Watching the new aborigines grew to be a sort of game. The lady aborigine of the golden voice, and the ugly husband of the peaked chin had a strange fascination for me. I scrambled downstairs at meal time in order not to miss them, and I dawdled over the meal so that I need not leave before they. I discovered that when the lady aborigine was animated, her face was that of a young woman, possessing a certain high-bred charm, but that when in repose the face of the lady aborigine was that of a very old and tired woman indeed. Also that her husband bullied her, and that when he did that she looked at him worshipingly.
Then one evening, a week or so after the appearance of the new aborigines, there came a clumping at my door. I was seated at my typewriter and the book was balkier than usual, and I wished that the clumper at the door would go away.
“Come!” I called, ungraciously enough. Then, on second thought: “Herein!”
The knob turned slowly, and the door opened just enough to admit the top of a head crowned with a tight, moist German knob of hair. I searched my memory to recognize the knob, failed utterly and said again, this time with mingled curiosity and hospitality:
“Won’t you come in?”
The apparently bodiless head thrust itself forward a bit, disclosing an apologetically smiling face, with high check bones that glistened with friendliness and scrubbing.
“Nabben’, Fraulein,” said the head.
“Nabben’,” I replied, more mystified than ever. “Howdy do! Is there anything—”
The head thrust itself forward still more, showing a pair of plump shoulders as its support. Then the plump shoulders heaved into the room, disclosing a stout, starched gingham body.
“Ich bin Frau Knapf,” announced the beaming vision.
Now up to this time Frau Knapf had maintained a Mrs. Harris-like mysteriousness. I had heard rumors of her, and I had partaken of certain crispy dishes of German extraction, reported to have come from her deft hands, but I had not even caught a glimpse of her skirts whisking around a corner.
Therefore: “Frau Knapf!” I repeated. “Nonsense! There ain’t no sich person—that is, I’m glad to see you. Won’t you come in and sit down?”
“Ach, no!” smiled the substantial Frau Knapf, clinging tightly to the door knob. “I got no time. It gives much to do tonight yet. Kuchen dough I must set, und ich weiss nicht was. I got no time.”
Bustling, red-cheeked Frau Knapf! This was why I had never had a glimpse of her. Always, she got no time. For while Herr Knapf, dapper and genial, welcomed newcomers, chatted with the diners, poured a glass of foaming Doppel-brau for Herr Weber or, dexterously carved fowl for the aborigines’ table, Frau Knapf was making the wheels go round. I discovered that it was she who bakes the melting, golden German Pfannkuchen on Sunday mornings; she it is who fries the crisp and hissing Wienerschnitzel; she it is who prepares the plump ducklings, and the thick gravies, and the steaming lentil soup and the rosy sausages nestling coyly in their bed of sauerkraut. All the week Frau Knapf bakes and broils and stews, her rosy cheeks taking on a twinkling crimson from the fire over which she bends. But on Sunday night Frau Knapf sheds her huge apron and rolls down the sleeves from her plump arms. On Sunday evening she leaves pots and pans and cooking, and is a transformed Frau Knapf. Then does she don a bright blue silk waist and a velvet coat that is dripping with jet, and a black bonnet on which are perched palpitating birds and weary-looking plumes. Then she and Herr Knapf walk comfortably down to the Pabst theater to see the German play by the German stock company. They applaud their favorite stout, blond, German comedienne as she romps through the acts of a sprightly German comedy, and after the play they go to their favorite Wein-stube around the corner. There they have sardellen and cheese sandwiches and a great deal of beer, and for one charmed evening Frau Knapf forgets all about the insides of geese and the thickening for gravies, and is happy.
Many of these things Frau Knapf herself told me, standing there by the door with the Kuchen heavy on her mind. Some of them I got from Ernst von Gerhard when I told him about my visitor and her errand. The errand was not disclosed until Frau Knapf had caught me casting a despairing glance at my last typewritten page.
“Ach, see! you got no time for talking to, ain’t it?” she apologized.
“Heaps of time,” I politely assured her, “don’t hurry. But why not have a chair and be comfortable?”
Frau Knapf was not to be deceived. “I go in a minute. But first it is something I like to ask you. You know maybe Frau Nirlanger?”
I shook my head.
“But sure you must know. From Vienna she is, with such a voice like a bird.”
“And the beads, and the gray gown, and the fringe, and the cigarettes?”
“And the oogly husband,” finished Frau Knapf, nodding.
“Oogly,” I agreed, “isn’t the name for it. And so she is Frau Nirlanger? I thought there would be a Von at the very least.”
Whereupon my visitor deserted the doorknob, took half a dozen stealthy steps in my direction and lowered her voice to a hissing whisper of confidence.
“It is more as a Von. I will tell you. Today comes Frau Nirlanger by me and she says: `Frau Knapf, I wish to buy clothes, aber echt Amerikanische. Myself, I do not know what is modish, and I cannot go alone to buy.’”
“That’s a grand idea,” said I, recalling the gray basque and the cannon-ball beads.
“Ja, sure it is,” agreed Frau Knapf. “Soo-o-o, she asks me was it some lady who would come with her by the stores to help a hat and suit and dresses to buy. Stylish she likes they should be, and echt Amerikanisch. So-o-o-o, I say to her, I would go myself with you, only so awful stylish I ain’t, and anyway I got no time. But a lady I know who is got such stylish clothes!” Frau Knapf raised admiring hands and eyes toward heaven. “Such a nice lady she is, and stylish, like anything! And her name is Frau Orme.”
“Oh, really, Frau Knapf—” I murmured in blushing confusion.
“Sure, it is so,” insisted Frau Knapf, coming a step nearer, and sinking her, voice one hiss lower. “You shouldn’t say I said it, but Frau Nirlanger likes she should look young for her husband. He is much younger as she is—aber much. Anyhow ten years. Frau Nirlanger does not tell me this, but from other people I have found out.” Frau Knapf shook her head mysteriously a great many times. “But maybe you ain’t got such an interest in Frau Nirlanger, yes?”
“Interest! I’m eaten up with curiosity. You shan’t leave this room alive until you’ve told me!”
Frau Knapf shook with silent mirth. “Now you make jokings, ain’t? Well, I tell you. In Vienna, Frau Nirlanger was a widow, from a family aber hoch edel—very high born. From the court her family is, and friends from the Emperor, und alles. Sure! Frau Nirlanger, she is different from the rest. Books she likes, und meetings, und all such komisch things. And what you think!”