Now I was travelling again, and on the same route by which I had come this morning. I was travelling back towards my home town. But one station before it, I got out and walked. Night was falling. I was nearly half an hour from that country inn where Elinor, the queen of alcohol, lived. Forgotten was that abortive night in her room, forgotten that humiliating bout when, under the eyes of the doctors, my boozing companions had all left me, forgotten were the shoes that had been so maliciously handed into the car! Alcohol has no memory. If it makes a man angry, a word or a glass can soon extinguish that anger again. I only knew that after my experiences with Magda and Lobedanz, Elinor was my refuge. With her I would stay or with her I would go—that was the only glimmer of life I had, and it seemed enough.
22
I had come too late. At the inn-windows the shutters were already closed, and no gleam of light came through. I tried the latch but the door was locked. For a moment I stood reflecting. Then I went softly round the house into the orchard and looked up to Elinor’s window. There, too, all was in darkness, but that did not matter. I had all the time in the world, and in any case we would get on quite well in the dark. Better, even, better!
First of all I sat in the grass and started to open my parcel. A cleverly-tied parcel is an excellent thing, but it has the disadvantage that one cannot get at its contents so easily. I had been thirsty for too long, I had accomplished great things, and now for that good old woodcutters’ schnaps! After I had considerably, very considerably, fortified myself, I began to set my belongings up on the shed roof, which I could just reach with my hands. First the brief-case, and then one bottle after the other: one bottle of Saxon schnaps, then four unopened and one opened bottle of Black Forest plum-brandy. All nice and tidy, side by side on the edge of the roof. Now I was ready for the climb. I hung on to the overhanging edge of the roof and tried to pull myself up. But I had overestimated my gymnastic abilities and underestimated the effect of the schnaps. For a while I dangled helplessly in the air, then I lost my hold and fell heavily in the grass. I lay there groaning; the fall had done me no good. But with that obstinacy that drunkards develop towards impossible tasks, I kept renewing my attempt—after I had well and truly fortified myself each time. The remainder of the first bottle went in that way. Each time I fell to the ground. The last time I tried, it was clear to me that I would never achieve my aim like this. Also I realised that I was very drunk. “I’m absolutely tight, I’m completely sozzled,” I kept murmuring stupidly, and I leaned panting against a tree.
Then I dimly recalled that I had seen iron tables and chairs standing outside the inn. Laboriously I dragged one of the chairs over, clambered on to it carefully (by now I was afraid of another fall) and tried to get up on the roof. And again I fell. There was a longer pause, partly because I had bruised myself badly and partly because I had to hunt around for the corkscrew to open a fresh bottle. I was sure I had put it on the edge of the roof, but quite inconceivably it had fallen off. Grumbling to myself I looked for it on all fours in the grass. It was not to be found. Eventually it occurred to me that there was a corkscrew on my pocket knife which had served me quite well up to now. I felt in my pocket for the knife, did not find it, but found instead the corkscrew I had put on the roof. After I had had another drink, the thing became clear to me: I would never reach her bedroom window by way of the roof. So I went round to the front again and once more tried the front-door. It was still locked. I took the bunch of keys out of my pocket and tried my keys one after the other. They were all much too small for this stout country keyhole, but I kept on trying them with stupid obstinacy, in the firm hope that eventually a miracle would happen and the door would open of itself. During all these drunken preparations I had not shown the slightest consideration for the inhabitants’ sleep, so it was no wonder that eventually a window opened above me and an angry woman’s voice asked sharply: “Who’s there?”
I stood quite still, like a trapped thief.
“Will you go away!” cried the furious voice from above. “You won’t get anything here. We’re closed!”
With that, the window slammed to, and I stood alone in the dark, still locked out. For a while I remained without moving, then I tiptoed to the back-garden and began softly to take my belongings off the shed roof and round to the entrance, where I pedantically arranged them on an iron table. (Needless to say I did not forget to drink during this operation.) Hardly had I finished this task, which took a long time on account of my stupor and my uncertain gait, than I began that idiotic game with the bunch of keys and the keyhole again. I had not been at it for long, when the window flew open again with a crash, and the woman’s voice cried out furiously: “This is going too far! Will you get away from here, or do I have to fetch the police!”
The word “police” loosened my heavy tongue. “Oh please, let me in!” I called up in confusion. “I’m the Professor.…”
How I came to give myself the title of “Professor” I have no idea, it was a heaven-sent inspiration.
“The Professor?” said the voice from above in a tone of utter astonishment. “What Professor … ? The one who was painting pictures here last summer?”
“Yes, of course,” I said in the most matter-of-fact tone in the world, as if it were quite normal for a picture-painting professor to try to unlock strange doors with his own keys in the middle of the night.
“Let me in! I’ve been standing here for two hours!”
“If you’d only written a postcard, Herr Professor,” said the voice from above, still not exactly friendly but milder. “Wait a moment. I’ll open up at once.”
Relieved, I sat down on an iron chair, took a quick drink and shut my eyes. I was very tired, almost stunned. I did not realise then that something dangerous lay hidden within my calmness, a wild unbridled rage that might break out at any moment. It only lacked a cause, and anything might start it off This plum-brandy was far more dangerous than the comparatively harmless schnaps. It went deeper into the blood, and led to unexpected abysses.
At last the key turned in the door. A ray of light shone on me.
“Well, come in then,” said the woman’s voice, “but it’s not very nice of you to disturb our night’s rest like this, Herr Professor.”
I got up and followed my guide into the bar-room, which, by the light of a single bulb, looked most inhospitable, with its chairs set up on the tables. My companion now turned to me. It was the white-haired innkeeper of whom I had caught a glimpse once before. She gazed at me in astonishment.
“But you’re not the Professor at all!” she cried angrily. “You’re that gentleman who got drunk here the other day, and the medical officer had to take you away. You’ve got a cheek, coming here with your lies …!”
I silenced her with a threatening glance. I felt an enormous rage rising in me. I knew I would break any resistance that might be opposed to me; I was capable, I knew, of striking this woman, of throwing her to the ground, of killing her even, if the devil so prompted me. I looked at the woman and ordered: “Call Elinor!” And as she gave a sign of dissent: “Call Elinor at once, or” my voice became soft and threatening, “or something will happen!” The woman made a helpless gesture and then said pleadingly:
“Please don’t cause any trouble, sir. It’s night time now, and the girl’s asleep. I’ll gladly make up a bed for you on the sofa. You see, you’re a little bit drunk.”