was already sick, and still remained a stranger though he had done more for Ruzena than Joachim himself with his mooning, romantic fancies. All this was very painful. What was this fellow Bertrand after? Now that he was going away, and, as was only fitting, declined all thanks from or on behalf of Ruzena, he was expressing once more the hope that he would soon see Joachim again. Wasn’t it hypocritical? And Joachim, astonished at himself, replied: “I’m afraid, Bertrand, that you won’t find me in Berlin when you come next, for I’ll have to go to Stolpin for a few weeks after the manœuvres. But if you would really like to visit me there I should be awfully glad to see you.” And Bertrand accepted.
It had always been a custom of Herr von Pasenow to await the arrival of the post in his study. From time immemorial a place had been kept free on the table beside the pile of sports journals, and on this place the messenger had duly to deposit his bag. And although on most days the contents of the bag were disappointing, often consisting of nothing but two or three journals, yet Herr von Pasenow always took down the key from the antler-rack, where he used to hang it, and opened the lock in the yellow brass plate with the same avid eagerness. And while the messenger, cap in hand, waited in silence, gazing at the floor, Herr von Pasenow took out the letters and packets, sat down with them at his desk, set aside first those for himself and his family, and after carefully scrutinizing the addresses on the others handed them to the messenger to take to the servants they were destined for. Sometimes he had to put a curb upon himself to refrain from opening this or the other letter addressed to one of the maids, for this seemed to him an obvious right, a variation of
the jus primœ noctis
of the master; and the fact that the secrecy of the post should protect menials was a new-fangled notion that went against the grain. Nevertheless there were a few among the servants who actually complained about his external scrutiny of theirenvelopes, especially as the master did not scruple to inquire afterwards into the contents of the letters and to quiz the maids. This had led already to violent scenes, which had ended however with dismissals, and the rebels no longer objected openly, but either fetched their letters from the post office themselves, or gave secret instructions to the postmaster to have them delivered by the postman. Yes, for some time even the deceased young master had been seen daily dismounting from his horse at the post office so as to collect his correspondence; it may have been that he was expecting letters from some lady which he did not want the old man to see, or that he was engaged on business which must remain secret; but the postmaster, who usually was free enough with his information, could not confirm either of those suppositions, as the few letters which Helmuth von Pasenow received gave no clue. Nevertheless the obstinate rumour persisted that, through some machinations or other with the post office, the old man had ruined a project of marriage and the happiness of his son. The women on the estate and in the village stuck to this with particular obstinacy, and perhaps they were not so very far wrong, for Helmuth had become more and more indifferent and melancholy, had soon discontinued his rides to the village, and had let his letters be brought again in the great post-bag to the estate and his father’s writing-table.
Herr von Pasenow had always had this passion for the post, and so it was not a matter for surprise that as time went on it should become more intense. Now he often so arranged his morning ride or walk as to meet the messenger, and then it was seen that, instead of leaving the key hanging on the antler-rack, he now carried it in his pocket so that he might unlock the bag under the open sky. There he would busily look through the letters but then put them back in the bag again so as not to
It had always been a custom of Herr von Pasenow to await the arrival of the post in his study. From time immemorial a place had been kept free on the table beside the pile of sports journals, and on this place the messenger had duly to deposit his bag. And although on most days the contents of the bag were disappointing, often consisting of nothing but two or three journals, yet Herr von Pasenow always took down the key from the antler-rack, where he used to hang it, and opened the lock in the yellow brass plate with the same avid eagerness. And while the messenger, cap in hand, waited in silence, gazing at the floor, Herr von Pasenow took out the letters and packets, sat down with them at his desk, set aside first those for himself and his family, and after carefully scrutinizing the addresses on the others handed them to the messenger to take to the servants they were destined for. Sometimes he had to put a curb upon himself to refrain from opening this or the other letter addressed to one of the maids, for this seemed to him an obvious right, a variation of
the jus primœ noctis
of the master; and the fact that the secrecy of the post should protect menials was a new-fangled notion that went against the grain. Nevertheless there were a few among the servants who actually complained about his external scrutiny of theirenvelopes, especially as the master did not scruple to inquire afterwards into the contents of the letters and to quiz the maids. This had led already to violent scenes, which had ended however with dismissals, and the rebels no longer objected openly, but either fetched their letters from the post office themselves, or gave secret instructions to the postmaster to have them delivered by the postman. Yes, for some time even the deceased young master had been seen daily dismounting from his horse at the post office so as to collect his correspondence; it may have been that he was expecting letters from some lady which he did not want the old man to see, or that he was engaged on business which must remain secret; but the postmaster, who usually was free enough with his information, could not confirm either of those suppositions, as the few letters which Helmuth von Pasenow received gave no clue. Nevertheless the obstinate rumour persisted that, through some machinations or other with the post office, the old man had ruined a project of marriage and the happiness of his son. The women on the estate and in the village stuck to this with particular obstinacy, and perhaps they were not so very far wrong, for Helmuth had become more and more indifferent and melancholy, had soon discontinued his rides to the village, and had let his letters be brought again in the great post-bag to the estate and his father’s writing-table.
Herr von Pasenow had always had this passion for the post, and so it was not a matter for surprise that as time went on it should become more intense. Now he often so arranged his morning ride or walk as to meet the messenger, and then it was seen that, instead of leaving the key hanging on the antler-rack, he now carried it in his pocket so that he might unlock the bag under the open sky. There he would busily look through the letters but then put them back in the bag again so as not to
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