As always, the italicized parts are what I'm unsure about:
After dinner, they went into the living room, and the conversation turned itself to less important things. Some innocent happiness was in the air and on the faces. Fritz had started a little banter with the pretty Hanna, in which her Samaritan function again played a
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rôle. And she answered him so quickly and with such good wit, that this humorous duel gave him a growing joy. Both their eyes shone with a pleasure for fighting. The entrance of the serious men, who didn't immediately know how to find themselves in the changed atmosphere, disturbed them little; they barely paid attention to it and continued making jokes in the nonchalance of their youth.
Their cheerful sense even passed over the worries and sorrows of the old woman, who sat in the corner of the ancient sofa with her tired head leaning on a cushion. Only now and then a short, compassionate look from the youthful eyes of the girl flew over to her. Why did she make so many heavy thoughts for herself? Life was so beautiful and rich! One just had to see it properly and approach with good confidence. Her fate too had really been no easy thing. Orphaned and destitute from early childhood on, only to obtain the charity of grandparents - not everyone would take it so calmly. But she had never lost courage. And if she sometimes had to stand there totally alone, she didn't want to be afraid of the struggle. If the grandmother still thought about Fritz's serious words earlier in the garden? But she had been right, she already believed him well enough to know: he really hadn't meant any harm. He also belonged to the strong and courageous, who, when it depended on it, would yield to no enemy. It was written in his features. She liked men who could be both serious and happy, each in its time.
He, however, lookt in her eyes with pleasure. Under the thick blond hair that almost nestled into her eyebrows, they sometimes shone like the cornflowers in the quiet field. It was
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the health, country and the rural purity that he found and loved in the fresh character of this girl.
Hans was keen to get going. The cab was already at the door. The uncle, of course, already lay in bed. But Hutemach, who never went to sleep before everyone in the house was, would wait for them. Fritz could no longer resist his hint; he finally rose to his feet and said goodbye to the priest and his wife with warm words of thanks. Now he also shook Hanna's hand.
"To better neighborliness from to-day on! Right? And if your duty" - he put a soft tone on this word - "takes you to Bärwalde once again, then don't forget that an old, frail man lives there in the manor house, for whom a happy word and face brings a little sunshine into his darkness. And - this, of course, just by the way - also a younger man, for whom a little cheering up after the hard drudgery in the field certainly couldn't hurt. Or is that too insignificant for Samaritan action?"
"I will write it in my workbook as a visit, maybe I won't forget it then."
"Approval and farewell! Or hopefully till we meet again!"
"I am glad that my brotherly warning has fallen on such fertile soil," Hans said as they both sat in the small cab, leaning close against each other, and the gentle mare took a few bold jumps in anticipation of the familiar stable, which she usually didn't do. "Hopefully you will now pay a little more attention to your pastor."
Fritz wasn't so sure: was it an honest opinion that spoke out of the words of the other brother
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or hidden teasing? He wanted to take it as the former.
"And I am grateful to you," he replied, "that you have suggested this visit to me. It will not have been my last."
It was the only thing that Fritz spoke on the trip. From then on, he was silent until they arrived home.
[Adl.] Malkitten, 15 September 1913Dear Hans,
I would like to inform you to-day that after much consideration I have decided to give up my position here. My two boys, who have well cut off in a just-held test, are going to high school now, and with a little girl of only six years old beginning again - I have little inclination - although one asks me about it urgently. Generally, my initial experience and repeatedly exprest opinion of you has been right: my talents and abilities are suited more for the wifely practice than for the pedagogical field. The successes that I gained here lay more in the talent and the diligent striving of my pupils than in me.
Your letters, dear Hans, always give me a warm pleasure. Alone I always have the feeling, as if near all of your joy, to work again in our beloved East Prussia, yet even a thin string sounds in them. And now my sisterly nervousness, which causes you so much trouble, scolds, but I find it is not sufficiently taken care of for you. You know what this is about. Even as a lecturer in Bonn you askt
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me repeatedly to come to you and to run your household. I couldn't then. And, quite frankly, my dear boy, I also didn't want to. The field that presented itself to me was for me, with all love for you, too small. Now you are the priest of a large congregation, and what you indicated to me several times, I understand very well: there is no wifely helper for you for your work in the congregation.
So, shortly and clearly: if you want me, I will gladly come, run the household for you, try to make life a little more comfortable for you, and satisfy my need for activity with work on the duties for your congregation.
Now write to me just as frankly what you think. I am ready at any moment; yes, I may even add that the wish to be able to be something for you and to live together with you was not without effect on my notice [of leaving my position].
Warm regards, old boy, from your loyal sister
Else
Nothing could be more welcome to Hans than this letter, which he found one morning on his writing desk. Else had hit on the right thing. Indeed, he was lonely. He brooded in the long evenings, which he spent - almost without exception - at his writing desk, in all types of spiritual questions and problems; the mealtimes, prepared in moderation, that he always had alone, also offered him no rest because he could mull over his thoughts unhindered; some good plans that he considered for his congregation remained unrealized because he didn't have the wifely hand. Who could offer it to him better than his sister!
She was the youngest of the three of them. When they
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were children, the age difference had not let a closer relationship develop between them. That first happened when he came back to work for the second theological exam in the house of his mother, who had now long since passed away. She was seventeen years old then, but of a [Reise] that went out above her age and with a thirst for knowledge that let her take an interest in some of his works with understanding. The faithful loyalty that the two of them had kept for one another for her whole life had begun then. Only later did he find out that that winter she had refused every invitation, every request of a friend just in order to be together with him for an evening hour that he had free for her. She had never told him anything about it. Now he again was granted the chance to be able to rebuild with sincere joy the old relationship that he needed more than ever from her.
Else had come. In the determined way that was forever her own, in the first days she immediately questioned many of the changes in the house, like the way of life of her brother. At first, she didn't make much sense to him, but he soon felt her benefit.
Meanwhile, he had begun his lectures for which Mayor Stoltzmann had obtained him and in which he wanted to give in orderly sequence a development of the German religious philosophy from Kant until the present time. He had gladly undertaken this work because it led him back into the spiritual circle that he had left.
Although the topic was not easy, the registrations had come in in such great numbers that Dr. Stoltzmann had to use the biggest hall
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that was available to him in the city.
Hans leafed through the list of the participants. All of the well-known names were recorded on it: higher government officials with their wives, officers, many individual women who also regularly heard his sermons, the first mayor with his wife - only one name was missing: Edith von Barrnhoff.
He knew that she had left Reckenstein at the beginning of winter because her father had to undergo a lengthy treatment here in the city. He had seen her on the street quite often, even spoken to her a few times. She had enough time - was there an aim in her staying away? He had to smile at himself, that with such unexpected and great participation, the absence of a single name caused him trouble.
