home tomorrow. The main thing is rest.’ Then he asked after Frau von Instetten and what news there was from Ems; he said he would call again next day to see how things were.
When they had risen from table and gone into the next room – where they had been at such pains, in vain as it turned out, to find the bandage – Annie was laid on the sofa again. Johanna came and sat with the child while Innstetten began to clear the countless things that lay in a jumble on the window-sill back into the sewing-table. From time to time he did not know where things belonged and had to ask for help.
‘Where were the letters Johanna?’
‘Right at the bottom,’ she said, ‘here in this bit.’
And as his question was answered Innstetten looked more closely than before at the little bundle tied with red thread, which seemed to be composed more of numerous folded-up notes than of letters. He flicked through the edges of the package with thumb and forefinger as if it were a pack of cards, and some lines, actually only odd words, flashed before his eyes. It wouldn’t be true to say he recognized it, but he did seem to have seen that handwriting somewhere before. Should he take a look?
‘Johanna, could you bring the coffee? Annie will take half a cup too. The doctor didn’t say she wasn’t to, and what isn’t forbidden is allowed.’
As he said this he unwound the red thread and while Johanna left the room, he let the entire contents of the bundle run quickly through his fingers. Only two or three letters were addressed, ‘To Frau Landrat von Innstetten.’ Now he recognized the writing; it was the Major’s. Innstetten knew nothing of any correspondence between Crampas and Effi and everything began to spin in his head. He stuck the bundle in his pocket and went into his room. Several minutes later Johanna tapped lightly on the door to indicate that the coffee was served and Innstetten answered, but that was all; other than that, total silence. Only after a quarter of an hour was he heard again pacing up and down on the carpet. ‘What can be wrong with Papa?’ said Johanna to Annie. ‘The doctor told him it was nothing, didn’t he?’
The pacing up and down in the next room seemed never-ending. Finally Innstetten appeared in the other room and said, ‘Johanna, look after Annie and see that she stays resting on the sofa. I
shall be gone for an hour, or perhaps two.’
Then he looked attentively at the child and left.
‘Did you see the look on Papa’s face, Johanna?’
‘Yes Annie. Something must have annoyed him greatly. He was quite pale. I’ve never seen him like that.’
Hours went by. The sun was already down and there was only a red glow above the roofs opposite when Innstetten came back. He took Annie’s hand, asked her how she felt and instructed Johanna to bring the lamp into his room. The lamp was brought. In the green shade were translucent ovals with numerous different photographs of his wife, pictures which had been taken for the cast at the performance of Wichert’s One False Step in Kessin. Innstetten turned the shade slowly from left to right and examined each picture in turn. Then he stopped; finding it sultry he opened the balcony door, and finally picked up the bundle of letters again. It seemed that on his preliminary examination he had already picked out a few and placed them on top. These he now read once more under his breath.
Effi Briest Page 26