Title: The Son of His Mother
Author: Viebig, Clara, 1860-1952
Language: English
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THE SON OF HIS MOTHER

by

CLARA VIEBIG

Authorised Translation by H. Raahauge



London: John Lane The Bodley Head
New York:  John  Lane  Company
Toronto: Bell & Cockburn  MCMXIII

The Anchor Press, Ltd., Tiptree Essex



BOOK I



THE SON OF HIS MOTHER



CHAPTER I

The husband and wife were of a literary turn of mind, and as they
had the money to cultivate their artistic tastes he wrote a little and
she painted. They also played and sang duets together, at least they
had done so when they were first married; now they went to concerts and
the opera more frequently instead. They were liked wherever they went,
they had friends, they were called "charming people," and still
something was wanting to complete their happiness--they had no
children.

And they would probably not have any now, as they had been married
for some time, and the likelihood of children being born to them was
very remote.

No doubt he sighed and knit his brow in unguarded moments when he
sat at his desk in his office, but especially when he passed through
the villages in the Brandenburg March on the rides he took in the more
distant environs of Berlin--partly for his health, partly because he
still retained the liking for riding from the time he was in the
cavalry--and saw swarms of little flaxen-haired children romping on the
sandy roads. However, he did not let his wife perceive that he missed
something, for he loved her.

But she could not control herself in the same manner. The longer she
was married the more nervous she became. At times she felt irritated
with her husband for no reason. She persistently turned her eyes away
from the announcement of births in the newspapers with a certain
shrinking, and, if her glance happened once in a way to fall on one in
which happy parents notified the birth of a son, she put the paper
aside hastily.

In former years Käte Schlieben had knitted, crocheted, embroidered
and sewn all sorts of pretty little children's garments--she used to be
quite famous for the daintiness of her little baby jackets trimmed with
blue and pink ribbons, all her newly married acquaintances would ask
her for the wonderful little things--but now she had finally given up
that sort of work. She had given up hope. What good did it do her to
put her forefingers into the tiny sleeves of a baby's first jacket,
and, holding it out in front of her, gaze at it a long, long time with
dreamy eyes? It only tortured her.

And she felt the torture twice as much in those grey days that
suddenly put in an appearance without any reason, that creep in
silently even in the midst of sunshine. On those occasions she would
lie on the couch in her room that was furnished with such exquisite
taste--really artistically--and close her eyes tightly. And then all at
once a shout, clear, shrill, triumphant, like the cry of a swallow on
the wing, would ascend from the street, from the promenade under the
chestnut-trees. She stopped her ears when she heard that cry, which
penetrated further than any other tone, which soared up into the ether
as swiftly as an arrow, and cradled itself up there blissfully. She
could not bear to hear anything like that--she was becoming morbid.

Alas, when she and her husband grew old, with minds no longer so
receptive and too weary to seek incitement in the world, who would
bring it to them in their home? Who would bring them anything of what
was going on outside? What youth with his freshness, with the
joyousness that envelops those of twenty like a dainty garment,
that beams from smooth brows like warmth and sunshine, would give them
back a breath of their youth, which had already disappeared in
accordance with the laws of Time? Who would wax enthusiastic at the
things that had once made them enthusiastic, and which they would enjoy
once more as though they were new for them too? Who would fill the
house and garden with his laughter, with that careless laughter that is
so infectious? Who would kiss them with warm lips, and make them happy
by his tenderness? Who would carry them on his wings with him, so that
they did not feel they were weary?

Alas, there is no second youth for those who are childless. Nobody
would come into the inheritance of delight in what was beautiful, of
taste for what was beautiful, of enthusiasm for art and artists which
they would leave behind them. Nobody would guard reverently all those
hundreds of things and nicknacks she had gathered together so
tastefully in her house with the delight of a collector. And nobody
would, alas, hold the hand that was fast growing cold with loving
hands, in that last difficult hour which all dread, and cry: "Father,
Mother, don't go! Not yet!" Oh, God, such loving hands would not close
their eyes----

When Paul Schlieben used to come home from his office in those days
he was co-partner in a large business that his grandfather had founded
and his father raised to a high position--he often found his wife's
sweet face stained with tears, her delicate complexion marred by
constant weeping. And her mouth only forced itself to smile, and in her
beautiful brown eyes there lurked a certain melancholy.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. The lady was suffering from
nerves, that was what was the matter with her. She had too much
time for brooding, she was left to herself too much.

In order to alter this, her anxious husband withdrew from the
business for an indefinite period. His partners could get on just as
well without him. The doctor was right, he must devote himself more to
his wife; they were both so lonely, so entirely dependent on each
other.

It was decided they should travel; there was no reason whatever why
they should remain at home. The beautiful house was given up, their
furniture, all their costly things were stored. If they cared to do so
they could remain away for years, get impressions, amuse themselves.
Käte would paint landscapes in beautiful countries, and he--well, he
could easily find compensation in writing, should he miss his usual
work.

They went to Italy and Corsica--still further, to Egypt and Greece.
They saw the Highlands, Sweden and Norway, very many beautiful
places.

Käte pressed her husband's hand gratefully. Her susceptible mind
waxed enthusiastic, and her talent for painting, which was by no means
insignificant, felt powerfully stimulated all at once. How splendid to
be able to paint, to keep hold of all that glow of colour, that
wonderful effect of tone that revealed itself to her delighted eyes on
her canvas.

She was so eager that she went out with her painting materials in
the morning, whether it was at Capri, on the shores of the blue
Bosphorus, in the yellow sand of the desert, facing the precipitous
pinnacles in the Fjords, or in the rose gardens of the Riviera. Her
delicate face got sunburnt; she no longer even paid any attention to
her hands, which she used to take such care of. The ardent longing to
manifest herself had seized hold of her. Thank God, she could
create something now. The miserable feeling of a useless life did not
exist any longer, nor the torturing knowledge: your life ceases the
moment your eyes close, there is nothing of you that will survive you.
Now she would at least leave something behind that she had produced,
even if it were only a picture. Her paintings increased in number;
quite a quantity of rolls of canvas were dragged about now wherever
they went.

At first Paul Schlieben was very pleased to see his wife so
enthusiastic. He politely carried her camp-stool and easel for her, and
never lost patience when he remained for hours and hours near her
whilst she worked. He lay in the scanty shadow of a palm-tree, and used
to follow the movements of her brush over the top of his book. How
fortunate that her art gave her so much satisfaction. Even though it
was a little fatiguing for him to lie about doing nothing he must not
say anything, no, he must not, for he had nothing to offer her as a
compensation, nothing whatever. And he sighed. It was the same sigh
that had escaped him when the numerous flaxen-haired little children
were playing about on the sandy roads in the Brandenburg March, the
same sigh which Sundays drew from him, when he used to see all
the proletariat of the town--man and wife and children, children,
children--wandering to the Zoo. Yes, he was right--he passed his hand a
little nervously across his forehead--that writer was right--now, who
could it be?--who had once said somewhere: "Why does a man marry? Only
to have children, heirs of his body, of his blood. Children to whom he
can pass on the wishes and hopes that are in him and also the
achievements; children who are descended from him like shoots from a
tree, children who enable a man to live eternally." That was the only
way in which life after death could be understood--life eternal.
The resurrection of the body, which the Church promises, was to be
interpreted as the renewal of one's own personality in the coming
generations. Oh, there was something great, something indescribably
comforting in such a survival.

"Are you speculating about something?" asked his wife. She had
looked up from her easel for a moment.

"Eh? What? Did you say anything, darling?" The man started up in a
fright, as one who has been straying along forbidden paths.

She laughed at his absent-mindedness; it was getting worse and
worse. But what was he thinking of? Business?--surely not. But perhaps
he wanted to write a novel, a tale? Why should he not try his hand at
that for once in a way? That was something quite different from sending
short chatty accounts of one's journey to one of the papers. And of
course he would be able to do it. People who had not half the
education, not half the knowledge, not half the aesthetic refinement of
feeling he had wrote quite readable books.

She talked brightly and persuasively to him, but he shook his head
with a certain resignation: nonsense, neither novels nor any other kind
of writing. And he thought to himself: it is always said that a piece
of work is like a child--that is to say, only a truly great piece of
work, of course. Was the work he and his wife created work in that
sense? Work that would exist eternally? He suddenly found things to
censure severely in her picture, which he had politely admired only the
day before.

She got quite frightened about it. Why was he so irritable to-day?
Was he going to develop nerves at the finish? Yes, it was evident, the
warm air of the south did not suit him, he had lost his briskness,
looked so tired. There was nothing for it, her husband was more
to her than her picture, she would leave off her painting at once.

And that was what happened. They went away, travelled from one place
to another, from one hotel to another, along the lakes, over the
frontier, until they made a somewhat longer stay high up among the Alps
in Switzerland.

Instead of lying under a palm-tree he lay in the shadow of a
fir--now his wife was painting--and followed the movements of her brush
with his eyes over the top of his open book.

She was busily painting, for she had discovered a delightful
subject. That green alpine meadow, with its wealth of flowers as
variegated as they could possibly be and the backs of the brown cows
with the sun shining on them, was as full of charm as the Garden of
Eden on the first day of creation. In her eagerness to see she had
pushed her broad-brimmed hat back, and the warm summer sun was burning
little golden spots on her delicate cheeks and the narrow bridge of her
finely shaped nose. She held the brush that she had dipped into the
green on her palette up against the green of the meadow in order to
compare the two, and blinked with half-closed eyes to see if she had
got the colour right.

At that moment a sound made her start--it was half a growl of
displeasure at the disturbance, half a murmur of approval. Her husband
had risen and was looking at a couple of children who had approached
them noiselessly. They were offering rhododendrons for sale, the girl
had a small basket full of them, the boy was carrying his nosegay in
his hand.

What exceedingly pretty creatures they were, the girl so blue-eyed
and gentle, the boy a regular little scamp. The woman's heart swelled.
She bought all the rhododendrons from them, even gave them more
than they asked for them.

That was a stroke of great luck for the little Swiss boy and
girl--just think, to get more than they had asked for. They blushed
with happiness, and when the strange lady asked them questions in a
kind voice, they commenced to chatter ingenuously.

She would have to paint _those_ children, they were really too
delightful, they were a thousand times more beautiful than the most
beautiful landscape.

Paul Schlieben looked on with a strange uneasiness whilst his wife
painted the children, first the big girl and then the small boy. How
intently she gazed at the boy's round face. Her eyes were brilliant,
she never seemed to be tired, and only paused when the children grew
impatient. All her thoughts turned on the painting. Would the children
come again that day? Was the light good? Surely there would not be a
storm to prevent the children from coming? Nothing else was of any
interest to her. She displayed great zeal. And still the pictures
turned out bad; the features were like theirs, but there was no trace
of the child-mind in them. He saw it clearly: those who are childless
cannot paint children.

Poor woman! He looked on at her efforts with a feeling of deep
compassion. Was not her face becoming soft like a mother's, lovely and
round when she bent down to the children? The Madonna type--and still
this woman had been denied children.

No, he could not look on at it any longer, it made him ill. The man
bade the children go home in a gruff voice. The pictures were ready,
what was the good of touching them up any more? That did not make them
any better, on the contrary.

That evening Käte cried as she used to cry at home. And she
was angry with her husband. Why did he not let her have that pleasure?
Why did he all at once say they were to leave? She did not understand
him. Were the children not sweet, delightful? Was it because they
disturbed him?

"Yes," was all he said. There was a hard dry sound in his voice--a
"yes" that came with such difficulty--and she raised her head from the
handkerchief in which she had buried it and looked across at him. He
was standing at the window in the carpeted room of the hotel, his hands
resting on the window-ledge, his forehead pressed against the pane. He
was gazing silently at the vast landscape before him, in which the
mountaintops covered with snow that glowed in the radiance of the
setting sun spoke to him of immortality. How he pressed his lips
together, how nervously his moustache trembled.

She crept up to him and laid her head on his shoulder. "What is the
matter with you?" she asked him softly. "Do you miss your work--yes,
it's your work, isn't it? I was afraid of that. You are getting tired
of this, you must be doing something again. I promise you I'll be
reasonable--never complain any more--only stop here a little longer,
only three weeks longer--two weeks."

He remained silent.

"Only ten--eight--six days more. Not even that?" she said, bitterly
disappointed, for he had shaken his head. She wound her arms round his
neck. "Only five more--four--three days, please. Why not? Those few
days, please only three days more." She positively haggled for each
day. "Oh, then at least two days more."

She sobbed aloud, her arms fell from his neck--he must allow her two
days.

Her voice cut him to the heart. He had never heard her beg
like that before, but he made a stand against the feeling of yielding
that was creeping over him. Only no sentimentality. It was better to go
away from there quickly, much better for her.

"We're going away to-morrow."

And as she looked at him with wide-open horror-struck eyes and
pallid cheeks, the words escaped from his lips although he had not
intended saying them, drawn from him by a bitterness that he could not
master any longer:

"They are not yours!"



CHAPTER II


And they went away.

But it seemed to the woman as though every joy had disappeared with
the emerald green meadow in the Alps, in which she had painted the
lovely children. There was the same old nervous twitch in her face, the
corners of her mouth drooped slightly and she cried very easily. Paul
Schlieben watched his wife with positive dismay. Oh dear, had it all
been in vain, the giving up of his work, all this travelling about
without making any plans that was so fatiguing? Had the old melancholy
frame of mind taken possession of her again?

When he saw her sitting there so disinclined to exert herself, her
hands lying idle in her lap, a feeling akin to fury came over him. Why
did she not do something? Why did she not paint? That confounded meadow
in the Alps was surely not the only place where she could work. Was it
not beautiful here as well?

They had settled down in the Black Forest. But it was in vain that
he hoped from day to day that one of the quiet green wooded valleys or
one of the nut-brown maidens of the Black Forest with her cherry-red
hat and enormous red umbrella, as Vautier has painted them, would tempt
her to bring out her painting materials. She felt no inclination--nay,
she had positively a kind of dread of touching her brushes again.

He reproached himself bitterly in secret. Would it not have been
better to have left her that pleasure and not have interfered?
Still--the thing would have had to end some time, and the longer it had
lasted the more difficult the separation would have been. But he had
made up his mind about one thing, they would return to Berlin again
late in the autumn. With the best will in the world he would not be
able to stand it any longer. He was heartily tired of this wandering
from hotel to hotel, this lounging about the world with nothing to show
for it but an occasional short article for the papers, a chatty account
of a journey to some corner of the earth of which people knew but
little. He longed for a home of his own again, and felt a great desire
to return to his business, which he had often looked upon as a fetter
and so prosaic whilst he was in it. But Käte! When he thought of her
again spending many hours alone at home, with no interests beyond
herself and her reading for in her state of hypersensitiveness she
found little pleasure in associating with other women--a feeling of
hopelessness came over him. Then there would be the same sad eyes
again, the same melancholy smile, the old irritable moods from which
the whole house used to suffer, herself the most.

And he subjected himself to an examination as though blaming himself
for it. He passed his whole life in review: had he committed any crime
that no son had been given to him, no daughter? Ah, if only Käte had a
child everything would be right. Then she would have quite enough to
do, would be entirely taken up with the little creature round which the
love of parents, full of hope and entitled to hope, revolves in an
ever-renewed circle.

Both husband and wife were torturing themselves, for the woman's
thoughts especially always ended at that one point. Now that
she had been separated from those dear children, from the, alas, much
too short happiness she had experienced that summer, it seemed to have
become quite clear to her what she missed--for had it not only weighed
on her like a painful suspicion before? But now, now the terrible
unvarnished truth was there: everything people otherwise call
"happiness" in this world is nothing compared to a child's kiss, to its
smile, to its nestling in its mother's lap.

She had always given the children in the meadow a tender kiss when
they came and went, now she longed for those kisses. Her husband's kiss
did not replace them; she would soon have been married fifteen years,
_his_ kiss was no longer a sensation, it had become a habit. But a kiss
from a child's lips, that are so fresh, so untouched, so timid and yet
so confiding, was something quite new to her, something, exceedingly
sweet. A feeling of happiness had flowed through her soul on those
occasions as well as the quite physical pleasure of being able to bury
her mouth in those delicately soft and yet so firm cheeks, which health
and youth had covered with a soft down like that on the cheeks of a
peach. Her thoughts always wandered back to that meadow in the Alps,
full of longing. And this longing of hers that was never stilled
magnified what had happened, and surrounded the figures that had
appeared in her life for so short a time with the whole halo of tender
memories. Her idle thoughts spun long threads. As she longed for those
little ones so they would also be longing for her, they would wander
across the meadow weeping, and the large present of money she had left
behind for each of them with the proprietor of the hotel--she had been
obliged to leave without saying good-bye to them--would not console
them; they would stand outside the door and cast their eyes up
to the windows from which their friend so often had waved to them. No,
she could not forgive Paul for showing so little comprehension of her
feelings.

The stay in the Black Forest, whose velvety slopes reminded them too
much of the Swiss meadows and from whose points of view you could look
over to the Alps on a clear day, became a torture to both the man and
woman. They felt they must get away; the dark firs, the immense green
forest became too monotonous for them. Should they not try some seaside
resort for once? The sea is ever new. And it was also just the season
for the seaside. The wind blew already over the stubble in the fields,
as they drove down to the plain.

They chose a Belgian watering-place, one in which the visitors dress
a great deal, and in which quite a cosmopolitan set of people offer
something new to the eye every day. They both felt it, they had
remained much too long in mountain solitudes.

During the first days the gay doings amused them, but then Paul and
his wife, between whom something like a barrier had tried to push
itself lately, both agreed all at once: this sauntering up and down of
men who looked like fools, of women who if they did not belong to the
demi-monde successfully imitated it, was not for them. Let them only
get away.

The man proposed they should give up travelling entirely and return
to Berlin a little earlier, but Käte would not listen to it. She had a
secret dread of Berlin--oh, would she have to go back to her old
life again? So far she had never asked herself what she had really
expected from these long months of travel; but she had hoped for
something--certainly. What?

Oh dear, now she would be so much alone again, and there was
nothing, nothing that really filled her life entirely.

No, she was not able to return to Berlin yet. She told her husband
that she felt she had not quite recovered yet--she was certainly
anæmic, she was suffering from poorness of blood. She ought to have
gone to Schwalbach, Franzensbad or some other iron springs long
ago--who knows, perhaps many things would be different then.

He was not impatient--at least he did not show it--for he was moved
with a deep compassion for her. Of course she should go to some iron
springs; they ought to have tried them long ago, have made a point of
it.

The Belgian doctor sent them to the well-known baths at Spa.

They arrived there full of hope. In her the hope was quite genuine.
"You will see," she said to her husband in a brighter voice, "this will
do me good. I have a vague feeling--no, I really feel quite sure that
something good will happen to us here."

And he hoped so too. He forced himself to hope in order to please
her. Oh, it would be enough, quite enough if the characteristics of the
landscape won so much interest from her that she took up her painting
again, which she had neglected entirely. How pleased he would be at
even that. If her former zeal for art showed itself again, that was a
thousand times more health-bringing than the strongest iron springs at
Spa.

The heather was in bloom, the whole plateau was red, the purple sun
set in a mass of purple.

It happened as he had hoped, that is to say, she did not begin to
paint, but she made expeditions into the Ardennes and the Eifel with
him on foot and in a carriage, and enjoyed them. The Venn had bewitched
her. In her light-coloured dress she stood like a small speck
of light in the immense seriousness of the landscape, protected her
eyes with her hand from the view of the sun, which is so open there, so
unobstructed either by tree or mountain, and took deep breaths of the
sharp clear air that has not yet been vitiated by any smoke from human
dwellings, hardly by human breath. Around her the Venn blossomed like a
carpet of one colour, dark, calm, refreshing and beneficial to the eye;
it was only here and there that the blue gentian and the white
quivering flock of the cotton-grass were seen to raise their heads
among the heather.

"Oh, how beautiful!" She said it with deep feeling. The melancholy
of the landscape flattered her mood. There was no gaudy tone there that
disturbed her, no medley of colours. Even the sun, which sets there in
greater beauty than anywhere else--blushing so deeply that the whole
sky blushes with it, that the winding Venn rivulet hedged in by
cushions of moss, that every pool, every peat-hole full of water
reflects its beams ruddy-gold, and the sad Venn itself wears a mantle
of glowing splendour--even this sun brought no glaringly bright light
with it. It displayed its mighty disc in a grand dignified manner, a
serious victor after a serious struggle.

Käte looked into this marvellous sun with large eyes bathed in
tears, until the last beam, the last rosy streak in the grey mass of
clouds had vanished. Now it had gone--the heavens were dead--but
in the morning it would be there again, an eternal, imperishable,
never-conquered hope. Then should not, ought not the human heart to
beat again too, revived anew, always full of hope?

Clouds of mist sped across the moor, veiled, indescribable, vague
shapes. There was a whispering before the coming of the wind, a
lisping through the heather and the cotton-grass--it seemed to Käte as
though the Venn had something to tell her. What was it saying? Ah, it
must be for some reason that she had come there, that she felt she was
being held fast as though by a strong and still kind hand.

She walked on with quicker, more elastic steps, as though she were
searching for something.

Her husband was delighted that his wife was so pleased with the
neighbourhood. True, the landscape had no special attraction for
him--was it not very desolate, monotonous and unfertile there? But the
characteristic scenery was certainly harmonious, very harmonious--well,
if she found pleasure in it, it was better than a paradise to him.

They often drove up to Baraque Michel, that lonely inn on the
borders between Belgium and Prussia, in which the douaniers drank their
drams of gin when on the look-out for smugglers, and where the
peat-cutters dry their smocks that the mist has wetted and their
saturated boots at the fire that is always burning on the hearth.

So many crosses in the Venn, so many human beings who have met with
a fatal accident. Käte listened to the men's stories with a secret
shudder--could the Venn be so terrible? and she questioned them again
and again. Was it possible that the man from Xhoffraix, who had driven
off to get peat litter, had been swallowed up there so close to the
road with cart and horse, and that they had never, never seen anything
of him again? And that cross there, so weather-beaten and black, how
had that come into the middle of the marsh? Why had that travelling
journeyman, whose intention it was to go along the high road from
Malmedy to Eupen, gone so far astray? Had it been dark or had there
been a heavy fall of snow so that he could not see, or was it
the cold, that terrible cold, in which a weary man can freeze to death?
Nothing of the kind; only a mist, a sudden mist, which confuses a man
so, that he no longer knows which is forward or which is backward,
which is left or which is right, that he loses all idea of where he is
going, gets away from the road and runs round in a circle like a poor,
mad, terrified animal. And all the mists that rise in the Venn when
daylight disappears, are they the souls of those who have never been
buried, and who in garments that are falling to pieces rise every night
from their graves, which have neither been consecrated by a benediction
nor by holy water and in which they cannot find rest?

That was a fairy tale. But was not everything there as in the fairy
tale? So quite different to everywhere else in the world, in reality
ugly and yet not ugly, in reality not beautiful and yet so exceedingly
beautiful? And she herself, was she not quite a different being there?
Did she not wander about full of hope, in blissful dreams, like one to
whom something wonderful is to happen?

It was in the sixth week of their stay at Spa. The nights were
already as cold as in winter, but the days were still sunny. It was
always a long journey up to the inn even for the strong Ardennes
horses, but Paul and his wife were there again to-day. Would they have
to leave soon? Alas, yes. Käte had to confess it to herself with
sorrow. Everything was very autumnal, the heather had finished
flowering, the air was raw; the grass that had already been frozen
during the night rustled under her feet. They could have found use for
their winter clothes.

"Ugh, how cold," said the man shivering, and he turned up the collar
of his overcoat. He wanted to twist a shawl round his wife's neck, but
she resisted: "No, no!" She ran on in front of him through the
rustling heather with quick steps. "Just look."

It was a wide view that presented itself to their eyes there on the
highest point in the Venn, that is adorned with a rickety wooden tower.
The whole large plateau covered with heather lay before them, with here
and there a group of dark firs that only showed spreading branches on
the side away from the storm. These firs that cowered so timidly were
trees that had been planted there; they were hardly higher than the
heather, and only recognisable on account of their different colour.
And, here and there, there was a stray grey boulder and a cross that
the wind had carried to the side of it. And a calm lay over the whole
in the pale midday autumn light as though it were God's acre.

When they had climbed up the tower they saw still more. From the
plateau they looked down into the valley: a blue expanse around them,
blue from the darkness of the forests and from autumn vapours, and in
the beautiful blue outstretched villages the white houses half hidden
behind tall hedges. And here, looking down on Belgium, with its grey
fumes hanging like a cloud in the clear transparent autumn air, lay the
large town of Verviers with its church-towers and factory chimneys
towering above it.

Käte heaved a sigh and shuddered involuntarily: oh, was the workaday
world so near? Was grey life already approaching nearer and nearer to
her wonderful fairy world?

Her husband gave a slight cough; he found it very cold up there.
They went down from the tower, but when he wanted to take her back to
the inn she resisted: "No, not yet, not yet. That's only the midday
bell."

The bell was ringing in Fischbach Chapel, that ancient little church
with its slated roof, in whose tower the great red lantern was
formerly hoisted to point out the safe harbour to the wanderer swimming
in the wild sea of mists, and the bell rung unceasingly to save the man
who had lost his way through his ear should his eye fail him. The bell
rang out clear and penetrating in the solitude, the only sound in the
vast stillness.

"How touching that sound is." Käte stood with folded hands and
looked into the wide expanse, her eyes swimming in tears. What a charm
there was in this Venn. It encircled the soul as the tough underwood of
the heather and the creeping tendrils of the club moss entangled the
foot. When she thought of how soon she would have to leave it, to go
away from that immense stillness that seemed to be concealing a secret,
to be cherishing something marvellous in its deep lap, her heart
contracted in sudden fear. What would happen to her, what would become
of her? Her seeking soul stood like a child on the threshold of
fairyland asking for something--was there to be no gift for her?

"What was that?" All at once she seized hold of her husband's arm
with a low cry of terror. "Didn't you hear it as well?"

She had grown quite pale; she stood there with dilated eyes, raising
herself on her toes with an involuntary movement and craning her neck
forward.

"There it is again. Do you hear it?" Something like a child's soft
whimpering had penetrated to her ear.

No, he had not heard anything. "I suppose there are some people in
the neighbourhood. How you do frighten a body, Käte." He shook his head
a little angrily. "You know very well that all the women and children
have left their villages in the Venn to gather cranberries. That's all
the harvest they have, you see. Look, the berries are quite ripe."
Stooping down he took up a plant.

The small cluster of berries of a deep coral in colour formed a
beautiful contrast to the glossy dark green of the small oval leaf. But
there were also some flowers on the plant, small pure white
flowers.

"Like myrtle, just like the flower on a myrtle," she said, taking
the plant out of his hand. "And the leaves are also exactly like myrtle
leaves." Twisting the stalk round between her finger and thumb she
gazed at it thoughtfully. "The Venn myrtle." And, raising the little
flower to her mouth, she kissed it, full of delight.

"Do you still remember--that time--on the evening of our
wedding-day, do you still remember? You kissed the myrtle that had been
in my wreath and I kissed it too, and then we kissed each other.
Then--then--oh, how happy we were then." She said it very softly, as
though lost in sweet memories.

He smiled, and as she swayed towards him, with a dreamy look in her
eyes that were fixed the whole time on the little green plant, he drew
her closer and laid his arm round her. "And are we not--not"--he wanted
to say "not just as happy," but all he said was: "not happy to-day,
too?"

She did not answer, she remained silent. But then, hurling the plant
with its glossy leaves away with a sudden movement, she turned and ran
away from him blindly into the Venn, without noticing where she was
going.

"What's the matter, Käte?" He hurried after her, terrified. She ran
so quickly that he could not overtake her at once. "Käte, you'll fall.
Wait, I say. Käte, what is the matter with you?"

No answer. But he saw from the convulsive movements of her shoulders
that she was weeping violently. Oh dear, what was the matter now? He
looked troubled as he ran after her across the desolate Venn. Was she
never to get any better? It was really enough to make a fellow
lose all pleasure in life. How stupid it had been to bring her to the
Venn--real madness. There was no brightness to be found there. A
hopelessness lurked in that unlimited expanse, a terrible hardness in
that sharp aromatic air, an unbearable melancholy in that vast
stillness.

The man only heard his own quickened breathing. He ran more and more
quickly, all at once he became very anxious about his wife. Now he had
almost reached her--he had already stretched out his hand to seize hold
of her fluttering dress--then she turned round, threw herself into his
arms and sobbed: "Oh, here's both, blossom and fruit. But our myrtle
has faded and not borne fruit--not fruit--we poor people."

So that was it--the same thing again? Confound it. He who as a rule
was so temperate stamped his foot violently. Anger, shame, and a
certain feeling of pain drove the blood to his head. There he stood now
in that lonely place with his wife in his arms weeping most pitifully,
whilst he himself was deserving of much pity in his own opinion.

"Don't be angry, don't be angry," she implored, clinging
more closely to him. "You see, I had hoped--oh, hoped for
certain--expected--I don't know myself what, but still I had expected
something here--and today--just now everything has become clear. All,
all was in vain. Let me cry."

And she wept as one in whom all hope is dead.

What was he to say to her? How console her? He did not venture to
say a word, only stroked her hot face softly whilst he, too, became
conscious of a certain feeling, that feeling that he had not always the
strength to push aside.

They stood like that for a long time without saying a word,
until he, pulling himself together, said in a voice that he tried to
make calm and indifferent: "We shall have to return, we have got quite
into the wilds. Come, take my arm. You are overtired, and when we--"

"Hush," she said, interrupting him, letting go of his arm quickly.
"The same as before. Somebody is in trouble."

Now he heard it as well. They both listened. Was it an animal? Or a
child's voice, the voice of quite a small child?

"My God!" Käte said nothing more, but making up her mind quickly,
she turned to the right and ran down into a small hollow, without
heeding that she stumbled several times among the bushes, through which
it was impossible for her to force a passage.

Her quick ear had led her right. There was the child lying on the
ground. It had no pillow, no covering, and was miserably wrapt up in a
woman's old torn skirt. The little head with its dark hair lay in the
heather that was covered with hoar-frost; the child was gazing fixedly
into the luminous space between the heavens and the Venn with its large
clear eyes.

There was no veil, nothing to protect it; no mother either--only the
Venn.

Nevertheless they had deceived themselves. It was not crying, it was
only talking to itself as quiet contented children generally do. It had
stretched out its little hands, which were not wrapped up like the rest
of its body, and had seized hold of some of the red berries and
squashed them. Then its little fists had wandered up to the hungry
mouth; there were drops of the juice from the berries on its baby
lips.

"Quite alone?" Käte had sunk down on her knees, her hands trembled
as they embraced the bundle. "Oh, the poor child. How sweet it is.
Look, Paul. How has it come here? It will die of cold, of
hunger. Do call out, Paul. The poor little mite. If its mother came now
I would give her a piece of my mind it's disgraceful to let the
helpless little mite lie like this. Call--loud--louder."

He called, he shouted: "Heigh! Hallo! Is nobody there?"

No voice answered, nobody came. The whole Venn was as quiet as
though it were an extinct, long-forgotten world.

"Nobody is coming," whispered Käte quite softly, and there was an
expression of fear and at the same time trembling exultation in her
voice. "Its mother does not trouble--who knows where the woman is? I
wonder if she's coming?" She looked round searchingly, turned her head
in all directions, and then stooped over the child again with a sigh of
contentment.

What unpardonable thoughtlessness--no, what unspeakable barbarity
to abandon such a mite in that place. If they had come only a few
hours--only an hour later. It might already have been bitten by a snake
then, might even have been torn to pieces by a wolf.

Then her husband had to laugh, although the sight of her
over-excitement had slightly annoyed him. "No, my child, there are no
poisonous snakes here and no more wolves either, so you can be at rest
about that. But when the mists begin to rise, they would have done for
him."

"Oh!" Käte pressed the foundling to her bosom. She was sitting on
her heels holding the child in her lap; she stroked its rosy cheeks,
its little downy head, and showered caresses and flattering words on
it, but the child continued to gaze into the luminous space with its
large, dark, and yet so clear eyes. It did not smile, but it did not
cry either; it took no notice whatever of the strangers.

"Do you think it has been left here intentionally?" asked Käte
suddenly, opening her eyes wide. The blood flew to her head in a hot
wave. "Oh then--then"--she drew a trembling breath and pressed the
child to her bosom, as though she did not want to let it go again.

"It will all be cleared up somehow," said the man evasively. "The
mother will be sure to come."

"Do you see her--do you see her?" she inquired almost anxiously.

"No."

"No." She repeated it in a relieved tone of voice, and then she
laughed. After that her eyes and ears belonged entirely to the helpless
little creature. "Where's baby--where is he then? Laugh a little, do.
Look at me once with those big, staring eyes. Oh, you little darling,
oh, you sweet child." She played with it and pressed kisses on its
hands without noticing that they were dirty.

"What are we to do now?" said the man, perplexed.

"We can't leave it here. We shall have to take it with us, of
course." There was something very energetic about the delicate-looking
woman all at once. "Do you think I would forsake the child?" Her cheeks
glowed, her eyes gleamed.

Paul Schlieben looked at his wife with a certain awe. How beautiful
she was at that moment. Beautiful, healthy, happy. He had not seen her
like that for a long time. Not since he had folded her in his arms as a
happy bride. Her bosom rose and fell quickly with every trembling
breath she took, and the child lay on her breast and the Venn myrtle
bloomed at her feet.

A strange emotion came over him; but he turned away: what had that
strange child to do with them? Still he admitted in a hesitating voice:
"We certainly can't leave it here. But do you know what we can do?
We'll take it with us to the inn. Give it to me, I'll carry it."

But she wanted to carry it herself, she only let him help her up.
"There--there--come, my sweet little babe." She raised her foot
cautiously to take the first step--then a shout tied her to the
spot.

"Hallo!"

A rough voice had shouted it. And now a woman came up to them; the
figure in the fluttering skirt was outlined big and clear against the
rarefied ether that flowed around it.

Where had she come from so suddenly? From there, from behind the
mound of earth that had been thrown up near the peat pit. She had been
creeping on all fours plucking berries; a pail that was almost ft 11
hung on her arm, and in her right hand she carried the wooden measure
and the large bone curry-comb with which she stripped off the
berries.

That was the mother! Käte got a terrible fright; she turned
pale.

Her husband was taken by surprise too. But then he gave a sigh of
relief: that was decidedly the best way out of it. Of course, they
might have known it at once, how should the child have come into the
desolate Venn all alone? The mother had been looking for berries, and
had put it down there meanwhile.

But the woman did not seem to take it kindly that they had looked so
carefully after the child during her absence. The strong bony arms took
it away from the lady somewhat roughly. The woman's eyes examined the
strangers suspiciously.

"Is it your child?" asked Paul. He need not have asked the question;
it had exactly the same dark eyes as the woman, only the
child's were brighter, not dulled as yet by life's dust as the mother's
were.

The woman made no answer. It was only when the man asked once more,
"Are you the mother?" and put his hand into his pocket at the same
time, that she found it worth while to give a curt nod:

"C'est l' mi'n."[A] Her face retained its gloomy expression; there
was no movement of pride or joy.



[Footnote A: C'est le mien.]



Käte noticed it with a certain angry surprise. How indifferent the
woman was. Was she not holding the child as though it were a useless
burden? She was filled with envy, torturing envy, and at the same time
with hot anger. That woman certainly did not deserve the child. She
would have liked to have torn it out of her arms. How rough she looked,
what coarse features she had, what a hard expression. She might really
frighten anybody terribly with her black looks. But now--now her
expression brightened; ah, she had seen the piece of money Paul had
taken out of his purse.

Ugh, what a greedy expression she had now.

The fruit-picker stretched out her hand--there was a large shining
silver coin--and when it was given to her, when she held it in her hand
she drew a deep breath; her brown fingers closed round it tightly.

"Merci." A smile passed quickly across the sullen face in which the
corners of the mouth drooped morosely, her blunted expression grew
animated for a moment or two. And then she prepared to trudge away, the
shapeless bundle containing the child on one arm, the heavy pail on the
other.

They now saw for the first time how poor her skirt was; it had
patches of all colours and sizes. Dried heather and fir-needles stuck
to her matted and untidy plaits, as they hung out from the gaudily
spotted cotton handkerchief; she had an old pair of men's
hobnailed shoes on her feet. They did not know whether she was old or
young; her stout body and hanging breasts disfigured her, but that her
face had not been ugly once upon a time could still be seen. The little
one resembled her.

"You've got a pretty child," said Paul. To please his wife he
started a conversation again with this woman who was so inaccessible.
"How old is the boy?"

The fruit-picker shook her head and looked past the questioner
apathetically. There was no getting anything out of the woman, how
terribly stupid she was. The man wanted to let her go, but Käte pressed
up against him and whispered: "Ask her where she lives. Where she
lives--do you hear?"

"Heigh, where do you live, my good woman?"

She shook her head once more without saying a word.

"Where do you come from, I mean? From what village?"

"Je ne co'pr nay,"[A] she said curtly. But then, becoming more
approachable--perhaps she hoped for a second gift of money--she began
in a whining, plaintive voice: "Ne n'ava nay de pan et tat d's
e'fa'ts."[B]

"You're a Walloon, aren't you?"

"Ay[C]--Longfaye." And she raised her arm and pointed in a direction
in which nothing was to be seen but the heavens and the Venn.

Longfaye was a very poor village in the Venn. Paul Schlieben knew
that, and was about to put his hand into his pocket again, but Käte
held him back, "No, not her--not the woman--you must hand it over to
the vestryman for the child, the poor child."



[Footnote A: Je ne comprends pas.]

[Footnote B: Nous n'avons pas de pain et tant d'enfants.]

[Footnote C: Yes.]



She whispered softly and very quickly in her excitement.

It was impossible for the woman to have understood anything, but her
black eyes flew as quick as lightning from the gentleman to the lady,
and remained fixed on the fine lady from the town full of suspicion: if
she would not give her anything, why should she let them ask her any
more questions? What did they want with her? With the curtest of nods
and a brusque "adieu" the Walloon turned away. She walked away across
the marsh calmly but with long strides; she got on quickly, her figure
became smaller and smaller, and soon the faded colour of her miserable
skirt was no longer recognisable in the colourless Venn.

The sun had disappeared with the child; suddenly everything became
grey.

Käte stood motionless looking in the direction of Longfaye. She
stood until she shivered with cold, and then hung heavily on her
husband's arm; she went along to the inn with dragging feet, as though
she had grown tired all at once.

The mist began to conceal the bright midday. Cold damp air, which
wets more than rain, made their clothes clammy. The stinging flies from
the swamps flew in big swarms through the door and windows of the inn;
a smouldering peat-fire was burning within, fanned to a bright flame
by means of dry fir twigs, and the flies clung to the wall near the
fire-place and to the ceiling--no, they would not die yet.

Autumn had come, sun and warmth had disappeared from the Venn, it
was wise to flee now.

But outside, in the depths of the wilds above the highest point in
the Venn, a lonely buzzard was moving round and round in a circle,
uttering the piercing triumphant cry of a wild bird. He was happy there
in summer as in winter. He did not want to leave.



CHAPTER III


The vestryman of the small village in the Venn felt somewhat surprised
and embarrassed when such a fine lady and gentleman drove up to his
house and wished to speak to him. He went out to them, walking through
the filthy water in his yard that splashed up to his knees. He did not
know where he should take them to, as the little pigs and the calf were
in the house and the old sow was wallowing in front of the door.

So they walked up and down the quiet village street from which the
few farms lay somewhat back, whilst the carriage jolted slowly along in
the deep ruts behind them.

Käte was pale, you could see from her eyes that she had only had
very little sleep. But she was smiling, and a happy excitement full of
expectation was written on her features, spoke in her gait; she was
always a little ahead of the others.

Her husband's face was very grave. Was he not committing a great
imprudence, acting in an extremely hasty manner for the sake of his
wife? If it did not turn out all right?

They had had a bad night. He had brought Käte home from the inn the
day before in a strangely silent and absent-minded mood. She had eaten
nothing, and, feigning extreme fatigue, had gone early to bed.
But when he retired to rest a few hours later he found her still awake.
She was sitting up in bed with her beautiful hair hanging down her back
in two long plaits, which gave her quite a youthful appearance. Her
bewildered eyes gazed at him full of a strange longing, and then she
threw both arms round his neck and drew his head down to her.

Her manner had been so strange, so gentle and yet so impetuous, that
he asked her anxiously whether there was anything the matter with her.
But she had only shaken her head and held him close in a silent
embrace.

At last he thought she had fallen asleep--and she was asleep, but
only for quite a short time. Then she woke again with a loud cry. She
had dreamt, dreamt so vividly--oh, if he knew what she had been
dreaming. Dreaming--dreaming--she sighed and tossed about, and then
laughed softly to herself.

He noticed that she had something on her mind, which she would like
to tell him but which she had hardly the courage to say. So he asked
her.

Then she had confessed it to him, hesitatingly, shyly, and yet with
so much passion that it terrified him. It was the child of which she
had been thinking the whole time, of which she always must think--oh,
if only she had it. She would have it, must have it. The woman had so
many other children, and she--she had none. And she would be so happy
with it, so unspeakably happy.

She had become more and more agitated in the darkness of the night,
uninterrupted by a single word from him, by any movement--he had lain
quite quietly, almost as though the surprise had paralysed him,
although it could not really be called a surprise any more. What was
her whole life? she had said. A constant longing. All the love
he showered on her could not replace the one thing: a child, a
child.

"My dear, good husband, don't refuse it. Make me happy. No other
mother on earth will be so happy--my darling husband, give me the
child." Her tears were falling, her arms clasped him, her kisses rained
down on his face.

"But why just _that_ child? And why decide so quickly? It's no
trifle--we must think it over very carefully first."

He had made objections, excuses, but she had pertinent answers ready
for all. What was to be thought over very carefully? They would not
come to any other result. And how could he think for a moment that the
woman would perhaps not give them the child? If she did not love it,
she would be glad to give it, and if she did love it, then all the more
reason for her to be glad to give it, and to thank God that she knew it
was so well taken care of.

"But the father, the father. Who knows whether he will agree to
it?"

"Oh, the father. If the mother gives it, the father is sure to
agree. One bread-eater less is always a good thing for such poor
people. The poor child, perhaps it will die for want of food, and it
would be so well"--she broke off--"isn't it like a dispensation of
Providence that just we should come to the Venn, that just we should
find it?"

He felt that she was persuading him, and he strove against it in his
heart. No, if she allowed herself to be carried away by her feelings in
such a manner--she was only a woman--then he, as a man, must
subordinate his feelings to common sense.

And he enumerated all the difficulties to her again and again, and
finally said to her: "You can't guess what troubles you may be
preparing for yourself. If the affection you now think you feel for the
child should not last? If he is not congenial to you when he grows
older? Bear in mind, he is and will always be the child you have
adopted."

But then she had almost flown into a passion. "How can you say such
things? Do you think I am narrow-minded? Whether it is my own child or
a child I have adopted is quite immaterial, as it becomes mine through
its training. I will train it in my own way. That it is of your own
flesh and blood has nothing to do with it. Am I only to love a child
because I have borne it? Oh no. I love the child because--because it is
so small, so innocent, because it must be so extremely sweet when such
a helpless little creature stretches out its arms to you." And she
spread out her arms and then folded them across her breast, as though
she was already holding a child to her heart. "You're a man, you do not
understand it. But you are so anxious to make me happy make me happy
now. Dear, darling husband, you will very soon forget that it is not
our own child, you will soon not remember it any more. It will say
'Father,' 'Mother' to us--and we will be its father and mother."

If she were right! He was silent, thrilled by a strange emotion. And
why should she not be right? A child that one trains according to one's
own method from its first year, that is removed entirely from the
surroundings in which it was born, that does not know but what it is
the child of its present parents, that learns to think with their
thoughts and feel with their feelings, cannot have anything strange
about it any more. It will become part of oneself, will be as dear, as
beloved as though one had begotten it oneself.

Pictures arose before his mind's eye which he no longer
expected to see, no longer ventured to hope for. He saw his smiling
wife with a smiling child on her lap; he saw himself smile, and felt a
pride he had never known when he heard its soft childish voice lisp:
"Fa-ther." Yes, Käte was right, all the other things that go by the
name of happiness are nothing compared to this happiness. Only a
father, a mother, knows what joy is.

He kissed his wife, and this kiss already meant half consent; she
felt that.

"Let us drive there to-morrow, the first thing to-morrow morning,"
she implored, in a tone of suppressed rapture.

He endeavoured to remain calm: after they had maturely considered
the matter, they would first have to talk it over with their lawyer in
Berlin, and other intimate friends.

Then she lost her temper. She pouted, and then she laughed at him:
was this a business matter? What had the lawyer and other people to do
with such a very important, quite personal and private matter? Nobody
was to be asked about it, nobody was to interfere with it. Not a single
person must suspect where the child came from or who were its parents.
They, he and she, were its parents, they were responsible for it, its
life had begun when they took it, and they vouched for its future. This
child was their work, their work entirely.

"We'll fetch it the first thing to-morrow. The sooner it gets out of
that dirt and misery the better--don't you agree with me, Paul?" She
did not give him a chance of saying anything more, she overwhelmed him
with plans and proposals, in her sparkling vivacity; and her exuberant
spirits overcame his scruples.

One can have too many scruples, be too cautious, and thus embitter
every pleasure in life, he said to himself. There was surely
nothing extraordinary in what they were doing? They only picked up
something that had been laid at their feet; in that way they were
obeying a hint given them by Fate. And there were really no
difficulties in connection with it. If they did not betray it
themselves nobody would find out about the child's antecedents, and
there would not be any questions asked in the village either as to what
had become of it. It was a nameless, homeless little creature they were
going to take away with them, of which they would make what they liked.
Later on when the little one was old enough they would formally adopt
it, and thus confirm also in writing what their hearts had already
approved of long ago. Now the only thing left to do was to get hold of
the vestryman at Longfaye, and make arrangements with the parents for
the surrender of the child with his assistance.

When Paul Schlieben had come to this decision, he was troubled with
the same restlessness as his wife. Oh, if only it were morning, she
groaned. If anybody should steal a march on them now, if the child
should no longer be there next morning? She tossed about in her
impatience and fear. But her husband also turned from side to side
without sleeping. How could they know whether the child was healthy?
For a moment he weighed anxiously in his mind whether it would not be
advisable to confide in the doctor at the baths at Spa--he might drive
with them and examine the child first of all--but then he rejected the
thought again. The child looked so strong. He recalled its sturdy
fists, the clear look in its bright eyes--it had lain on the bare
ground in the cold and wind without any protection--it must have a
strong constitution. They need not trouble about that.

It was very early in the morning when husband and wife
rose--weary as though all their limbs were bruised, but driven on by a
kind of joyful determination.

Käte ran about the room at the hotel, so busy, so happy and excited,
as though she were expecting a dear guest. She felt so sure they would
bring the child back with them straightway. At all events she would
commence packing the trunks, for when they had got it they would want
to get home, home as quickly as possible. "The hotel is no place for
such a little darling. It must have its nursery, a bright room with
flowered curtains--but dark ones besides to draw in front of the
windows so as to subdue the light when it goes to sleep--otherwise
everything must be bright, light, airy. And there must be a baby's
chest-of-drawers there with all the many bottles and basins, and its
little bath, its bed with the white muslin curtains behind which you
can see it lying with red cheeks, its little fist near its head,
slumbering soundly."

She was so young-looking, so lovely in her joyful expectation, that
her husband was charmed with her. Did not the sunshine seem to be
coming now for which he had been waiting so long in vain? It preceded
the child, fell on its path, making it clear and bright.

Both husband and wife were full of excitement as they drove to
Longfaye. They had taken a comfortable landau that could be closed that
day, instead of the light carriage for two in which they generally made
their excursions. It might be too cold for the child on the way back.
Rugs and cloaks and shawls were packed in it, quite a large choice.

Paul Schlieben had taken his papers with him. They would hardly be
likely to want any proof of his identity, but he stuck them into his
pocket as a precaution, so as to provide against any delay that might
be caused by their absence. He had been told that the vestryman
was quite a sensible man, so everything would be settled smoothly.

As the rowan trees on both sides of the road bowed their tops under
their autumn load of red berries, so the heads of both husband and wife
were bowed under a flood of thoughts full of promise. The trees flew
quickly past the carriage as it rolled along, and so did their lives'
different stages past their agitated minds. Fifteen years of married
life--long years when one is expecting something first with confidence,
then with patience, then with faint-heartedness, then with longing,
with a longing that is kept more and more secret as the years go by,
and that becomes more and more burning on account of the secrecy. Now
the fulfilment was at hand--a fulfilment certainly different from what
husbands and wives who love each other picture to themselves, but still
a fulfilment.

That old sentence in the Bible came into the woman's mind and would
not be banished: _But when the fulness of the time was come, God sent
forth His Son._ Oh, this child from a strange, from an unknown land,
from a land that had neither fields nor fruits, and was not blessed
with rich harvests, this child was a gift from God, given by His
goodness. She bowed her head full of gratitude, as though she had
received a blessing.

And the man pressed his wife's hand gently, and she returned the
pressure. They remained sitting hand in hand. His glance sought hers
and she blushed. She loved him again as in the first year of her
marriage--no, she loved him much more now, for now, now he gave her the
happiness of her life, the child.

Her eyes that were full of bliss swept over the poor Venn district,
which looked brown and desolate, and which was still a fairyland full
of the most glorious wonders.

"Didn't I know it?" she murmured triumphantly, although trembling
with an agitation that was almost superstitious. "I felt
it--here--here."

She could hardly wait until they reached the village hi the Venn,
oh, how far away from the world it lay, so quite forgotten. And so
poor. But the poverty did not terrify her, nor the dirt--the result of
the poverty; she was going to take the child away with her now, to take
him where there was culture and prosperity, and he would never know
that he had lain on the bare ground instead of in a soft bed. She
thought of Moses. As he had been found in the bulrushes on the banks of
the Nile, so she had found him on the grass in the Venn--would he
become a great man like him? Desires, prayers, hopes, and a hundred
feelings she had not known before agitated her mind.

Paul Schlieben had some difficulty in making the vestryman
understand him. It was not because the man was a Walloon who hardly
understood German, for Nikolas Rocherath of "Good Hope"--his house
having received that name because it could be seen a good distance off
in the Venn, it being the largest in the village--was a German, but
because he could not understand what the gentleman meant.

What did he want with Lisa Solheid's Jean-Pierre? Adopt him? He
looked quite puzzled at first, and then he got offended. No, even if he
was nothing but a simple peasant, he would not let the gentleman make a
fool of him.

It was only by degrees that Schlieben could convince him that his
intentions were serious. But the old man still continued to rub his
stubbly chin doubtfully and cast suspicious glances at the lady and
gentleman, who had broken in on his solitude so unexpectedly. It was
only when Käte, wearied and tortured by the long explanation,
seized hold of his arm impatiently, and looking into his face cried
impetuously, almost angrily, "For goodness' sake do understand. We have
no child, but we want a child--now do you understand it?"--that he
understood.

No child--oh dear! No child! Then people do not know what they are
living for. Now he nodded comprehendingly, and, casting a compassionate
look at the lady who was so rich, so finely dressed and still had no
children, he became much more approachable. So they were so pleased
with Lisa Solheid's Jean-Pierre that they wanted to take him to Berlin
with them? How lucky the boy was. Lisa would not be able to believe it.
But nobody would begrudge her it. Nobody in Longfaye was as poor as
she; many a day she did not know how to get sufficient food for herself
and her five. Formerly, whilst her husband was alive----

What, her husband was not alive? She was a widow? Paul Schlieben
interrupted the vestryman, and drew a long breath as though of relief.
Although he had never spoken of it, he had always had a secret fear of
the father: if he turned out to be a drunkard or a ne'er-do-well? A
load fell from his mind now--he was dead, he could not do any more
harm. Or had he died of an illness after all, of a wasting disease that
is handed down to children and children's children? He had been told
that the mists on the Venn and the sudden changes in the temperature
may easily be injurious to the lungs and throat--added to that hard
work and bad food--surely the young man had not died of consumption? He
asked the question anxiously.

But Nikolas Rocherath laughed. No, Michel Solheid had never known a
day's illness all his life, and had not died of any illness. He had
worked at the machine factory at Verviers, covered with black soot and
naked to the waist. Cold and heat had had no effect on him. And
he used to come over from Verviers every Saturday and spend Sunday with
his family. And it had been the Saturday before the festival of St.
Peter and St. Paul somewhat over a year ago now, and Michel had bought
his wife a side of bacon and one or two pounds of coffee for the money
he had earned for overtime.

"You must know, sir, everything is much too dear for us here, and it
is much cheaper on the other side of the frontier," said the old man in
a troubled voice; then, raising his fist slowly, he shook it at the
Venn that lay there so peaceful and remote from the world. "But they
were soon on his tracks. They came after him from the Baraque--the
accursed douaniers. Three, four of them. Now you must know that Michel
could run as well as any of them. If he had thrown his parcel behind a
bush and run, they would never have caught him. But no, he would not,
he would have felt ashamed of himself if he had done so. So in order
not to let them know where he was going, he ran to the left through the
Walloon Venn in the direction of Hill instead of to the right. Then on
through Clefay and Neckel,[A] and so on in all directions, and in this
manner he got away from the neighbourhood he knew as well as he knew
his own pocket. They were close at his heels above the Pannensterz. And
they ran after him calling out 'Stop!'



[Footnote A: Wooded districts in the High Venn.]



"Look you, sir, if he had run into the Great Haard then and hidden
in the thicket there, they would never have found him without a dog.
But he lost his head, and ran out of the bushes straight across the
Venn.

"'Halt!--Stop!'--and a third time 'Halt!' But he bounded along like
a stag. Then one of them pulled his trigger and--Jesus Christ have
mercy upon us, now and at the hour of our death!"--the vestryman
devoutly made the sign of the cross and then wiped his nose with the
back of his hand--"the shot pierced the side of bacon and went into his
back, in from behind, out at the front. Then Solheid turned a
somersault. It was a shame. Such a fine fellow, for a side of bacon.

"He still lived for over an hour. He told them that he was Solheid
from Longfaye, and that they should fetch his wife.

"I was just cutting my hedge that day, when somebody came running
up. And I started off with Lisa, who was six months gone with
Jean-Pierre at the time. But when we came there it was already too
late.

"They had left him lying not far from the large cross. They had
wanted to carry him to a house at Ruitzhof, but he had said 'Leave me.
I'll die here.' And he gazed at the sun.

"Sir, it was as large and red in the sky that day--as large--as it
will be on the Day of Judgment. Sir, he was bathed in sweat and
blood--they had chased him for hours--but he still enjoyed gazing at
the sun.

"Sir, the fellow who had shot him was almost out of his mind; he
held him on his knees and wept. Sir, no,"--the vestryman gave himself a
shake and his gestures expressed the aversion he felt--"I would not
like to be a douanier!"

The old man's voice had grown deeper and hoarser--it was a sign of
the sympathy he felt--now it got its former even-tempered ring again.
"If it's agreeable to you, ma'am, we'll go now."

"Oh, the child, the poor child," whispered Käte, quite shaken.

"Do you think the widow will part with her youngest child?" asked
Paul Schlieben, seized with a sudden fear. This child that had
been born after its father's death--was it possible?

"Oh!" the old man rocked his head to and fro and chuckled. "If you
give a good sum for it. She has enough of them."

Nikolas Rocherath was quite the peasant again now; it was no longer
the same man who had spoken of the sun in the Venn and Solheid's death.
The point now was to get as much out of these people as possible, to
fleece a stranger and a townsman into the bargain to the best of his
ability.

"Hundred thalers would not be too much to ask," he said, blinking
sideways at the gentleman's grave face. What a lot of money he must
have, why, not a muscle of his face had moved.

The old peasant had been used to haggling all his life when trading
in cattle, now he gazed at the strange gentleman full of admiration for
such wealth. He led the way to Solheid's cottage with alacrity.



CHAPTER IV


Like all the houses in the village, the Solheids' cottage stood quite
alone behind a hedge that reached as high as the gable. But the hedge,
which was to protect it against the storms that raged in the Venn and
the heavy snowdrifts, was not thick any longer; you could see that
there was no man's hand there to take care of it. The hornbeams had
shot up irregularly; dead branches lashed by the wind from the Venn
stretched themselves in the air like accusing fingers.

Ugh, it must be icy cold there in the winter. Käte involuntarily
drew her cloak of soft cloth lined with silk more tightly round her.
And it must be doubly dark there on dark days. Hardly any light found
its way through the tiny windows owing to the protecting hedge, and the
roof hung low over the entrance. There were no steps, you walked
straight into the room.

The vestryman rattled the iron knocker on the door, which had once
been painted green but had no colour left now. The sound reverberated
through the building, but the door did not open when they tried it. The
woman was probably among the berries, and the children with her. The
hungry screams of the youngest one was all that was heard inside the
locked cottage.

The poor child--oh, she had left it alone again. Käte trembled with
excitement, its screams sounded to her like a call for help.

The vestryman sat down calmly on the chopping-block in front of the
door and drew his pipe out of the pocket of his blue linen smock, which
he had hastily drawn over his working coat in honour of the lady and
the gentleman. Now they would have to wait.

The husband and wife looked at each other much disappointed. Wait?
Käte had refused the seat on the chopping-block, which the old man had
offered her with a certain gallantry. She could not rest, she walked
restlessly up and down in front of the little window, trying in vain to
look through the dark pane.

The child inside screamed more and more loudly. Old Rocherath
laughed: what a roar that was to be sure, Jean-Pierre had powerful
lungs.

Käte could not listen to the screams any longer, they tortured her
both bodily and mentally. Oh, how they made her ears tingle. She
covered them with her hands. And her heart trembled with compassion and
anger: how could its mother remain away so long?

Her brow was wet with perspiration. She stared at the Venn, at the
bare, treeless, tortuous path with burning impatient eyes. At last she
saw some figures--at last!--and yet her breath stopped all at once, her
heart ceased to beat and then suddenly went hammering on at a furious
pace as if mad. There came the child's mother!

Lisa Solheid was carrying a bundle of fagots on her back, which was
fastened round her shoulders with a rope The load was so heavy that it
quite weighed her down, bending her head forward. Three children--their
small feet in clumsy shoes with big nails in them--stamped along in
front of their mother, whilst a fourth was clinging to her skirt. It
had also been looking for cranberries, and its little hands were
coloured red like those of its older sister and brothers, who were
carrying pails, measure and comb.

Pretty children, all four of them. They had the same dark eyes as
little Jean-Pierre, and they stared with them half boldly, half timidly
at the strange lady who was smiling at them.

The woman did not recognise the lady and gentleman again who had
given her a present in the Venn the day before--or did she only pretend
not to?

The rope which had kept the bundle together had cut deep into her
shoulders and bosom, now she undid it and threw off the burden with a
powerful jerk; and then, seizing hold of the axe lying near the
chopping-block, she began to chop up a couple of big branches with
powerful strokes.

"Hallo, Lisa," said the vestryman, "when you have chopped sufficient
wood to cook the cranberries, just wait a bit."

She looked up at him for a moment. The strange lady and gentleman
had gone a little aside--without previous arrangement. Let the
vestryman tell her first. It was not so simple a matter as they had
imagined. She was not very approachable.

Not a feature changed in the woman's reserved face; she went on with
her work in silence, her lips compressed. The wood was split up by
means of her powerful blows, and the pieces flew around her. Was she
listening at all to what the man was saying to her?

Yes--the spectators exchanged a hasty glance--and now she was
answering too in a more lively manner than they would have supposed,
judging from her sullen appearance.

Lisa Solheid raised her arm and pointed to the cottage in which the
little one was still screaming. Her speech--an almost barbaric
dialect--sounded rough, they understood nothing of it except a French
word here and there. The vestryman spoke Walloon too. Both of them
became excited, raised their voices and spoke to each other in a
loud voice; it sounded almost like quarrelling.

They did not seem to agree. Käte listened in suppressed terror.
Would she give it? Would he get it from her?

She pulled her husband's sleeve when nobody was looking. "Offer
more, give her some more, a hundred thalers is much too little." And he
must also promise the peasant something for his trouble. A hundred, two
hundred, three hundred, a hundred times a hundred would not be too
much. Oh, how the poor child was screaming. She could hardly bear to
stand outside the door doing nothing any longer.

Little Jean-Pierre's sister and brothers--a beautiful girl with
untidy hair and three younger brothers--stood with their fingers in
their mouths, their dirty noses unwiped, and did not move from the
spot.

Their mother spoke to them angrily, "Off with you!" And they darted
off, one almost tumbling over another. They scraped the key out of the
little hole under the door, and the biggest of them thrust it into the
rusty lock, and, standing on her toes, turned it with all the strength
of her small hands.

Then the woman turned to the strange lady and gentleman; she made a
gesture of invitation with her thin right hand: "Entrez."

They stepped in. It was so low inside that Paul Schlieben had to
bend his head so as not to knock against the beams in the ceiling, and
so dark that it took a considerable time before they could distinguish
anything at all. It could not have been poorer anywhere--one single
room in all. The hearth was formed of unhewn stones roughly put
together, above it hung the kettle in an iron chain that was made fast
to the blackened beam; the smoke from the smouldering peat ascended
into the wide sooty chimney. A couple of earthenware plates in the
plate-rack--cracked but with gay-coloured flowers on them--a couple of
dented pewter vessels, a milk-pail, a wooden tub, a long bench behind
the table, on the table half a loaf of bread and a knife, a few clothes
on some nails, the double bed built half into the wall, in which the
widow no doubt slept with the children now, and little Jean-Pierre's
clumsy wooden cradle in front of it--that was all.

Really all? Käte looked round, shivering a little in the cold dark
room that was as damp as a cellar. Oh, how poor and comfortless. There
were no ornaments, nothing to decorate it. Oh yes, there was a
glaringly gaudy picture of the Virgin Mary--a coarse colour-print on
thin paper--a vessel for holy water made of white china beneath it, and
there on the other wall close to the window so that the sparse light
fell on it the picture of a soldier. A framed and glazed picture in
three divisions; the same foot-soldier taken three times. To the
left, shouldering his arms, on guard before the black and white
sentry-box--to the right, ready to march with knapsack and cooking
utensils strapped on his back, bread-bag and field-flask at his
side, gun at his feet--in the centre, in full dress uniform as a
lance-corporal, with his hand to his helmet saluting.

That was no doubt the man, Michel Solheid as a soldier. Käte cast a
timid glance at the picture--that man had been shot in the Venn whilst
smuggling. How terrible! She heard the old man tell the story once
more, saw the bleeding man lying in the heather, and the horror of his
tragic end made her shudder. Her glance fell on the picture again and
again, the usual picture of a soldier which told nothing whatever in
its stereotyped inanity, and then on little Jean-Pierre's cradle. Did
he resemble his father much?

Paul Schlieben had expected his wife to speak--she would of course
know best what to say to the other woman--but she was silent. And the
vestryman did not say anything either; as he had started the
negotiations he considered it polite to let the gentleman speak now.
And Lisa Solheid was also silent. All she did was to drive away the
children, who wanted to fall upon the hard bread on the table with
ravenous appetites, with a silent gesture. Then she stood quietly
beside the cradle, her right hand, which still held the axe with which
she had cut the wood, hanging loosely by her side. Her face was gloomy,
forbidding, and still a struggle was reflected on it.

Paul Schlieben cleared his throat. He would have preferred some
other person to have settled the matter for him, but, as this other
person was not there and the vestryman only looked at him expectantly,
he was compelled to speak. With an affability which might have been
taken for condescension but which was nothing but embarrassment he
said: "Frau Solheid, the vestryman will have told you what has brought
us to you--do you understand me, my good woman?"

She nodded.

"It's our intention to take your youngest child away with us"--he
hesitated, for she had made a movement as though she wanted to deny
it--"as our own, to adopt it. Do you understand?"

She did not answer, but he continued with as much haste as if she
had said yes. "We will treat it as if it really were our own. We shall
be able to do more for it than you would, of course, and we----"

"Oh, and we'll love it so," his wife broke in.

The black-eyed woman turned her head slowly to the side where the
fair-haired lady was standing. It was a peculiar look with which she
scanned the stranger, who had now approached the cradle. Was it
a scrutinising look or a forbidding one? A friendly or unfriendly
one?

Käte looked at the child with longing eyes. It was no longer crying,
it even smiled, and now--now it stretched out its little arms. Oh, it
was already so intelligent, it was looking at her, it noticed already
that she was fond of it. It tried to get up--oh, it wanted to go to
her, to her!

Her face flushed with joy. She had already stretched out her hands
to take the child, when its mother pushed herself in front of the
cradle like a wall.

"Neni,"[A] she said in Walloon, in a hard voice. She raised her
empty left hand to ward Käte off. And then she made the sign of the
cross on the child's forehead and then on its breast.



[Footnote A: Non.]



But why, why would she not give it all at once? Käte trembled with
dismay. She cast an imploring look at her husband, as much as to say:
"Help me. I must have the child."

And then her husband said what he wanted to say before when his wife
had cut him short: "We will secure your child's future. Do you know
what that means, my good woman? It will never have to trouble about its
daily bread--never have to hunger. Never have to work to prolong its
life--only work for the pleasure of working. Do you understand?"

Work--for the pleasure of working? The woman shook her head, she did
not understand him. But then the words came into her mind: never
hunger!--and a light shone in her dull eyes. Never hunger--ah, the
woman understood that; and still she shook her head again: "Neni!"

She pointed to herself and the other children, and then to the great
Venn outside with a comprehensive gesture:

"Nos avans tortos faim."[A] She shrugged her shoulders with the
equanimity of one who is accustomed to it, and it even looked as though
she wanted to smile; the corners of her sullen mouth did not droop
quite so much, her lips that were generally tightly closed showed her
strong healthy teeth.

The vestryman stepped in now: "'Pon my word, Lisa, to hunger is
surely no pleasure. Good heavens, how can you be so foolish! The child
will be taken from hell to heaven. Remember what I've told you, the
lady and gentleman are rich, very rich, and they are mad on the
child--quick, give it to them, you still have four."

Still four! She nodded reflectively, but then she threw her head
back, and a look--now it was plain, something like hatred flickered in
it--flew to the others standing there so rich, so fine, with rings on
their ringers, and at whom her Jean-Pierre was peeping. "Neni!" She
repeated it once more and still more curtly and more obstinately than
before.

But the vestryman was tenacious, he knew the people he had to deal
with. "You must think it over," he said persuasively. "And they'll give
you a good sum, I tell you--won't you?" he asked, turning to the
gentleman. "Haven't you said you weren't particular to a coin or two
in the case of such a poor woman?"

"No, certainly not," assured Paul. And Käte was too precipitate
again. "It does not matter at all to us--we will gladly give what she
asks--oh, the dear child!"

"Dju n' vous nin,"[B] muttered the woman.



[Footnote A: Nous avons tous faim.]

[Footnote B: Je ne veux pas.]



"You won't? Oh, nonsense." The old peasant almost laughed at her.
"You are just like my Mayflower when she won't stand, and kicks the
milk-pail with her hind foot. Don't offend the people. What advantage
will it be to you if they grow impatient and go away? None at
all. Then you will have five who call out for bread, and the winter is
near at hand. Do you want to have such a winter as you had last
year? Didn't Jean-Pierre almost die of cold? The four others are
already older, it's easier to rear them. And you can get a cow for
yourself--just think of that, a cow. And you could have a better roof
put on the house, which won't let the rain and the snow come through,
and could have enough cranberries as well. It would certainly be a good
stroke of business, Lisa."

Käte wanted to add something more--oh, what a lot of good she would
do the woman, if she would only give the child to her!--but the old man
cleared his throat and winked at her covertly to warn her that she was
to be silent.

"Kubin m'e dinroz--ve?"[A] inquired the woman all at once.



[Footnote A: Combien me donnerez-vous donc?]



She had been standing undecided for a long time with her head bowed,
and a deep silence had reigned around her. The strange lady and
gentleman had not moved, nor had the vestryman; no wind had whistled in
the chimney, no fire crackled. A silent expectation weighed on them
all. Now she raised her head, and her gloomy eyes glanced at the
miserable room, the small quantity of bread on the table and then at
the hungry four, as though examining everything. She no longer looked
at the fifth child. She had grown pale, the deep sunburn on her face
had turned a greyish colour.

"What's he going to give you? Well, what will you give her?" said the
peasant encouragingly. "I think you'll see that two hundred is too
little. The woman is very much attached to the child, it will not be
easy for her to give it up." He watched Paul Schlieben out of the
corner of his eye, and called out as they call out at an auction: "Two
hundred, two hundred and fifty, three hundred. 'Pon my word, it
isn't too much. Jean-Pierre is a fine boy--just look at his fists. And
his thighs. A splendid fellow." He noticed the longing expression in
Käte's eyes--"Three hundred thalers is not worth talking about for the
boy, is it, ma'am?"

Käte had tears in her eyes and was very pale. The air in the cottage
oppressed her, it was all very repugnant to her--let them only get away
quickly from there. But not without the child. "Four hundred--five
hundred," she jerked out, and she gazed imploringly at her husband as
though to say: "Do settle it quickly."

"Five hundred, willingly." Paul Schlieben drew out his pocket-book.

The peasant craned his neck forward the better to see. His eyes were
quite stiff in his head, he had never seen anybody pay so willingly
before. The children, too, stared with wide-open eyes.

The woman cast a hasty glance at the notes the gentleman spread on
the table near the bread; but the covetous light that flashed in her
eyes disappeared suddenly again. "Neni," she said sullenly.

"Offer her some more--more," whispered the old man.

And Schlieben laid another couple of notes on the table beside the
others; his fingers trembled a little as he did it, the whole thing was
so unspeakably repugnant to him. He had never thought of haggling; they
should have what they wanted, only let them get done with it.

Nikolas Rocherath could not contain himself any longer at the sight
of such generosity--so much money on the table, and that woman could
still hesitate? He rushed up to her and shook her by the shoulders:
"Are you quite mad? Six hundred thalers on the table and you don't take
them? What man here can say he has six hundred thalers in cash? What
money, what a sum of money!" His emaciated face, which had grown very
haggard from years of toil and a life lived in wind and storm
and which was as sharply outlined as though cut out of hard wood,
twitched. His fingers moved convulsively: how was it possible that
anybody could still hesitate?

The axe which the woman still held fell out of her hand with a loud
noise. Without raising her head, without looking at the table or at the
cradle she said in a loud voice--but there was no ring in the voice:
"Allons bon. Djhan-Pire est da vosse."[A]



[Footnote A: Eh bien. Jean-Pierre est à vous.]



And she turned away, walked to the hearth with a heavy tread and
raked up the smouldering peat.

What indifference! This woman certainly did not deserve to be a
mother. Käte's gentle eyes began to blaze. Schlieben was angry too; no,
they need not have any scruples about taking the child away from there.
He was filled with disgust.

The woman behaved now as though the whole affair did not concern her
any longer. She busied herself at the hearth whilst the vestryman
counted the notes--licking his fingers repeatedly and examining both
sides of each one--and then put them carefully into the envelope which
the gentleman had given him.

"There they are, Lisa, put them into your pocket."

She tore them out of his hand with a violent gesture, and, lifting
up her dress to a good height, she slipped them into her miserable
ragged petticoat.

The last thing had still to be settled. Even if Paul Schlieben felt
certain that nobody there would inquire about the child any more,
the formalities had to be observed. Loosening his pencil from his
watch-chain--for where was ink to come from there?--he drew up the
mother's deed of surrender on a leaf from his pocketbook. The vestryman
signed it as witness. Then the woman put her three crosses
below; she had learnt to write once, but had forgotten it again.

"There!" Paul Schlieben rose from the hard bench on which he had sat
whilst writing with a sigh of relief. Thank goodness, now everything
was settled, now the vestryman had only to procure him the birth and
baptismal certificates and send them to him. "Here--this is my address.
And here--this is for any outlay." He covertly pressed a couple of gold
coins into the old man's hand, who smiled when he felt them there.

Well, now they would take the boy with them at once? he
supposed.

Käte, who had been standing motionless staring at the mother with
big eyes as though she could not understand what she saw, woke up. Of
course they would take the child with them at once, she would not leave
it a single hour longer there. And she took it quickly out of the
cradle, pressed it caressingly to her bosom and wrapped it up in the
warm wide cloak she was wearing. Now it was her child that she had
fought such a hard battle for, had snatched from thousands of dangers,
her darling, her sweet little one.

Little Jean-Pierre's sister and brothers stood there in silence with
eyes wide open. Had they understood that their brother was going away,
going for ever? No, they could not have understood it, otherwise they
would have shown how grieved they were. Their big eyes were only
interested in the bread on the table.

Paul Schlieben pitied the little ones greatly--they would remain
there in their wretchedness, their hunger, their poverty. He stuck a
present into the hands of all four. None of the four thanked him for
it, but their small fingers clasped the money tightly.

The woman did not thank him either. When the strange lady took
Jean-Pierre out of the cradle--she had seen it without looking
in that direction--she had started. But now she stood motionless near
the empty cradle, on the spot where the axe had fallen out of her right
hand before with a loud noise, looking on in silence whilst Jean-Pierre
was being wrapped up in the soft cloak. She had nothing to give
him.

Paul Schlieben had feared there would be a scene at the very last in
spite of the mother's indifference--she surely could not remain so
totally void of feeling, when they carried her youngest child away
with them?--but the woman remained calm. She stood there motionless,
her left hand pressed against the place in her skirt where she
felt the pocket. Did not that money in her pocket--Paul felt very
disturbed--give the lie to all the traditions about a mother's love?
And still--the woman was so demoralised by her great poverty, half
brutalised in the hard struggle for her daily bread, that even the
feeling she had for the child she had borne had vanished. Oh, what a
different mother Käte would be to the child now. And he pushed his
wife, who had the little one in her arms, towards the door, in his
tender anxiety for her.

Let them only get away, it was not a nice place to be in.

They hastened away. Käte turned her head once more when she reached
the threshold. She would have to cast a glance at the woman who
remained behind so stiff and silent. Even if she were incomprehensible
to her, a compassionate glance was her due.

Then ... a short cry, but loud, penetrating, terrible in its
brevity, a cry that went through nerve and bone. One single
inarticulate cry that agony and hatred had wrung from her.

The woman had stooped down. She had snatched up the axe with which
she had chopped the wood. She raised her arm as though to throw
something--the sharp edge flashed past the lady's head as she hurried
away, and buried itself in the door-post with a crash.



CHAPTER V


They had hastened away with the child as though they were running away.
They had bundled it into the carriage--quick, quick--the coachman had
whipped up the horses, the wheels had turned round with a creaking
noise. The village in the Venn remained behind them, buried like a bad
dream one wants to forget.

A dull grey lay over the Venn. The sun, which had been shining in
the morning, had quite disappeared, as though not a single beam had
ever been seen there. The Venn mist, which rises so suddenly, was there
covering everything. There was a wall now where there had been a wide
outlook before. A wall not of stone and not of bricks, but much
stronger. It did not crack, it did not burst, it did not totter, it did
not give way before the hammer wielded by the strongest hand. It shaped
itself out of the morasses, powerful and impenetrable, and stretched
from the moor up to the clouds--or was it the clouds that had lowered
themselves to the earth?

The heavens and the Venn, both alike. Nothing but grey, a tough,
damp, cold, liquid and still firm, unfathomable, mysterious, awful
grey. A grey from which those who lose themselves on the moor never
find their way out. The mist is too tenacious. It has arms that grip,
that embrace so tightly, that one can neither see forward nor backward
any more, neither to the left nor to the right, that the cry
that wants to escape from a throat that is well-nigh choked with terror
is drowned, and that the eye becomes blind to every road, every
footprint.

The driver cursed and beat his horses. There was nothing more to be
seen of the road, nothing whatever, no ditch at the side of it, no
telegraph poles, no small rowan trees. The broad road that had been
made with such difficulty had disappeared in the grey that enfolded the
Venn. It was fortunate that the horses had not lost their way as yet.
They followed their noses, shook their long tails, neighed shrilly and
trotted courageously into the sea of mist.

Käte shuddered as she wrapped herself and the child up more tightly;
they required all the warm covering now which they had taken with them
so providently. Her husband packed her up still more securely, and then
laid his arm round her as though to protect her. It was a terrible
journey.

They had had the carriage closed, but the cold grey forced its way
in notwithstanding. It penetrated through all the crevices, through the
window-panes, filled the space inside so that their faces swam in the
damp twilight like pale spots, and laid itself heavily, obstructively
on their breath.

Käte coughed and then trembled. There was no joy in her heart now,
all she felt was terror, terror on account of the possession she had
had to fight so hard to obtain. If the mother were to come after them
now--oh, that terrible woman with the glittering axe. She closed
her eyes tightly, full of a horror she had never felt the like to
before--oh, she could not see it again! And still she opened her eyes
wide once more, and felt the cold perspiration on her brow and her
heart trembling--alas, that sight would pursue her even in her dreams.
She would not get rid of it until her last hour--never, never
again--she would always see that woman with the glittering axe.

It had whizzed close past her head--the draught of air caused by it
had made the hair on her temples tremble. It had done nothing to her,
it had only buried itself in the door-post with a loud noise, splitting
it. And still she had come to harm. Käte pressed both her hands to her
temples in horror: she would never, never get rid of that fear.

Her heart was filled with an almost superstitious dread, a dread as
though of a ghost that haunted the place. Let them only get away from
there, never to return. Let them only destroy every trace as they went
along. That woman must never know where they had gone. She knew
it was to Berlin--they had unfortunately given the vestryman their
address--but Berlin was so far away, the woman from the Venn would
never come there.

And the Venn itself? Ugh! Käte looked out into the grey mist,
trembling with horror. Thank God, that would remain behind, that would
soon be forgotten again. How could she ever have considered this
desolate Venn beautiful? She could not understand it. What charm was
there about these inhospitable plains, on which nothing could grow
except the coarse grass and tough heather? On which no corn waved its
spikes, no singing-bird piped its little song, no happy people lived
sociably; where there was, in short, no brightness, no loud tones, only
the silence of the dead and crosses along the road. It was awful
there.

"Paul, let us leave to-day--as quickly as possible," she jerked out,
full of terror, whilst her eyes sought in vain for a glimpse of
light.

He was quite willing. He felt ill at ease too. If this woman, this
fury, had hit his wife in her sudden outburst of rage? But he
could not help blaming himself: who had bade him have anything to do
with such people? They were not a match for such barbarous folk.

And he was seized with a feeling of aversion for the child sleeping
so peacefully on his wife's arm. He looked gloomily at the little face;
would he ever be able to love it? Would not the memory of its
antecedents always deter him from liking it? Yes, he had been too
precipitate. How much better it would have been if he had dissuaded his
wife from her wish, if he had energetically opposed her romantic idea
of adopting this child, this particular child.

He frowned as he looked out of the window, whilst the grey mist
clung to the pane and ran down it in large drops.

The wind howled outside; it had risen all at once. And it howled
still louder the nearer they approached the top of the high Venn,
whined round their carriage like an angry dog and hurled itself against
the horses' chests. The horses had to fight against it, to slacken
their trot; the carriage only advanced with difficulty.

The child must never, never know from whence it came, as
otherwise--the new father was wrapped in thought as he stared into the
Venn, whose wall of mist was now and then torn asunder by a furious
gust of wind--as otherwise--what was he going to say? He passed his
hand over his brow and drew his breath heavily. Something like fear
crept over him, but he did not know why.

As he cast a look at his wife, he saw that she was quite absorbed in
the contemplation of the sleeping child, which did not lessen his ill
humour. He drew away her right hand, with which she was supporting its
head that had fallen back: "Don't do that, don't tire yourself like
that. It will sleep on even without that." And as she gave an anxious
"Hush!" terrified at the thought that the little sleeper might
have been disturbed, he said emphatically, "I must tell you one thing,
my child, and must warn you against it, don't give him your whole heart
at once--wait a little first."

"Why?" Something in his voice struck her and she looked at him in
surprise. "Why do you say that so--so--well, as if you were vexed?"
Then she laughed in happy forgetfulness. "Do you know--yes, it was
horrible, awful in those surroundings--but thank God, now it's over. A
mother forgets all she has suffered at the birth of her child so
quickly--why should I not forget those horrors to-day too? Do
look"--and she stroked little Jean-Pierre's warm rosy cheek carefully
and caressingly as he slept--"how innocent, how lovely. I am so happy.
Come, do be happy too, Paul, you are generally so very kind. And now
let's think about what we are to call the boy"--her voice was very
tender--"our boy."

They no longer heard the wind that had increased to a storm by now.
They had so much to consider. "Jean-Pierre," no, that name should not
be kept in any case. And they would go from Spa to Cologne that
evening, as they would not dare to engage a nurse before they were
there; not a single person there would have any idea about the Venn, of
course. And they would also buy all the things they required for the
child in Cologne as soon as possible.

How were they to get on until then? Paul looked at his wife quite
anxiously: she knew nothing whatever about little children. But she
laughed at him and gave herself airs: when Providence gives you
something to do, it also gives you the necessary understanding. And
this little darling was so good, he had not uttered a sound since they
left. He had slept the whole time as though there was nothing called
hunger or thirst, as though there was nothing but her heart on
which he felt quite at ease.

It gradually became more comfortable in the carriage. It seemed as
though a beneficial warmth streamed forth from the child's body, as it
rested there so quietly. The breath of life ascended from its strong
little chest that rose and fell so regularly; the joy of life glowed in
its cheeks that were growing redder and redder; the blessings of life
dropped from those tiny hands that it had clenched in its sleep. The
woman mused in silence and with bated breath as she gazed at the child
in her lap, and the man, who felt strangely moved, took its tiny fist
in his large hand and examined it, smiling. Yes, now they were
parents.

But outside the carriage the air was full of horrors. It is only in
the wild Venn that there can be such storms in autumn. Summer does not
depart gently and sadly there, winter does not approach with soft,
stealthy steps, there is no mild preparatory transition. The bad
weather sets in noisily there, and the warmth of summer changes
suddenly into the icy cold of winter. The storm whistles so fiercely
across the brown plateau that the low heather bends still lower and the
small juniper trees make themselves still smaller. The wind in the Venn
chases along whistling and shrieking, clamouring and howling, pries
into the quagmires and turf pits, whips up the muddy puddles, throws
itself forcibly into the thickets of fir trees that have just been
replanted, so that they groan and moan and creak as they cower, and
then rages on round the weather-worn crosses.

The blast roars across the moor like the sound of an organ or is it
like the roar of the foaming breakers? No, there is no water there that
rises and falls and washes the beach with its white waves, there is
nothing but the Venn; but it resembles the sea in its wide expanse.
And its air is as strong as the air that blows from the sea, and
the shrill scream of its birds is like the scream of the sea-mew, and
nature plays--here as there--the song of her omnipotence on the organ
of the storm with powerful touch.

The small carriage crept over the top of the high Venn. The winds
wanted to blow it down, as though it were a tiny beetle. They hurled
themselves against it, more and more furiously, yelped and howled as
though they were wolves, whined round its wheels, snuffed round its
sides, made a stand against it in front and tugged at it from behind as
though with greedy teeth: away with it! And away with those sitting
inside it! Those intruders, those thieves, they were taking something
away with them that belonged to the Venn, to the great Venn alone.

It was a struggle. Although the driver lashed away at them the brave
horses shied, then remained standing, snorting with terror. The man was
obliged to jump off and lead them some distance, and still they
continued to tremble.

Something rose out of the pits and beckoned with waving gauzy
garments, and tried to hold fast with moist arms. There was a
snatching, a catching, a reaching, a tearing asunder of mists and a
treacherous rolling together again, a chaos of whirling, twirling,
brewing grey vapours; and plaintive tones from beings that could not be
seen.

Had all those in the graves come to life again? Were those rising
who had slept there, wakened by the snorting of the horses and the
crack of the whip, indignant at being disturbed in their rest? What
were those sounds?

The quiet Venn had become alive. Piercing sounds and whistling
shrill cries and groaning and the flapping of wings and
indignant screams mingled with the dull roar of the organ of the
storm.

A flight of birds swam through the sea of mist. They rowed to the
right, they rowed to the left, looked down uneasily at the strange
carriage, remained poised above it for some moments with wings spread
out ready to strike it to the ground, and then uttered their cry, the
startled, penetrating cry of a wild bird. There was nothing triumphant
about it to-day--it sounded like a lamentation.

And the Venn wept. Large drops fell from the mist. The mist itself
turned into tears, to slowly falling and then to rushing, streaming,
never-ending tears.



CHAPTER VI


The Schliebens had reached Berlin safely. Käte was exhausted when she
got out of the train; her hair was untidy, she did not look quite so
smart as usual. It had been no trifle to make that long journey with
the child. But they had been fortunate hi finding a good nurse so
quickly in Cologne--a widow, fond of children and experienced, a
typical, comfortable-looking nurse; however, the mother had had enough
to see to all the same. Had the child caught cold, or did it not like
its bottle? It had cried with all the strength of its lungs--no
carrying about, rocking, dandling, singing to it had been of any
avail--it had cried with all its might the whole way to Berlin.

But, thank goodness, now they were at home. And everything was
arranged as quickly as if by magic. True, the comfortable house they
had had before was let, but there was villa after villa in the
Grunewald, and, as they required so much more room now, they moved into
one of those. They rented it to begin with. Later on they would no
doubt buy it, as it was quite impossible to take a child like this one
into a town. It would have to have a garden.

They called him Wolfgang. "Wolf" had something so concise, vigorous,
energetic about it, and--Käte gave a slight happy shudder as she
thought of it--it was like a secret memory of the Venn, of that
desolate spot over which they had triumphed, and to which they made
only this slight concession. And did not "Wölfchen"--if they made that
the diminutive of Wolf--sound extremely affectionate?

"Wölfchen"--the young mother said it about a hundred times every
day.

The young mother? Oh yes, Käte felt young. Her child had made her
young again, quite young. Nobody would have taken her for thirty-five,
and she herself least of all. How she could run, how she could fly
upstairs when they said: "The child is awake. It's screaming for its
bottle."

She, who had formerly spent so many hours on the sofa, never found a
moment's time to lie down the whole day; she slept all the more soundly
at night as a result. It was quite true what she had heard other women
say: a little child claims its mother's whole attention. Oh, how empty,
colourless those days had been in which she had only existed. It was
only now that there was meaning, warmth, brilliancy in her life.

She walked every day beside the child's perambulator, which the
nurse pushed, and it was a special pleasure to her to wheel the light
little carriage with its white lacquer, gilt buttons and blue silk
curtains herself now and then. How the people stared and turned round
when they saw the handsome perambulator--no, the beautiful child. Her
heart beat with pleasure, and when her flattered ear caught the cries
of admiration, "What a fine child!" "How beautifully dressed!" "What
splendid eyes!"--it used to beat even more quickly, and a feeling of
blissful pride took possession of her, so that she walked along with
head erect and eyes beaming with happiness. Everybody took her to be
the mother, of course, the young child's young mother, the beautiful
child's beautiful mother. How often strangers had already
spoken to her of the likeness: "The exact image of you, Frau Schlieben,
only its hair is darker than yours." Then she had smiled every time and
blushed deeply. She could not tell the people that it really could not
resemble her at all. She hardly remembered herself now that not a drop
of her blood flowed in Wölfchen's veins.

It looked at her the first thing when it awoke. Its little bed with
its muslin curtains stood near the nurse's, but its first look was for
its mother and also its last, for nobody knew how to sing it to sleep
as well as she did.

           "Sleep sound, sweetest child,
            Yonder wind howls wild.
            Hearken, how the rain makes sprays
            And how neighbour's doggie bays.
            Doggie has gripped the man forlorn
            Has the beggar's tatter torn----"

sounded softly and soothingly in the nursery evening after evening,
and little Wolf fell quietly asleep to the sound of it, to the song of
the wind and the rain round defenceless heads, and of beggars whose
garments the dog had torn.

Paul Schlieben had no longer any cause to complain of his wife's
moods. Everything had changed; her health, too, had become new, as it
were, as though a second life had begun. And he himself? He felt much
more inclination for work now. Now that he had returned to business he
felt a pleasure he had never experienced before when he saw that they
were successful in their new ventures. He had never been enterprising
before--what was the good? He and his wife had ample for all their
requirements. Of course he had always been glad to hear when they had
done a good stroke of business, but he could not say it had ever
pleased him to make money. He had always found more pleasure in
spending it.

His father had been quite different in that respect. He had never
been so easy-going, and as long as he lived he had always reproached
himself for having let his only son serve as a soldier in a cavalry
regiment. Something of a cavalryman's extravagance had clung to him,
which did not exactly agree with the views of the very respectable
well-to-do merchant of the middle class. And his daughter-in-law? Hm,
the old gentleman did not exactly approve of her either in his heart.
She had too much modern stuff in her head, and Paul had followed her
lead entirely. You could be cultured--why not?--and also take an
interest in art without necessarily having so little understanding for
the real things of life.

This honest man, this merchant of the old stamp and true son of
Berlin, had not had the joy of seeing what his partners now saw with
unbounded astonishment. They had no need to shrug their shoulders at
the man's lack of interest in the business any longer, and make pointed
remarks about the wife who took up his attention so entirely; now he
felt the interest they wished him to have. He was pleased to fall in
with their plans now. He himself seemed to want, nay, even found it
necessary to form new connections, to extend the calm routine of their
business right and left, on all sides. He showed a capacity for
business and became practical all at once. And in the middle of his
calculations, whilst sitting absorbed at his desk, he would catch
himself thinking: "that will be of use to the boy in the future." But
at times this thought could irritate him so much that he would throw
down his pen and jump up angrily from his desk: no, he had only adopted
the child to please his wife, he would not love him.

And yet when he came home to dinner on those delightful afternoons,
on which he could smell the pines round his house and the pure
air still more increased the appetite he had got from his strenuous
work, and the boy would toddle up to him patting his little stomach and
cry: "Daddy--eat--taste good," and Käte appear at the window, laughing,
he could not refrain from swinging the hungry little chatterbox high up
into the air, and only put him down on his feet again after he had
given him a friendly slap. He was a splendid little chap, and always
hungry. Well, he would always have sufficient to eat, thank God.

A certain feeling of contentment would come over the man on those
occasions. He felt now what he had never felt before, that one's own
home means happiness. And he felt the benefit of having an assured
income, that allowed him to enrich his life with all sorts of comforts.
The house was pretty. But when he bought it shortly he would certainly
add to it, and buy the piece of ground next to it as well. It would be
extremely disagreeable if anybody settled down just under their
noses.

It had been difficult for Paul to make up his mind to take a house
in the Grunewald at the time, after he had lived in Berlin itself as
long as he could remember. But now he looked upon his wife's idea of
going out there as a very good one. And not only for the child's sake.
One enjoyed one's home in quite a different manner out there; one
realised much more what it meant to have a home. And how much healthier
it was--one's appetite certainly became enormous. In time one would
think of nothing but material comforts. And the man followed the hungry
boy into the house, as he also felt quite ready for his dinner.

Wolfgang Solheid, called Schlieben, received his first trousers. It
was a grand day for the whole house. Käte had him photographed in
secret, as there had never been a boy who looked prettier in
his first trousers. And she placed the picture of the little fellow who
was not yet three years old--white trousers, white pleated tunic, horse
under his arm, whip in his hand--in the middle of her husband's
birthday table, surrounded by a wreath of roses. That was the best she
could give him among all the many presents. How robust Wölfchen was.
They had not noticed it so much before; he was as big as a boy of four.
And how defiant he looked, as bold as a boy of five, who is already
dreaming of fighting other boys.

The woman showed the man the picture full of delight, and there was
such a gleam in her eyes that he felt very happy. He thanked her many
times for the surprise and kissed her: yes, this picture should stand
near hers on his writing-table. And then they both played with the boy,
who romped about on the carpet in his first pair of trousers, which he
still found rather uncomfortable.

Paul Schlieben could not remember ever having spent such a pleasant
birthday as this one. There was so much brightness around him, so much
merriment. And even if Wolf had torn his first pair of trousers by
noon--how and where it had been done was quite incomprehensible to the
dismayed nurse--that did not disturb the birthday; on the contrary, the
laughter became all the gayer. "Tear your trousers, my boy, tear away,"
whispered his mother, smiling to herself as the damage was pointed out
to her, "just you be happy and strong."

There was a party in the evening. The windows of the pretty villa
were lighted up and the garden as well. The air was balmy, the pines
spread their branches motionless under the starry sky, and bright
coloured lanterns glittered in the bushes and along the paths that were
overgrown with trees like large glow-worms.

Wölfchen was asleep on the first floor of the villa, in the
only room that was not brightly lighted up. There was nothing but a
hanging lamp of opal there, and every noise was kept away by thick
curtains and Venetian blinds. But they drank his health downstairs.

The guests had already drunk the health of the master of the house
at the table, and then that of his amiable wife--what greater honour
could they pay their popular host and hostess now than to drink the
health of the boy--their boy?

Dr. Hofmann, the tried doctor and friend of the family for many
years, asked if he might have the privilege of saying a few words.
He, as doctor, as counsellor on many an occasion, was best able
to say what had always been wanting there. Everything had been
there, love and complete understanding and also outward happiness,
everything except--here he paused for a moment and nodded to his
hostess who was sitting opposite to him, in a friendly manner full of
comprehension--except a child's laughter. And now that was there too.

"A child's laughter--oh, what a salvation!" he cried with twinkling
eyes and voice full of emotion, as he thought of his own three, who
were certainly already independent and had chosen their paths in life,
but their laughter still sounded in his heart and ear.

"No child--no happiness. But a child brings happiness, great
happiness. And especially in this case. For I, as a doctor, have hardly
ever feasted my eyes on a more magnificent chest, a more splendidly
developed skull, straighter legs and brighter eyes. All his senses are
sharp; the lad hears like a lynx, sees like a falcon, smells like a
stag, feels--well, I've been told that he is already up in arms against
the slightest corporal punishment. It is only his taste that is not so
finely developed as yet--the boy eats everything. However, this is
again a new proof to me of his very great physical superiority,
for, ladies and gentlemen"--at this point the doctor gave a jovial
wink--"who does not agree with me? a good stomach that can stand
everything is the greatest gift a kind Providence can give us on our
journey through life. The boy is a favourite of fortune. A favourite of
fortune in the two-fold meaning of the word for not only is he
perfectly happy in himself, but his entry on the scene has also brought
happiness to those around him. Our dear hostess, for example, have we
ever seen her like this before? So young with those who are young, so
happy with those who are happy? And our honoured friend here--nobody
could imagine that he had climbed to the middle of the forties--he is
as full of energy, of plans and enterprise as a man of twenty. And at
the same time he has the beautiful calm, the comfortable appearance of
the happy father who has had his desires gratified. And this fortunate
boy is the cause of it all. Therefore thanks be to the hour that gave
him, the wind that brought him here. From whence----?"

The doctor, who had a small vein of malice in his nature, here made
a pause intentionally, cleared his throat and straightened his
waistcoat, for he saw many curious eyes fixed on him full of
expectation. But he also saw the quick perturbed look the husband and
wife exchanged, saw that Frau Schlieben had grown pale and was hanging
anxiously, almost imploringly, on his lips, so he continued hastily
with a good-natured laugh: "From whence, ladies--only have patience.
I'll tell you now: he fell from the skies. Just as the falling star
falls to earth on a summer night. And our dear hostess, who was just
going for a walk, held out her apron and carried him home to her house.
And so he has become the star of this house, and we all and I
especially--even if I have become superfluous here in my capacity
of doctor--are pleased with him without asking from whence he came.
All good gifts come from above--we learnt that already in our
childhood--so here's to the health of the boy who fell down to our
friends from the sky."

The doctor had grown serious, there was a certain solemnity about
him as he raised his champagne glass and emptied it: "God bless him! To
the health of the child, the son of the house. May this fortunate lad
grow, thrive and prosper."

The finely cut glasses gave a clear and melodious sound as they
clinked them. There was a buzzing, laughter and cheering at the table,
so that the little fellow upstairs in his bed began to toss about
restlessly. He murmured impatiently in his sleep, pouted and lowered
his brow.

The chairs were moved downstairs. The guests had risen, and, going
up to the parents, had shaken hands with them as though to congratulate
them. Dr. Hofmann had done that really very nicely, really exceedingly
well. But the little fellow was awfully sweet. All the women present
agreed they had rarely seen such a pretty child.

Käte's heart had beaten a little anxiously when the doctor commenced
to speak--surely he would not betray what had only been confided to him
and the lawyer under the influence of a good glass of wine and a good
dinner?--but it was now full of happiness. Her eyes sought her
husband's, and sent him tender, grateful glances covertly. And then she
went to their old friend, the doctor, and thanked him for all his good,
kind words. "Also in Wölfchen's name," she said in a soft, cordial
voice.

"So you are satisfied with me all the same? Well, I'm glad." He drew
her arm into his and walked up and down with her somewhat apart
from the others. "I saw, my dear lady, that you grew uneasy when I
began about the boy's antecedents. What kind of an opinion can you have
of me? But I did so intentionally, I have been burning to find
an opportunity to say what I did for a long time. Believe me, if
I got a two-shilling bit every time I've been questioned about the
boy's parentage--either openly or in a roundabout way--I should be a
well-to-do man by now. I've often felt annoyed at the questions; what I
said just now was the answer to them all. I trust they have understood
it. They can keep their surmises to themselves in the future."

"Surmises?" Käte knit her brows and pressed the doctor's arm. What
did those people surmise?--did they already know something, did they
guess about the Venn? She was seized with a sudden terror. Pictures
passed before her mental vision with lightning speed--there in that
bright festive room--dark pictures of which she did not want to know
anything more.

"How terrible," she said in a low voice that quivered. If the people
got to know anything, oh, then she did not put her thought into words,
for the sudden dread was almost choking her--then they would not get
rid of the past. Then that woman would come and demand her right, and
could not be shaken off any more. "Do you think," she whispered
hesitatingly, "do you think they--they guess--the truth?"

"Oh no, they're very far off the mark," laughed the doctor, but then
he grew grave again directly. "My dear lady, let us leave those people
and their surmises alone." Oh dear, now he had meddled with a delicate
subject, he felt quite hot--what if she knew that they thought that her
Paul, that most faithful of husbands, had duties of a special kind
towards the child?

"Surmises--oh, what is it they surmise?" She urged him to
tell her, whilst her eyes scrutinised his, full of terror.

"Nonsense," he said curtly. "Why do you want to trouble about that?
But I told you and your husband that at once. If you make such a secret
of the boy's parentage, all kinds of interpretations will be placed on
it. Well, you would not hear of anything else."

"No." Käte closed her eyes and gave a slight shudder. "He's our
child--our child alone," she said with a strange hardness in her voice.
"And nobody else has anything to do with him."

He shook his head and looked at her questioningly, surprised at her
tone.

Then she jerked out: "I'm afraid."

He felt how the hand that was lying on his arm trembled
slightly.

Amid the gaiety of the evening something had fallen on Käte's joy
that paralysed it, as it were. Many questions were asked her about
little Wolf--that was so natural, they showed her their friendly
interest by means of these questions--and they watched her quietly at
the same time: it was marvellous how she behaved. They had hardly
believed the delicate woman capable of such heroism. How much she must
love her husband, that she took his child--for the boy must be his
child, the resemblance was too marked, exactly the same features, the
same dark hair--this child of a weak hour to her heart without showing
any ill-will or jealousy. She, the childless woman, to take another
woman's child. That was grand, almost too grand. They did not
understand it quite.

And Käte felt instinctively that there was something concealed
behind the questions they asked her--was it admiration or compassion,
approval or disapproval?--something one could not get hold of, not even
name, only suspect. And that embarrassed her. So she only gave
reserved answers to their friendly questions about Wölfchen, was
concise in what she told them, cool in her tone, and still she could
not hinder her voice vibrating secretly. That was the tender happiness
she felt, the mother's pride she could not suppress, the warmth of her
feelings, which lent her voice its undertone of emotion. The others
took if for quite a different emotion.

The ladies, who took a walk in the garden after the dinner was over,
were chatting confidentially together. The paths that smelt of the
pines and in which the coloured lanterns gave a gentle subdued light
were just suitable for that. They wandered about in twos and threes,
arm in arm, and first of all looked carefully to see if there were any
listeners, for their hostess must on no account hear it. There was
hardly one among the ladies who had not made her observations. How well
she bore up. It was really pathetic to see how resentment and
affection, dislike and warmth struggled to get the mastery as soon as
there was any talk about the child. And how a restless look would steal
into her bright eyes--ah, she must have had and still have much to
contend with, poor thing.

There was only one lady there who said she had known Paul Schlieben
much too long and well not to feel sure that it was ridiculous--nay,
even monstrous--to suppose he would do such a thing. He who was always
such a perfect gentleman, not only in his outward behaviour and
appearance but also in his thoughts, he, the most faithful of husbands,
who even now, after a long married life, was as much in love with his
wife as though they had just been married. The thing was quite
different. They had always wished for children, what was more natural
than that they should adopt one, now that they had finally
given up all hope? Did not other people do the same?

Of course that happened, there was no doubt about it. But then the
particulars were always given as to whether it was an orphan or the
illegitimate offspring of some one moving in the highest circles,
whether it had been offered in the newspaper--"to be given away to
noble-minded people"--or whether it was the child of a girl who had
been left in the lurch or the unwished-for child of parents belonging
to the labouring classes, who had already been too richly blessed with
children, and so on. Something at least was always known about it. But
in this case why was such a secret made of it? Why did they not say
openly: we have got it from there or there, it happened in such and
such a manner?

It was difficult to question Frau Schlieben quite openly about the
little one's parentage. They had already gone to her once with that
intention, but as soon as they had introduced the subject such a
terrified expression had come into the woman's eyes, something so shy
and reserved into her manner, that it would have been more than
tactless to continue the conversation. They were compelled to desist
from questioning her--but it was peculiar, very peculiar.

And the gentlemen in the smoking-room, whom the host had left alone
for a moment, discussed the same theme. The doctor was catechised.

"I say, doctor, your speech was excellent, worthy of a diplomatist,
but you can't deceive us. You don't know anything about the little
chap's antecedents either? Now come!" It especially puzzled both
partners that Schlieben had told them so little. When everything under
the sun was discussed in business, one had also a certain right to know
the man's private affairs too, especially as they had already worked
with the old gentleman. Where would Paul have been now, if they
two had not safeguarded his interests so energetically at the time when
he put everything else before business? Herr Meier, who was already
elderly and very corpulent, and whose good-natured, intelligent face
bore signs of his fondness for a glass of wine, felt really very hurt
at such a want of confidence: "As though we should have placed any
difficulties in the way--absurd! Doctor, just tell us one thing. Did he
get the boy here?"

But the other partner, Herr Bormann, who was somewhat choleric and
had to go to Carlsbad every year, interrupted him sharply. "Well,
really, Meier! And what's it to us? They say they have brought him with
them from their last journey, when they were away so long--good. Where
were they last? They went from Switzerland to the Black Forest and then
to Spa, didn't they?"

"No, to the North Sea," said the doctor quietly. "You can see it as
well, the boy has quite the Frisian type."

"That boy? With his black eyes?" No, there was nothing to be got out
of Hofmann. He looked so innocent that you might have thought he was
speaking seriously instead of joking. Aha, he had taken his stand; he
had made up his mind not to say anything. They would have to let the
subject drop.

The doctor, who had already taxed himself with stupidity in his
heart--oh dear, now he had aroused everybody's curiosity instead of
helping the Schliebens--heard the gentlemen pass on to politics with
great relief.

It was midnight before the last guests left the villa. Their bright
talk and laughter could still be heard distinctly from the end of the
street in the silence of the night, as husband and wife met at the foot
of the stairs leading up to the first floor.

All the windows of the lower rooms were still open, the silver was
still on the table, the costly china stood about--let the servants put
it away for the time being. Käte felt a great longing to see the child.
She had seen so little of him that day--there had been visitors the
whole day. And then what a number of questions she had had to listen
to, what a number of answers she had had to give. Her head was
burning.

As she and her husband met--the man was hurrying out of his room, he
had not even given himself time to lock away the cigars--she had to
laugh: aha, he wanted to go upstairs too. She hung on his arm and they
went up together keeping step.

"To Wölfchen," she said softly, pressing his arm. And he said, as
though excusing himself: "I shall have to see if the noise has not
awakened the boy."

They spoke in an undertone and moved along cautiously like thieves.
They stole into the nursery--there he lay, so quietly. He had thrown
off the covering in his sleep so that his naked rosy little legs were
visible, and a warm, strong and wonderfully fresh smell ascended from
the child's clean healthy body and mingled with the powerful odour of
the pines, that the night sent into the room through the slightly open
window.

Käte could not restrain herself, she bent down and kissed the little
knee that showed dimples in its firm roundness. As she looked up again,
she saw her husband's eyes fixed on the sleeping child with a
thoughtful expression.

She was so used to knowing everything that affected him, that she
asked, "What are you thinking of, Paul? Does anything trouble you?"

He looked at her absently for a few moments and then past her; he
was so lost in thought that he had not heard her question at all. At
last he murmured, "I wonder if it would not be better to be
open about it? Hm." Then he shook his head and thoughtfully stroked his
beard into a point.

"What are you saying? What do you mean? Paul!" She laid her hand on
his.

That aroused him. He smiled at her and said then: "Käte, we must
tell people the truth. Why shouldn't we say where he comes from? Yes,
yes, it's much better, otherwise I fear we shall have a good deal of
unpleasantness. And if the boy does find out in good time that he is
not really our child--I mean our own child--what does it matter?"

"Good gracious!" She threw up her hands as though horrified.
"No--not for the world--no! Never, never!" She sank down on the bed,
spread both her arms over the child's body as though protecting it, and
nestled her head on the warm little breast. "Then he would be lost to
us, Paul."

She took a deep breath and trembled. Her voice expressed such
horror, such a terrible fear and prophetic gravity that it startled the
man.

"I only thought--I mean--I have really long felt it to be my duty,"
he said hesitatingly, as though making a stand against her fear. "I
don't like that the--that people--well, that they talk. Don't be so
funny about it, Käte; why shouldn't we tell?"

"Not tell! You ask why we shouldn't tell? Paul, you know that
yourself. If he gets to know it--oh, that mother! that Venn!"

She clasped the boy even more tightly; but she had raised her head
from his breast. Her face was pale, and her eyes looked quite
bewildered as they stared at her husband. "Have you forgotten her?"

Her tremulous voice grew hard. "No, he must never know it. And I
swear it and you must promise me it as well, promise it
sacredly now, here at his bedside whilst he's sleeping peacefully--and
if I should die, not then either, Paul"--her voice grew louder
and louder in her excitement, and its hard tone became almost a
scream--"we'll never tell him it. And I won't give him up. He's my
child _alone_, our child alone."

Then her voice changed. "Wölfchen, my Wölfchen, surely you'll never
leave your mother?"

Her tears began to stream now, and whilst she wept she kissed the
child so passionately, so fervently that he awoke. But he did not cry
as he generally did when he was disturbed in his sleep.

He smiled and, throwing both his little arms round her neck as she
bent down to him, he said, still heavy with sleep, but yet clearly,
plainly, "Mammy."

She gave a cry of rapture, of triumphant joy. "Do you hear it? He
says 'Mammy.'"

She laughed and cried at the same time in her excessive joy, and
caught hold of her husband's hand and held it fast. "Paul--daddy--come,
give our child a kiss as well."

And the man also bent down. His wife threw her arm round his neck
and drew his head still further down quite close to hers. Then the
child laid the one arm round his neck and the other round hers.

They were all three so close to each other in that calm summer
night, in which all the stars were gleaming and the moonbeams building
silver bridges from the peaceful heavens down to the peaceful
earth.



CHAPTER VII


Those were days of the purest happiness at the Schliebens'. The villa
had been bought now, some rooms had been built on to it, and another
piece of land had been added to the garden as a play-ground. They could
not think of not giving the boy sufficient space to romp about in. Some
sand was brought there, a heap as high as a dune in which to dig. And
when he was big enough to do gymnastics they got him a swing and
horizontal and parallel bars.

But still it was not sufficient. He climbed over all the fences
round the neighbouring villas, over all the walls that were protected
by barbed wire and pieces of glass.

"A splendid lad," said Dr. Hofmann when he spoke _of_ Wolfgang. When
he spoke _to_ him he certainly said: "What a little ruffian you are!
Just you wait till you go to school and they'll soon teach you to sit
still."

Wolf was wild--rather too wild, his mother considered. The boy's
high spirits amused her husband: that was because there was such a
large amount of surplus energy in him. But Käte felt somewhat surprised
at so much wildness--no, she was not really surprised, she knew too
well where all that wildness came from; it frightened her.

She did not scold him when he tore his trousers--oh, they
could be replaced--but when he came home with the first hole in his
head she became incredibly agitated. She scolded him angrily, she
became unjust. She was quite unable to stop the blood--ugh, how it
ran!--she felt as if she were going to have a fit; she dragged herself
into her room with difficulty and remained sitting silently in a
corner, her eyes staring into space.

When her husband reproached her for exaggerating in that manner, she
never answered a word. Then he comforted her: she could feel quite easy
now, the thing was of no moment, the hole was sewn up and the lad as
happy as though it had never happened.

But she shuddered nervously and her cheeks were pale. Oh, if Paul
knew what she had been thinking of, was forced to think of the whole
time! How strange that the same memory did not obtrude itself on him.
Oh, Michel Solheid had laid bleeding on the Venn--blood had dripped on
the ground to-day as on that day. The little boy had not complained,
just as little as his--she fought against using the word even in her
thoughts--as his father, as Michel Solheid had complained. And still
the red blood had gushed out as though it were a spring. How much more
natural it would have been for him to have cried. Did Wolf feel
differently from other children?

Käte went through the list of her acquaintances; there was not a
single child that would not have cried if he had got such a wound, and
he would not have been considered a coward on that account. There was
no doubt about it, Wölfchen was less sensitive. Not only more
insensible to bodily pain, no--and she thought she had noticed it
several times--also more insensible to emotion. Even in the case of
joy. Did not other children show their happiness by clapping their
hands and shouting? Did not they dance round the thing they
wanted--the toy, the doll, the cake--with shouts of delight? He only
held out his hand for it in silence.

He took it because he had been told to do so, without all the
childish chatter, without the rapturous delight that makes it so
attractive and satisfactory to give children gifts.

"As a peasant," her husband used to say. That cut her to the quick
every time he said it. Was Wölfchen really made of such different
material? No, Paul must not say "peasant." Wölfchen was not stupid,
only perhaps a little slow in thinking, and he was shrewd enough. He
had not been born in a large town, that was it; where they lived now
was just like the country.

"You peasant!" The next time his father said it--it was said in
praise and not to blame him, because he was pleased the boy kept his
little garden so well--Käte flew into a passion. Why? Her husband did
not understand the reason for it. Why should he not be pleased? Had not
the boy put a splendid fence round his garden? He had made a palisade
of hazel-sticks into which he had woven flexible willow-twigs, and then
he had covered the whole with pine branches to make it close. And he
had put beans and peas in his garden, which he had begged the cook to
give him; and now he meant to plant potatoes there as well. Had anybody
told him how to do it? No, nobody. The first-rate cook and the
housemaid were both from a town, what did they know about sowing peas
and planting potatoes?

"He's a born farmer," said the father laughing.

But the mother turned away as though in pain. She would much, much
rather have seen her son's garden a mass of weeds than that he should
plant, weed and water so busily.

She had made him a present of some flowers; but they did not
interest him and he was not so successful with them either.
There was only a large sunflower that grew and grew. It was soon as
high as the boy, soon even higher, and he often stood in front of it,
his childish face raised, gazing earnestly into its golden disc for
quite a long time.

When the sunflower's golden petals withered--then its seeds ripened
instead and were examined every day and finally gathered--Wolfgang went
to school. He was already in his seventh year, and was big and strong;
why should he not learn with other children now?

His mother had thought how wonderful it would be to teach him the
rudiments herself, for when she was a young girl with nothing to do at
home and a great wish to continue her studies, she had gone to a
training college and even passed her examination as a teacher with
distinction; but--perhaps that was too long ago, for her strength was
not equal to the task. Especially her patience. He made so little
progress, was so exceedingly slow. Was the boy stupid? No, but dull,
very dull. And it often seemed to her as though she were facing a wall
when she spoke to him.

"You are much too eager," said her husband. But how on earth was she
to make it clear to him that that was an "A" and that an "O," and how
was she to explain to him that if you put one and one together it makes
two without getting eager? She became excited, she took the ball-frame
and counted the blue and red balls that looked like round beads on a
string for the boy. She got hot and red, almost hoarse, and would have
liked to cry with impatience and discouragement, when Wölfchen sat
looking at her with his large eyes without showing any interest, and
still did not know that one bead and one bead more make two beads after
they had worked at it for hours.

She saw to her sorrow that she would have to give up the
lessons. "He'll do better with a master," said her husband,
consolingly. And it was better, although it could not exactly be termed
"good."

Wolfgang was not lazy, but his thoughts were always wandering.
Learning did not interest him. He had other things to think about:
would the last leaves in the garden have fallen when he got home from
school at noon? And would the starling, for whom he had nailed the
little box high up in the pine-tree, come again next spring? It had
picked off all the black berries from the elderberry, and had then gone
away screaming; if it did not find any more elderberries, what would it
eat then? And the boy's heart was heavy with grief--if only he had
given it a little bag of berries when it went away.

Now the pines in the Grunewald were covered with snow. When Wolfgang
had gone to school that morning, his knapsack on his back, the
housemaid at his side, the white layer had crackled and broken under
his boots. It was very cold. And then he had heard a bird's shriek,
that sounded like a hungry croak. The housemaid thought it was an
owl--pooh, what did she know about it? It was a raven, the hungry
beggar in the jet-black coat, like the one in the primer.

And the boy was thinking of it now as he sat on the bench, staring
with big eyes at the blackboard, on which the teacher was writing words
they were to find out. How nice it must be under the pines now. There
flew the raven; brushing the snow off the branches with its black
wings, so that it looked like powder as it fell. Where was he going to
fly to? His thoughts flew far, far away after the raven, as they had
done after the starling. The boy's eyes shone, his chest rose with the
deep breath he drew--at that moment the teacher called to him.

"Wolfgang, are you asleep with your eyes open? What's this?" The boy
gave a start, got red, then pale and knew nothing.

The other boys almost died of laughing--"Are you asleep with your
eyes open?"--that had been too funny.

The teacher did not punish him, but Wolfgang crept home as though he
had been punished. He had hidden from the housemaid, who always came to
fetch him--no, he would not go with her to-day. He had also run away
from his comrades--let them fight without him today, to-morrow he would
throw all the more snowballs at them.

He walked quite alone, turned off from the street and wandered about
aimlessly among the pines. He looked for the raven, but it was far
away, and so he began to run too, run as quickly as he could, and tore
the knapsack off his back with a loud cry, hurling it far from him up
into the broad branches of a pine, so that it hung there and nothing
but snow fell down silently in large lumps. That amused him. He filled
both his hands with snow, made hard balls of it and began to regularly
bombard the pine that kept his knapsack a prisoner. But it did not give
it up, and when he had grown hot and red and tired but very much
cheered, he had to go home without his knapsack.

The housemaid had been back a long time when he arrived. She opened
the door for him with a red face--she had run so hard after him--and an
angry look. "Hm," she said irritably, "you've been kept, I
suppose?"

He pushed her aside. "Hold your tongue!" He could not bear her at
that moment, when coming in from outside where everything had been so
quiet, so free.

His parents were already at table. His father frowned as he
looked at him, his mother asked in a voice of gentle reproach in which
there was also a little anxiety: "Where have you been so long? Lisbeth
has been looking for you everywhere."

"Well?" His father's voice sounded severe.

The boy did not give any answer, it seemed to him all at once as
though his tongue were paralysed. What should he tell those people
sitting indoors about what he had been doing outside?

"He's sure to have been kept at school, ma'am," whispered the
housemaid when she handed the meat. "I'll find it out from the other
boys to-morrow, and tell you about it, ma'am."

"Oh, you!" The boy jumped up; although she had whispered it in a low
voice, he had heard it all the same. His chair fell down behind him
with a crash, and rushing up to the girl with clenched fist he seized
hold of her so roughly that she gave a shrill scream and let the dish
fall out of her hand.

"You goose, you goose!" he howled in a loud voice, and wanted to
strike her. His father only pulled him away with difficulty.

"Wölfchen!" Käte's fork had fallen out of her hand with a clatter,
and she was staring at her boy with dilated eyes.

The maid complained bitterly. He was always like that, he was
unbearable, he had said before to her: "Hold your tongue!" No, she
could not put up with it, she would rather leave. And she ran out of
the room crying.

Paul Schlieben was extremely angry. "You are to be civil to
inferiors. You are to be polite to them, just because they have to
serve. Do you hear?" And he seized hold of the boy with a strong hand,
laid him across his knees and gave him the whipping he so well
deserved.

Wolfgang ground his teeth together and bore the punishment without
uttering a sound and without a tear.

But every stroke fell on his mother's heart. She felt as if she
herself had been beaten and severely bruised. When her husband took his
usual rest after the stormy dinner, smoked, read the paper and took a
little nap between whiles, she crept up to the nursery in which the boy
had been locked. Was he crying?

She turned the key softly--he was kneeling on the chair near the
window, his nose pressed flat against the pane, looking attentively out
at the snow. He did not notice her at all. Then she went away again
cautiously. She went downstairs again, but her mind was not
sufficiently at rest to read in her room; she crept about the house
softly as though she had no peace. Then she heard Lisbeth say to the
cook in the kitchen between the rattling of plates: "I shall certainly
not put up with it. Not from such a rude boy. What has he got to do
here?"

Käte stood rigid, overcome by a terror that paralysed her: what did
she know? She became glowing hot and then icy cold. "Not from such a
rude boy--what has he got to do here?" oh, God, was that the way she
spoke about him?

She ran up to the nursery; Wölfchen was still kneeling at the
window.

No other villa obstructed the view there as yet; from the window one
looked out on a large piece of waste ground, where dandelions and
nettles grew in the sand between hedge mustard in the summer time, but
where the snow lay now, deep and clean, untouched by any footstep. The
short winter evening was already drawing to a close, that white field
was the only thing that still glittered, and it seemed to the mother
that the child's face was very wan in the pale light of the luminous
snow.

"Wölfchen," she called softly. And then "Wölfchen, how could you say
'goose' and 'hold your tongue' to Lisbeth? Oh, for shame! Where did you
get those words from?" Her voice was gentle and sad as she questioned
him.

Then he turned round to her, and she saw how his eyes burned.
Something flickered in them, that looked like a terrified, restless
longing.

She noticed that as well, and quite against all rules of pedagogy
she opened her arms and whispered--after it had escaped from her lips
she did not know herself why she had said it, for he had everything,
everything his heart desired--"You poor child!"

And he ran into her arms.

They held each other tightly, heart beating against heart. They were
both sad, but neither of them knew the reason why, nor why the other
one was sad.

"It's not the whipping," he murmured.

She stroked his straight hair away from his forehead with her soft
hand; she did not ask him any more questions. For--did not something
rise out of that field covered with snow, hover outside the window and
lay its finger on its lips: "Be quiet, do not ask, do not touch
it"?

But she remained with the boy and played with him; she felt as
though she ought not to leave him alone to-day. Yes, she must pay still
more attention to him in the future. All at once the thought fell on
her heart like a heavy weight: she had already left him much too much
to himself. But then she consoled herself again: he was still so young,
his mind was still a piece of quite soft wax, which she could mould as
she liked. He must never again be allowed to stand at the window
staring out at that desolate field with such burning eyes. What was he
longing for? Was not a wealth of love showered on him? And
everything else that delights a child's heart?

She looked round his pretty room. Such a quantity of toys were piled
up in it, trains and steamers, tin soldiers and picture books and all
the newest games.

"Come, we'll play," she said.

He was quite ready to do so; she was surprised how quickly he had
forgotten his sorrow. Thank God, he was still quite an innocent,
unsuspecting child. But how restlessly he threw the toys about. "That's
stupid," and "that's tiresome"--nothing really absorbed his attention.
She soon felt quite exhausted with all her proposals and her endeavours
to induce him to play this or that game. She did not think she had been
so difficult to satisfy as a child. She had wanted to get up and go
away half a dozen times already--no, she really could not stand it any
longer, she had a frantic headache, it had got on her nerves, it was
certainly much easier to stand at the fire and cook or do housework
than play with a child--but her sense of duty and her love kept her
back every time.

She must not leave him alone, for--she felt it with a gloomy
dread--for then somebody else would come and take him away from
her.

She remained sitting with him, pale and exhausted; he had tormented
her a great deal. At last he found a woolly sheep that had been quite
forgotten in the corner of the toy cupboard, a dilapidated old toy from
his childhood with only three legs left. And he amused himself with
that; that pleased him more than the other costly toys. He sat on the
carpet as though he were quite a little child, held the sheep between
his knees and stroked it.

When he lay in bed at last, she still sat beside him holding his
hand. She sang the song with which she had so often sung him to
sleep:

           "Sleep sound, sweetest child,
            Yonder wind howls wild.
            Hearken, how the rain makes sprays
            And how neighbour's doggie bays.
            Doggie has gripped the man forlorn,
            Has the beggar's tatter torn--"

She sang it more and more softly. At last she thought he had fallen
asleep, but then he tore his hand away impatiently: "Stop that song!
I'm not a baby any longer!"

            *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

It was fortunate that there were no street boys in the Grunewald
colony, as Wölfchen would assuredly have played with them; as it was,
his playfellows were only a hall-porter's children. There was certainly
no want of nicer children to play with; school-fellows whose parents
lived in similar villas to theirs used to invite him; and the families
in Berlin, with whom the Schliebens were on friendly terms and who were
pleased when their children could get out to the Grunewald on their
holidays, often asked him to come and see them too.

All children liked to come to the shady garden, where Auntie Käte
was always so kind to them. There was always plenty of cakes and fruit
and hoops and balls and croquet and tennis, ninepins and gymnastic
appliances. On sunny afternoons gay laughter and shrieks used to ascend
high up into the green tops of the pines, but--Käte noticed it with
surprise--her boy, who was generally so wild, was the quietest of them
all on those occasions. He did not care for those visits. He did not
care for those well-behaved boys in white and blue sailor-suits, with
their fresh faces showing above their dazzling collars; he never felt
really at home with them. He would have preferred to have run away to a
place far away from there, where nobody else went except now and then a
beggar with a large bag, who would turn over every bit of paper
with his wire hook to see whether something of value had not been left
there the Sunday before. He would have liked to help that man. Or fill
the large bag with pine-cones.

But still Wolfgang had some friends. There was Hans Flebbe--his
father was coachman at the banker's, who owned the splendid villa on
the other side of the road and lived in Bellevuestrasse in Berlin in
the winter--and there were also Artur and Frida. But their father was
only porter in a villa that was let out to different families.

As soon as these three came home from school, they would stand
outside the Schliebens' villa. They could not be driven away, they
would wait there patiently until Wolfgang joined them.

"He's like a brother to my Hans," the coachman used to say, and he
would greet him with a specially condescending flick of his whip from
his high seat. And the porter and his wife used to state with much
satisfaction: "Yes, old Schlieben always touches his hat, and she, his
lady, also says 'how do you do?' to us in a very friendly style, but
the little one, oh, he's quite different."

Those were wild games the four comrades played together, and in
which Frida was reckoned to be quite a boy: catch, hide and seek, but
best of all, robbers and policemen. How Wolf's eyes sparkled when he,
as the robber captain, gave the policeman, Hans Flebbe, a kick in the
stomach, so that he fell backwards on the ground and lay for a time
without moving from pain.

"I've shot him," he said to his mother proudly.

Käte, who had been called to the window by the noisy shrieks of the
children who were rushing about wildly in the waste field behind the
villa, had beckoned to her boy to come in. He had come unwillingly; but
he had come. Now he stood breathless before her, and she
stroked the damp hair away from the face that was wet with
perspiration: "What a sight you look! And here--look."

She pointed reproachfully to his white blouse that was covered with
dirt. Where in all the world had he made himself so filthy? there were
no real pools there. And his trousers. The right leg was slit open the
whole way down, the left one had a three-cornered hole in the knee.

Pooh, that was nothing. He wanted to rush away again, he was
trembling with impatience; his playfellows were crouching behind the
bush, they dared not come out before he, their captain, came back to
them. He strove against the hand that was holding him; but his
struggles were of no avail that time, his father came out of the next
room.

"You are to stop here. You ought to feel ashamed of yourself to
resist your mother like that. Off with you, go to your room and prepare
your lessons for tomorrow."

Paul Schlieben spoke sharply. It had made him angry to see how the
boy had striven with hands and feet against his delicate wife.

"You rude boy, I'll teach you how to behave to your mother.
Here"--he seized hold of him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him
up to her--"here, beg her pardon. Kiss your good mother's hand. And
promise not to be so wild again, not to behave like a street-boy. Be
quick--well, are you soon going to do it?"

The veins on the man's forehead began to swell with anger. What a
stubborn fellow he was. There he stood, his blouse torn open at front
so that you could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest that was wet
with perspiration--he was not breathing quietly even now, he
was still panting from the rough game--and looking so wild, so
turbulent, not at all like the child of nice parents. This could not go
on any longer.

"You must not tear about like that any more, do you hear?" said his
father severely. "I forbid it. Play other games. You have your garden,
your gymnastic appliances and a hundred things others would envy you.
And now come here, beg your mother's pardon."

The boy went to his mother. She met him half way, she held out her
hand to him already. He kissed it, he mumbled also, "I won't do it
again," but the man did not hear any repentance in his voice. There was
something in the sullen way he said it that irritated him. And he lost
control of himself a little.

"That wasn't an apology. Ask your mother's pardon again--and
distinctly."

The boy repeated it.

"And now promise that you will not rush about like that again. 'Dear
mother, I promise'--well?"

Not a word, no promise.

"What's the meaning of this?" The man shook the boy, beside himself
with anger. But the boy pressed his lips together. He gave his father
an upward look out of his dark eyes.

The woman caught the look--oh, God, that was the look!--that
look--the woman's look!

She put both her arms round the boy protectingly: "Don't, don't
irritate him." She drew him nearer to her and covered his eyes with her
hands, so that he had to close them, and then she cast an imploring
glance at her husband: "Go, do go."

Paul Schlieben went, but he shook his head angrily.

"You'll see what your training will make of the boy." He raised his
hand menacingly once more: "Boy, I tell you, you'll have to obey." And
then he closed the door behind him--he could not even have his
midday rest undisturbed now.

He heard his wife's voice in the next room. It sounded so gentle and
trembled as though with a secret dread. "Wölfchen, Wölfchen, aren't you
my good boy?"

No answer. Good heavens, had the unfeeling scamp no answer to give
to that question uttered in that tone?

Then again the soft trembling voice: "Won't you be my good boy?"

If the boy did not answer now, then--! The blood surged to his head
as he listened against his will, his fingers twitched, he wanted to
jump up and rush in again and--ah, he must have answered now. It was
probably nothing but a silent nod, but Käte's voice sounded intensely
happy: "There you see, I knew you were my good boy, my darling child,
my--my----"

Hm, it was certainly not necessary for Käte to lavish such endearing
tones on the boy, after he had just been so naughty. And she must have
kissed him, put her arms round him. Her voice had died away in a tender
breath.

Paul Schlieben did not hear anything more now; neither the rustling
of her dress nor any other sound--ah, she was probably whispering to
him now. How she spoiled the scamp.

But now--somebody was weeping softly. Was that Wolf's hard, defiant
voice? Yes, he was actually crying loudly now, and between his sobs he
jerked out pitifully--you could hardly understand what he was saying:
"I had to--to shoot him--he's the policeman, you know."

And now everything was quiet again. The man took up his paper once
more, which he had thrown aside before, and commenced to read. But he
could not fix his attention on it, his thoughts wandered obstinately
again and again to the next room. Had the scamp come to his
senses now? Did he see that he had been naughty? And was not Käte much
too weak? There was nothing to be heard, nothing whatever. But
still--was not that the door that creaked? No, imagination. Everything
was quiet.

After waiting a little longer he went into the next room. It was
indeed very quiet there, for Käte was quite alone. She was sitting at
the window, her hands in her lap, pondering. Her thoughts seemed to be
far away.

"Where's the boy?"

She gave a terrified start, and thrust both hands forward as though
to ward off something.

He saw now that she was pale. The vexation she had had on account of
the child had probably shaken her a good deal--just let him wait until
he got hold of him, he should do twice as many sums to-day as a
punishment.

"Is the boy at his lessons?"

She shook her head and got red. "No."

"No? Why not?" He looked at her in amazement. "Didn't I tell him
that he was to go to his lessons at once?"

"You said so. But I told him to run away. Paul, don't be angry." She
saw that he was about to fly into a passion, and laid her hand on his
arm soothingly. "If you love me, leave him. Oh Paul, believe me, do
believe me when I say he can't help it, he must run about, rush about,
be out of doors--he must."

"You always have some excuse. Just think of the story of the
knapsack when first he went to school--the rascal had thrown it up into
a pine-tree. If a labourer had not found it by accident and brought it
to us, because he read our name on the primer, we might have
looked for it for a long time. You excused that--well, that was nothing
very bad--a fit of wantonness--but now you are excusing something quite
different; and everything." The man, who generally yielded to his wife
in all points, grew angry in his grave anxiety. "I implore you, Käte,
don't be so incredibly weak with the boy. Where will it lead to?"

"It will lead him to you and me." She pointed gravely to him and
herself. And then she laid her hand on her heart with an expression of
deep emotion.

"What do you mean? I don't understand you. Please express yourself a
little more clearly, I'm not in a humour to guess riddles."

"If you can't guess it, you'll not understand it either if I say it
more clearly." She bent her head and then went back to her former seat.
But she was not lost in thought any longer, it seemed to him as if she
were leaning forward to catch the shrill shouts of triumph that rose
high above the roof from the waste field at the back of the house.

"You'll never be able to manage the boy."

"Oh yes, I shall."

"Of course you will, if you let him do exactly what he likes." The
man strode quickly out of the room; his anger was getting the mastery
of him.

Paul Schlieben was seriously angry with his wife, perhaps for the
first time in their married life. How could Käte be so unreasonable?
take so little notice of his orders, as though he had never given
them--nay, even act in direct opposition to him? Oh, the rascal was
cunning enough, he drew his conclusions from it already. And if he did
not do so as yet, still he felt instinctively what a support he had in
his mother. It was simply incredible how weak Käte was.

His wife's soft sensitive nature, which had attracted him to
her in the first instance and which had had the same charm for him
all the years they had been married, now seemed exaggerated all at
once--childish. Yes, this timorousness, this everlasting dread of what
was over and done with was childish. They had not heard anything more
about the boy's mother, why then conjure up her shade on all occasions?
They had the boy's birth and baptismal certificates safely in their
hands, and the Venn was far away--he would never see it--why then this
constant, tremulous anxiety? There was no reason whatever for it. They
lived in such pleasant surroundings, their financial position was so
sound, Wolf possessed everything that fills and gladdens a child's
heart, that it was real madness for Käte to suppose that he had a kind
of longing for his home. How in the world should he have got that
longing? He had no idea that this was not really his home. It was sad
that Käte was so hypersensitive. She could positively make others
nervous as well.

And the man passed his hand over his forehead, as though to drive
disagreeable thoughts away with a movement of his hand. He lighted a
cigar. It was an extra fine one to-day, those he generally left for his
guests; he had the feeling that he must have something to help him over
an unpleasant hour. For the thing was unpleasant, really unpleasant and
difficult, even if he hoped in time to solve the question of how to
train such a child satisfactorily. At any rate not as Käte was doing.
That was clear to him already.

Paul Schlieben sat in the corner of the sofa in his study, blowing
blue rings of smoke into the air. His brows were still knit. He had
come home very tired from the office that day, where there had been all
sorts of complications--quite enough annoyance--he had had to dictate
some hurried letters, had not allowed himself a moment's
repose, and had hoped to have a pleasant rest at home--but in vain.
Strange how one child can alter the whole household, one's whole life.
If the boy had not been there?... Ah, then he would have had a short
peaceful nap by now, stretched out on the divan with the newspaper in
front of his face, and would be going across to Käte's room for a cosy
chat and a cup of coffee, which she prepared herself so gracefully on
the humming Viennese coffee-machine. He had always liked to sit and
watch her slender, well-cared-for hands move about so noiselessly. It
was a pity.

He sighed. But then he conquered the feeling: no, one ought not to
wish he were away because of a momentary annoyance. How many happy
hours little Wölfchen had given them. It had been charming to watch his
first steps, to listen to his first connected words. And had not Käte
been very happy to have him--oh, who said _been_ happy?--she was still
so. Nothing could be compared to the boy. And that the hours of
cloudless happiness they had had through him were not so numerous now
as formerly was quite natural. He was not the same little boy any
longer, who had taken his first bold run from that corner over there to
this sofa, and had clung to his father's legs rejoicing at his own
daring; that was all. He was now beginning to be an independent person,
a person with wishes of his own, no longer with those that had been
inculcated; he showed a will of his very own. Now he wanted this and
now he wanted that, and no longer what his teachers wanted. But was not
that natural? On the whole, when a child begins to go to school, what a
great many changes take place. One would have to make allowances, even
if one did not wish to have one's whole way of living influenced by it
first the parents, then the child.

The man felt how he gradually became calmer. A boy--what a
compound of wildness, roughness, unrestraint, ay, unmannerliness is
included in that word! And all, all who were now men had once been
boys.

His cigar went out; he had forgotten to smoke it. The man thought of
his own boyhood with a strangely gentle feeling not entirely free from
a faint longing. Let him only be honest: had he not also rushed about
and made a terrible noise, dirtied himself, got hot and torn his
trousers and been up to pranks, more than enough pranks?

Strange how he all at once remembered some of the severe lectures he
had had given him and the tears he had forced from his mother's eyes;
he also very clearly remembered the whipping he had once got for
telling a lie. His father had said at the time--all at once he seemed
to hear his voice, which had generally sounded anything but solemn, in
fact very commonplace, but which had then been ennobled by the gravity
of the situation, echo in the room: "Boy, I can forgive you everything
else except lies." Ah, it had been very uncomfortable that day in the
small office, where his father had leant against the high wooden desk
holding the stick behind his back. He had pushed the little cap he wore
on account of his baldness to one side in his agitation, his friendly
blue eyes had looked at him penetratingly, and at the same time
sadly.

"One can forgive everything except lies"--well, had the boy, had
Wolfgang told a lie? Certainly not. He had only been naughty, as the
best children are now and then.

The man felt ashamed of himself: and he, he had been so displeased
with the boy simply because he had been naughty?

He got up from the sofa, threw the remains of his cigar into the
ash-tray and went out to look for Wolfgang.

He came across the four in the height of the game. They had lighted
a small fire on the waste piece of ground close behind the garden
railing, so that the overhanging bushes in the garden formed a kind of
roof over them.

They were crouching close together; they were in camp now. Frida had
some potatoes in her pinafore, which were to be roasted in the ashes;
but the fire would not burn, the twigs only smouldered. Wolfgang lay on
his stomach on the ground, resting on his elbows, and was blowing with
all the strength of his lungs. But it was not enough, the fire would
not burn on any account.

Paul Schlieben had come up softly, the children had not noticed him
at all in their eagerness. "Won't it burn?" he asked.

Wolfgang jerked himself up, and was on his feet in a moment. He had
been red and fresh-looking, but now he grew pale, his frank look fell
timidly, a miserable expression lengthened his round, childish face and
made him look older.

"Have I to go in?" It sounded pitiful.

The man pretended not to hear the question; he had really intended
fetching him in, but all at once he hesitated to say so. It was hard
for the boy to have to go away now before the fire burnt, before the
potatoes were roasted. So he said nothing, but stooped down, and as he
was not far enough down even then he knelt down and blew the fire, that
was faintly crackling, with all the breath he had in his broad chest.
Sparks began to leap out at once, and a small flame shot up and soon
turned into a big one.

There was a shout of glee. Frida hopped about in the circle, her
plaits flying: "It's burning, it's burning!" Artur and Hans chimed in
too; they also hopped from the one foot to the other, clapped their
dirty hands and shouted loudly: "It's burning, it's burning!"

"Be quiet, children." The man was amused at their happiness. "Bring
me some twigs, but very dry ones," he ordered, full of eagerness, too,
to keep alive this still uncertain flame, that now disappeared, now
flared up again. He blew and poked and added more twigs. The wind drove
the smoke into his face so that he had to cough, but he wiped his eyes,
that were full of tears, and did not mind that his trousers got wet
green spots from kneeling on the ground, and that chance passers-by
would be greatly surprised to see Herr Paul Schlieben occupied in that
manner. He, too, found it fun now to keep up a fire for roasting
potatoes under the pale, blue autumn sky, in which the white clouds
were scudding along and the twittering swallows flying. He had never
known such a thing--he had always lived in a town--but it was splendid,
really splendid.

The children brought twigs. Wolfgang took them and broke them across
his knee--crack!--the sticks broke like glass. What a knack the boy had
at it.

The flames flared up, the little fire emitted an agreeable warmth;
one could warm one's hands at it--ah, that was really very nice.

And then the man followed the smoke, which the wind raised from the
field like a light cloud, with his eyes. It seemed grey at first, but
the higher it flew the lighter it became, and the friendly sunshine
shone through it, transforming it. It floated upwards, ever upwards,
ever more immaterial, more intangible, until it flew away entirely--a
puff, a whiff.

Now it was about time to bury the potatoes; Wolfgang busied himself
with it. They had not poked the fire any more, the flame had sunk down,
but the ashes hid all the heat. The children stood round with wide-open
eyes, quite quiet, almost holding their breath and yet trembling with
expectation: when would the first potatoes be done? Oh, did
they not smell nice already? They distended their nostrils so as to
smell them. But Paul Schlieben brushed his trousers now and prepared to
go away--it would take too long before the potatoes were ready. He felt
something that resembled regret. But it really would not do for him to
stand about any longer; what would people think of him?

He was himself again now. "That's enough now," he said, and he went
away, carefully avoiding the impracticable parts of the field where the
puddles were. Then he heard steps close behind him. He turned round.
"Wolf? Well, what do you want?"

The boy looked at him sadly out of his dark eyes.

"Are you going home too?" There was astonishment in the man's
question--he had not said that the boy was to go with him.

The pines emitted a splendid smell, you could breathe the air so
freely, so easily, and that pale blue sky with the fleecy white clouds
had something wonderfully clear about it, something that filled the
eyes with light. White threads floated over the countryside, driven
from the clean east, and hung fast to the green branches of the pines,
shimmering there like a fairy web. And the sun was still agreeably warm
without burning, and an invigorating pungent odour streamed from the
golden-coloured leaves of the bushes that enclosed the gardens at the
back.

The man drew a deep breath; he felt as if he had suddenly grown ten,
twenty--no, thirty years younger. Even more.

"Well, run along," he said.

The boy looked at him as if he had not quite understood him.

"Run," he said once more curtly, smiling at the same time.

Then the boy gave a shout, such a shrill, triumphant shout that his
playfellows, who were crouching round the potato fire, joined in
immediately without knowing why.

There was a gleam in the dark eyes of the boy, who loved freedom,
the free air and to run about free. He did not say his father had made
him happy, but he drew a deep breath as if a load had fallen off his
chest. And the man noticed something in his face, that was now
commencing to grow coarser, to lose the soft contours of childhood and
get the sharp ones of youth, that made it refined and beautiful.

Wolfgang flew back across the field as quick as lightning, as if
shot from a tightly strung bow.

The man went back into his garden. He opened the gate cautiously so
that it should not creak, and closed it again just as quietly--Käte
need not know where he had been. But she was already standing at the
window.

There was something touchingly helpless in her attitude, such an
anxious scrutiny in her eyes--no, she need not look at him like that,
he was not angry with her.

And he nodded to her.

When the housemaid asked whether the master did not know where the
young gentleman was--she had had the milk warmed three times already
for him and had run up and downstairs with it--he said in a low voice
with an excuse in the tone: "Oh, that does not matter, Lisbeth. Warm it
for a fourth time later on. It is so healthy for him to be out of
doors."



BOOK II



CHAPTER VIII


It was Frida Lämke's birthday. "If you may come we are to have buns
with raisins in, but if you mayn't there'll only be rolls like we have
every day," she said to her friend Wolfgang. "Mind you get them to let
you come." It was of most importance to her that Wolfgang came; no
differences were made on account of Flebbe, although he always said he
was going to marry her.

And Wolfgang teased his mother. "Let me go--why not? I should like
to so much--why mayn't I?"

Yes, why not? He had kept dinning this "why not?" into her ears for
the last twenty-four hours; it had quite worn her out. What should she
say to him? that she disliked Frida? But what had the girl done that
she had taken a dislike to her? Nothing. She always curtseyed politely,
was always tidily dressed, had even plaited the blue ribbon into her
fair hair with a certain taste. The parents were also quite respectable
people, and still--these children always hung about the streets,
always, both summer and winter. You could pass their house whenever you
liked, those Lämkes were always outside their door. Was it the life of
the streets this snub-nosed girl, who was very developed for her age,
reminded her of? No, he must not go to those people's house, go down
into the atmosphere of the porter's room.

"I don't wish you to go there," she said. She had not the heart to
say: "I won't allow it," when he looked at her with those beseeching
eyes.

And the boy saw his advantage. He felt distinctly: she is struggling
with herself; and he followed it up with cruel pertinacity.

"Let me--oh, do let me. I shall be so sorry if I can't. Then I
shan't care to do anything. Why mayn't I? Mammy, I'll love you so, if
you'll only let me go. Do let me--will you? But I will."

She could not escape from him any more, he followed her wherever she
went, he took hold of her dress, and even if she forbade him to ask her
any more, she felt that he only thought of the one thing the whole
time. So he forced her in that way.

Paul Schlieben was not so averse to his accepting the invitation
from the Lämkes. "Why not? They're quite respectable people. It won't
harm the boy to cast a glance at those circles for once in a way. I
also went to our hall-porter's home as a boy. And why not?"

She wanted to say: "But that was something quite different, there
was no danger in your case"--but then she thought better of it and said
nothing. She did not want to bring him her fears, her doubts, her
secret gnawing dread so soon again, as there was no manifest reason for
them, and they could not be explained as every other feeling can be
after all. Something like a depressing mist always hung over her. But
why should she tell him so? She neither wanted to be scolded nor
laughed at for it; she would resent both. He was not the same man he
used to be. Oh--she felt it with a slight bitterness--how he used to
understand her. He had shared every emotion with her, every vibration
of her soul. But he had not the gift of understanding her
thoughts now--or did she perhaps not understand him any longer?

But he was still her dear husband, her good, faithful husband whom
she loved more than anyone else in the world--no, whom she loved as she
loved Wölfchen. The child, oh, the child was the sun round which her
life revolved.

If Paul only had been as he was formerly. She had to cast a covert
glance at him very frequently now, and, with a certain surprise, also
grow accustomed to his outward appearance. Not that his broadening-out
did not suit him; the slight stoutness his slender figure with its
formerly somewhat stiff but always perfect carriage had assumed suited
his years, and the silver threads that commenced to gleam in his beard
and at his temples. It suited also the comfortable velvet coat he
always put on as soon as he came home, suited his whole manner of
being. Strange that anybody could become such a practical person, to
whom everything relating to business had formerly been such a burden,
nay, even most repugnant. He would not have picked up the strange child
from the Venn now, and--Käte gave her husband a long look--he would not
have taken it home with him now as a gift from fairyland.

Had the years also changed her in the same manner? Her looking-glass
did not show her any very great change. There was still the same
girlish figure, which seemed twice as slender beside her husband's
stoutness. Her hair was still fair, and she still blushed like a young
girl to whom a stray look is enough to make the blood, that flows so
easily, invade her delicate cheeks. Yes, she had still remained young
outwardly. But her mind was often weary. Wolf caused her too much
anxiety. A mother, who was ten, fifteen years younger than she, would
not perhaps feel how every nerve becomes strained when dealing
with such a child as she did. Would not such a mother often have
laughed when she felt ready to cry?

Oh, what a boisterous, inexhaustible vital power there was in that
boy! She was amazed, bewildered, exhausted by it. Was he never tired?
Always on his legs, out of bed at six, always out, out. She heard him
tossing about restlessly at daybreak. He slept in the next room to
theirs, and the door between the rooms always stood open, although her
husband scolded her for it. The boy was big enough, did not want
supervising. They need not have that disturbance at night, at any
rate.

But she wanted to watch over his sleep too; she must do so. She
often heard him talk in his dreams, draw his breath so heavily, as
though something were distressing him. Then she would slip out of bed,
softly, softly, so that her husband should not hear her; she did not
light any candle, she groped her way into the other room on bare feet.
And then she would stand at his bedside. He still had the pretty railed
cot from his first boyhood--but how long would it be before it was too
small? How quickly he was growing, how terribly quickly. She passed her
hand cautiously and lightly over the cover, and felt the boy's long
body underneath it. Then he began to toss about, groan, stiffen himself
like one who is struggling with something. What could be the matter
with him? Then he spoke indistinctly. Of what was he dreaming so
vividly? He was wet through with perspiration.

If only she could see him. But she dared not light a candle. What
should she say to her husband if he, awakened by the light, asked her
what she was doing there? And Wölfchen would also wake and ask her what
she wanted.

Yes, what did she really want? She had no answer ready even for
herself. She would only have liked to know what was occupying his mind
in his dream to such an extent that he sighed and struggled. Of what
was he dreaming? Of whom? Where was he in his dream?

She trembled as she stood at his bedside on her bare feet listening.
And then she bent over him so closely that his breath, uneven and hot,
blew into her face, and she breathed on him again--did not they mingle
their breath in that manner? Was she not giving him breath of her
breath in that manner?--and whispered softly and yet so earnestly,
imploringly and at the same time urgently: "Your mother is here, your
mother is near you."

But he threw himself over to the other side with a jerk, turned his
back on her and mumbled something. Nothing but incomprehensible words,
rarely anything that was distinct, but even that was enough; she felt
he was not there, not with her, that he was far away. Did his soul seek
the home he did not know in his dreams? that he could not even know
about, and that still had such a powerful influence that it drew him
there even unconsciously?

Käte stood at Wolfgang's bedside tortured by such an anxiety as she
had never felt before: a mother and still not mother. Alas, she was
only a strange woman at the bedside of a strange child.

She crept back to her bed and buried her throbbing brows deep in the
pillows. She felt her heart beat tumultuously, and she scolded herself
for allowing her thoughts to dwell on such unavailing things. She did
not change anything by it, it only made her weary and sad.

When Käte rose after such a night she felt her husband's eyes
resting on her anxiously, and her hands trembled as she coiled
up her thick hair. It was fortunate that she dropped a hair-pin, then
she could stoop quickly and withdraw her tired face with the dark lines
under the eyes from his scrutinising glance.

"I'm not at all satisfied with my wife's health again," Paul
Schlieben complained to the doctor. "She's in a terribly nervous state
again."

"Really?" Dr. Hofmann's friendly face became energetic. "I'll tell
you one thing, my dear friend, you must take vigorous measures against
it at once."

"That's no use." The man shook his head. "I know my wife. It's the
boy's doing, that confounded boy!"

And he took Wolfgang in hand. "Now listen, you must not always be
worrying your mother like that. If I notice once more that she is
grieving about you because you are naughty, you shall see what I'll do
to you."

Did he worry his mother? Wolfgang looked very blank. And surely it
was not naughty of him to want to go to the Lämkes? It worried him to
have to sit indoors, whilst the wind was whistling outside and playing
about with one's hair in such a jolly manner. And it worried him, too,
that he was not going to the Lämkes that day.

"Well then, go," said Käte. She even drove into Berlin before dinner
and bought a doll, a pretty doll with fair locks, eyes that opened and
shut, and a pink dress. "Take it to Frida for her birthday when you
go," she said in the afternoon, putting it into the boy's hands. "Stop!
Be careful!"

He had seized hold of it impetuously, he was so delighted to be able
to bring Frida something. And in a rare fit of emotion--he was no
friend of caresses--he put up his face in an outburst of gratitude and
let his mother kiss him. He did not want her kiss, but he
submitted to it, she felt that very well, but still she was glad, and
she followed him with her eyes with a smile that lighted up her whole
face.

"But you must be home again before dark," she called out to him at
the last moment. Had he heard her?

How he ran off, as light-footed as a stag. She had never seen any
child run so quickly. He threw up his straight legs that his heels
touched his thighs every time. The wind blew his broad-brimmed sailor
hat back, then he tore it off and ran on bareheaded, he was in such a
hurry.

What was it that drew him so powerfully to those people?

The smile disappeared from Käte's face; she left the window.

Wolfgang was happy. He was sitting with the Lämkes, in the room in
which they also did the cooking when the weather was cold. The parents'
bed was divided off by means of a curtain, Frida slept on the sofa, and
Artur in the little room next to it in which were also kept the shovels
and brooms which Lämke used for cleaning the house and street.

It was not winter yet, still pleasant autumn, but the room was
already warm and cosy. The stronger smell of the coffee, which Frau
Lämke was making in the large enamelled pot, mingled with the delicate
fragrance of the pale monthly rose and carnation, myrtle and geranium,
which had been pushed close to the window that was almost level with
the ground and were all in flower. At home Wolfgang never got coffee,
but he got some there; and he sipped it as he saw the others do, only
he was even more delighted with it than they. And no fine pastry had
ever tasted so good as did that plain bun, that was more like bread
than like a cake. He ate it with his mouth open, and when Mrs.
Lämke pushed a second one to him, the guest of honour, he took it with
radiant eyes.

Frau Lämke felt much flattered at his visit. But she had not made
much of the doll; she had taken it from Frida at once and locked it
into the cupboard: "So that you don't smash it at once. Besides, your
father isn't a gentleman that you can play with dolls every day." But
later on when her husband came down from the lodge, in which he sat in
his leisure hours mending boots and shoes, to drink a cup of coffee and
eat a bun on Frida's birthday, the doll was fetched out again and shown
him.

"Fine, isn't it? She's got it from Wolfgang's mamma. Just look,
Lämke"--the woman lifted the doll's pink dress up and showed the white
petticoat trimmed with a frill edged with narrow lace--"such trimming.
Just like that I sewed round the dress Frida wore at her christening.
She was the first one; bless you, and you think at the time it's
something wonderful. Oh dear!"--she sighed and laid the doll back in
the cupboard in which the clean pillowcases and Frida's and her Sunday
hats were together with all kinds of odds and ends--"how time flies.
Now she's already nine."

"Ten," corrected Frida. "I'm ten to-day, mother."

"Right--dear me, are you already ten?" The woman laughed and shook
her head, surprised at her own forgetfulness. And then she nodded to
her husband: "Do you still remember, Lämke, when she was born?"

"If I remember!" he said, pouring another cup out of the
inexhaustible coffee-pot. "Those were nice carryings-on when she was
born--none of that again, thanks. The girl gave you a lot of trouble.
And me too; I was terribly afraid. But that's ten years since, old
woman--why, it's almost forgotten."

"And if it had happened a hundred years ago I shouldn't have
forgotten it, oh no." The woman put out her hand as though to ward off
something. "I was just going to make myself some coffee about four
o'clock in the afternoon, like to-day, I had got such a longing for it,
and then it started. I just got as far as the passage--do you remember,
you were still working in Stiller's workshop at the time, and we lived
in the Alte Jakob, fifth storey to the left?--and I knocked at
Fritze's, the necktie maker's, whose door was opposite ours, and said:
'Oh, please,' I said, 'send your little one as quickly as you can to
Frau Wadlern, 10, Spittelmarkt, she knows all about it'--oh dear, how
bad I felt. And I fell down on the nearest chair; they had the greatest
difficulty to get me home again. And now it began, I could not control
myself however much I tried; I believe they heard me scream three
houses off. And it lasted, it lasted--evening came on--you came
home--it was midnight--five, six, seven in the morning--then at last at
nine o'clock Frau Wadlern said: 'The child, it'll soon be----'"

"That's enough now, mother," interrupted the man, glancing sideways
at the children, who were sitting very quietly round the table
listening, with wide-open, inquisitive eyes. "All that's over long ago,
the girl's here, and has been a credit to you so far."

"She was born at eleven sharp," said Frau Lämke dreamily, nodding
her head at the same time and then drawing a deep breath as if she had
climbed a high mountain. And then, overwhelmed by the pain and pleasure
of a memory that was still so extremely vivid after the lapse of ten
years, she called her daughter, her first-born, to come to her on this
her tenth birthday.

"Come here, Frida." And she gave her a kiss.

Frida, who was quite abashed at this unexpected caress,
giggled as she cast a glance at her brother Artur and the two other
boys, and then ran to the door: "Can we go and play now?"

"Be off with you."

Then they rushed out of the dark cellar, where the Lämkes lived, in
high spirits.

It was so light in the street, the sun shone brightly, a fresh wind
was blowing and somebody was flying a kite far away across the field.
There were very few people on foot and no carriages. The road belonged
to them, and they rushed to it with a loud hallo. The one who reached
the lamp-post at the corner first was captain.

Wolfgang had never allowed anyone to deprive him of this honour
before, but he had to be policeman to-day, he had been the last. He had
followed the others slowly and silently. He had got something in his
head to think about, which made him dull and hindered him from running;
he had to think about it the whole time. He could not get rid of it
even when he was in the midst of his favourite game; the only time he
forgot it was when he was having a good scuffle with Hans Flebbe. The
latter had scratched him in the face, and so he tore a handful of his
hair out. They gripped hold of each other near the next garden-gate.

Artur, a feeble little creature, had not taken part in the fight,
but he stood with his hands in his pockets giving advice in a
screeching voice to the two who fought in silence.

"Give him it hard, Flebbe. Your fist under his nose--hard."

"On with you, Wolfgang. Settle him. Show him what you can do."

Frida hopped from one leg to the other, laughing, her fair plait
dancing on her back. But all at once her laugh became somewhat
forced and anxious: Hans, who was several years older than Wolfgang,
had got him down on the ground and was hammering him in the face with
his fist.

"Flebbe, you--!" She pulled his blouse, and as that did not help she
nimbly put her foot out. He stumbled over it, and Wolfgang, quickly
taking advantage of it, swung himself up and belaboured his enemy.

It was no game any longer, no ordinary scuffle between two boys.
Wolfgang felt his face burn like fire, he had a scratch on his cheek
that went down to his chin, there were sparks before his eyes. All that
had made him so silent before was forgotten, he felt a wild delight and
gave a loud roar.

"Wolfgang, Wolfgang, no, that's not fair," cried the umpire. "That's
no longer fun." Artur prepared to catch hold of Wolfgang, who was
kneeling on his opponent's chest, by his two legs.

A jerk and off he flew. Wolf now turned against him, trembling with
rage; his black eyes gleamed. This was no longer a well-dressed child
of better-class parents, this was quite an elementary, unbridled,
unconquered force. He snorted, he panted--at that moment somebody
called.

"Wolfgang, Wolfgang."

"Wolfgang," cried Frida warningly, "mother's calling. And your maid
is standing near her beckoning."

Frau Lämke's voice was again heard, coming from the door of her
house: "Wolfgang, Wolfgang." And now Lisbeth's sharp tones were also
heard: "Well, are you soon coming? You're to come home."

Frau Lämke laughed. "Oh, leave them, they were so happy." But she
got a fright all the same when she saw the boy's dirty clothes, and
began to brush them. "My goodness, what a sight your pretty blouse
looks--and the trousers." She turned red, and still redder when
she noticed the fiery scratch on the young gentleman's cheek. "They've
made a nice mess of you, the brats. Just you wait until I get hold of
you." She shook her fist at Hans Flebbe and her own children, but her
threat was not meant seriously. Then she said to Lisbeth in an
undertone and with a twitching smile round the corners of her mouth, as
she stood there motionless with indignation: "Wild brats, aren't they?
Well, it'll always be like that, we were all like that when we were
young." And, turning to Wolfgang again, she passed her gnarled hand
over his fiery scratch: "That was fine fun, eh, Wolfgang?"

"Yes," he said from the bottom of his heart. And when he saw her
looking at him with eyes so friendly and full of comprehension, a great
liking for the woman sprang up in his heart.

It had been a splendid afternoon. But he did not speak of it as he
went home with Lisbeth; she would have been sure to have turned up her
nose at it.

"Hm, the mistress is nice and angry," said Lisbeth--she never said
anything but "the mistress" when speaking to the boy. "Why did you stop
there such an everlasting time? Didn't you hear the mistress say you
were to come home before it was dark?"

He did not answer. Let her chatter, it was not at all true. He
stared past her into the twilight. But when he came into the room on
reaching home, he noticed that his mother had waited for him. She was
certainly not angry, but his evening meal, an egg, a ham sandwich, the
milk in a silver mug, everything neatly prepared, was already there,
and she sat opposite his place with her hands folded on the white table
cloth, frowning impatiently.

The large hanging-lamp, which cast a bright light on the
table and made her bent head gleam like gold, did not brighten up her
face.

His mother was in silk, in light silk, in a dress trimmed with lace,
which only had something that looked like a very transparent veil over
the neck and arms. Oh, now he remembered, she was to meet his father,
who had not come home to dinner that day, in town at eight o'clock, and
go to a party with him. Oh, that was why he had had to come home so
early. As if he could not have got into bed alone.

"You've come so late," she said.

"You could have gone," he said.

"You know, my child, that I'm uneasy if I don't know that you are at
home." She sighed: "How could I have gone?"

He looked at her in surprise: why did she say that? Had somebody
been telling tales about him again? Why was she so funny?

He gazed at her with wide-open eyes, as though she were a perfect
stranger to him in that dress that left her neck and arms so bare. He
put his food into his mouth lost in thought, and munched it slowly. All
at once he had to think a great deal of what he had heard Frau Lämke
tell. His father and mother had never told anything about when _he_ was
born.

And suddenly he stopped eating and launched the question into the
stillness of the room, into the stillness that reigned between him and
her: "When I was born, did it last such a long time too?"

"When what?--who?--you?" She stared at him.

She did not seem to have understood him. So he quickly swallowed the
food he still had in his mouth and said very loudly and distinctly:
"Did it last such a long time when I was born? It lasted very long when
Frida was. Did you scream too, like Frau Lämke?"

"I?--who?--I?" She turned crimson and then very pale. She closed her
eyes for a moment, she felt dizzy; there was a buzzing in her ears. She
jumped up from her chair, she felt she must run away, and still she
could not. She clutched hold of the table with shaking hands, but the
strong oak table had turned into something that shook uncertainly, that
moved up and down, slid about. What--what was the boy saying? O
God!

She bit her lips, drew a deep breath, and was about to say: "Leave
off asking such stupid questions," and yet could not say it. She
struggled with herself. At last she jerked out: "Nonsense. Be quick,
finish eating. Then off to bed at once." Her voice sounded quite
hoarse.

The boy's astonished look fell on her once more. "Why are you all at
once so--so--so horrid? Can't I even ask a question?" And he pushed his
plate aside sulkily and stopped eating.

Why did she not answer him? Why did she not tell him something like
what Frau Lämke had told her Frida? Had he not been born as well? And
had not his mother been pleased, too, when he was born? It was very
nasty of her that she did not tell him anything about it. Could she not
see how much, how awfully much he wanted to know something about
it?

A burning curiosity was aroused in the child all at once. It
tortured him, positively devoured him. He would not be able to sleep
the whole night, he would have to think of it again and again. And he
wanted to sleep, it was tiresome to lie awake--he wanted to know it he
must know it.

Käte saw how gloomy the boy's face had grown. Oh, the poor, poor
boy. If only she had not let him go to those people. What had he been
told there? What did he know? Had they made him suspicious? What
did those people know? Oh, they had made him suspicious, otherwise
why should he have tormented her with such questions?

A burning dread filled her mind, and yet her hands and feet were
growing as cold as ice. But her compassion was even greater than her
dread--there he sat, looking so sad and with tears in his eyes. The
poor child, who wanted to know something about his birth, and whom she
could not, would not, dared not tell anything. Oh, if only she could
think of something to say, only find the right word.

"Wölfchen," she said gently, "you are still too young to hear about
it--I can't tell you about it yet. Another time. You don't understand
it yet. When you're older--I'll tell you it another time."

"No, now." She had gone up to him, and he caught hold of her dress
and held her fast. He persisted with the dull obstinacy that was
peculiar to him: "Now. I will know it--I must know it."

"But I--I've no time, Wölfchen. I have to go--yes, I really must go,
it's high time." Her eyes wandered about the room, and she felt quite
flustered: "I--no, I can't tell you anything."

"You will not," he said. "And still Frau Lämke told her Frida it."
The sulky peevish expression had disappeared from the boy's dark face,
and made way for one of real sadness. "You don't love me half so much,
not in the same way as Frau Lämke loves her Frida."

She did not love him?--she did not love him?--Käte could have
screamed. If any mother loved her child it was surely she, and still
this child felt instinctively that something was wanting. And was not
that mysterious bond wanting that binds a real mother so indissolubly
and mysteriously, so intimately to her real child?

"Wölfchen," she said in a soft tremulous voice, "my dear
Wölfchen," and she stroked his hot forehead with her icy cold hand.
"You don't mean what you are saying. We love each other so much, don't
we? My child--my darling child, tell me."

She sought his glance, she hung on his answer.

But the answer she longed for did not come. He looked past her. "You
see, you won't tell me anything."

He seemed to harp on that. This burning desire had taken possession
of him all at once. Somebody had instilled it into him, there could be
no other explanation for it. "Who--" she asked hesitatingly--"who has
told you--you should question me in this manner? Who?"

She had taken hold of his shoulders, but he wriggled away from under
her touch. "Oh, why are you so funny? No-nobody. But I should like to
know it. I tell you, I should like to know it. It worries me so. I
don't know why it worries me, that's all."

It worried him--already? So early? Oh, then it was a suspicion, a
suspicion--who knew from whence it came? He suspected what had happened
in his earliest childhood unconsciously. What would happen? "O God,
help me!" she cried to herself. The point now was to invent something,
make something up, devise something. Those torturing questions must
never, never be asked again.

And she forced herself to smile, and when she felt that her smile
was no smile, she stepped behind his chair and laid her cheek on the
top of his head and both her hands round his neck. He could not look
round at her in that way. And she spoke in the low voice in which fairy
tales are told to children.

"Father and I had been married a long time--just think, almost
fifteen years!--and father and I wanted so much to have a dear boy or a
dear little girl, so that we should not be so much alone. One day I was
very sad, for all the other women had a dear child, and I was
the only one who had not, and I walked about outside and cried, and
then I suddenly heard a voice it came from heaven--no, a voice--a voice
that--and--and----" She got bewildered, stammered and hesitated: what
was she to say now?

"Hm," he said impatiently. "And--? Tell me some more. And--?"

"And next day you were lying in our cradle," she concluded hastily
and awkwardly, in an almost stifled voice.

"And"--he had pushed her hands away, and had turned round and was
looking into her face now--"that's all?"

"Well--and we--we were very happy."

"How stupid!" he said, offended. "That's not 'being born.' Frau
Lämke told it quite differently. You don't know anything about it." He
looked at her doubtfully.

She evaded his glance, but he kept his eyes fixed on hers. It seemed
to her as if those scrutinising eyes were looking right down into her
soul. She stood there like a liar, and did not know what more to
say.

"You don't know anything about it," he repeated once more, bitterly
disappointed. "Good night." And he slouched to the door.

She let him go, she did not call him back to give her his good-night
kiss. She remained sitting without moving. She heard his steps in the
room above. Now he opened the door to throw his boots into the corner
outside, now she heard them fall--now everything was quiet.

Oh, what was she to say to him later on when he asked her questions
with full knowledge, a man justified in asking questions and demanding
an answer to them? She let herself fall into the chair on which he had
been sitting, and rested her head in her hands.



CHAPTER IX


The boy's friendship with the Lämkes was restricted. Her boy should
never go there again. In a manner Käte had grown jealous of the woman
who spoke of such improper things and did not mind what she said when
children were present.

Frau Lämke could not boast any longer of receiving a friendly
greeting from the fine lady. Frau Schlieben walked past her house now
without looking at her, and did not seem to hear her respectful: "Good
morning, ma'am."

"Tell me, Wolfgang, what have I done to your mother?" she asked the
boy one day when she had been out shopping and saw him again for the
first time for several months. He was leaning against the railing that
enclosed the plot of ground opposite their house, staring fixedly at
their door.

He gave a start; he had not heard her coming. And then he pretended
not to see her, and stood flicking the whip he held in his hand.

"Are you never coming to see us again?" she went on. "Have you been
having a fight with Artur or been quarrelling with Frida? No, it can't
be that, as they've been looking out for you so long. I suppose your
mother won't let you, is that it? Hm, we're not good enough any more, I
suppose? Of course not. Lämke's only a porter and our children
only a porter's children."

Her good-natured voice sounded mortified, and the boy listened
attentively. He turned scarlet.

"Oh, I see, you are not allowed to. All right, stop away then, it's
all the same to me." She turned round to go, full of anger.

"Well, what do you want now?" A sound from him made her stop; she
remained against her will. There was something in the glance the boy
gave her, as he looked her full in the face, that kept her standing. "I
know, my dear," she said good-naturedly, "it's not your fault. I know
that."

"She won't let me," he muttered between his teeth, cracking his whip
with a loud noise.

"Why not?" inquired the woman. "Hasn't she said why you're not to
play with Artur and Frida any more? Artur has got a new humming top--oh
my, how it dances. And Frida a splendid ball from the lady who lives in
our house."

The boy's eyes flashed. He put out his foot and gave such a violent
kick to a stone in front of him that it flew over to the other side of
the street. "I shall play with them all the same."

"Come, come, not so defiant," said the woman admonishingly. "It may
be the children were naughty--bless you, you can't be answerable for
all they do. Listen, little Wolfgang, you must obey your mother if she
won't hear of your coming." She sighed. "We've been very fond of you,
my dear. But it's always like that, the friendship is very warm to
begin with, and then all of a sudden the rich think better of it. And
you really are too big to sit with us in the cellar now----"

She was chattering on, when she felt someone seize hold of her hand.
The boy held it in a very firm grip. Bending down to him--for
she was tall and thin and her eyes were no longer very good owing to
the demi-obscurity of their room--she saw that he had tears in his
eyes. She had never seen him cry before, and got quite a fright.

"Hush, hush, Wölfchen. Now don't cry, for goodness' sake don't,
it isn't worth it." Taking hold of a corner of her coarse blue
working-apron--she had just run away from the wash-tub--she wiped his
eyes and then his cheeks, and then she stroked the hair that grew so
straight and thick on his round head.

He stood quite still in the street that was already so sunny, so
spring-like, as though rooted to the spot. He who had shrunk from
caresses allowed her to stroke him, and did not mind if others saw it
too.

"I shall come to see you again, Frau Lämke. She can say what she
likes. I will come to you."

As he went away, not running as he usually did, but slowly and
deliberately, the woman followed him with her eyes, and was surprised
to see how big he had grown.

Käte had no easy time. However much she fought against Wölfchen
having any intercourse with the Lämkes--positively stood out against
it--the boy was stronger than she. He succeeded in gaining his end; the
children were to come to him, even if he might not go to them. In the
garden, at any rate--he had wrung that concession from his mother.

They had had a struggle, as it were--no loud words and violent
scenes, it is true, no direct prohibitions on her side, no entreaties
on his, but a much more serious, silent struggle. She had felt that he
was setting her at defiance, that the opposition in him increased more
and more until it became dislike--yes, dislike of her. Or did she only
imagine it?

She would have liked to speak to her husband about it--oh,
how she wanted to do it!--but she dreaded his smile, or his indirect
reproach. He had said a short time ago: "It's no trifle to train a
child. One's own is difficult enough, how much more difficult"--no, he
should not say "somebody else's" again, no, never again. This child was
not somebody else's, it was their own--their beloved child.  She gave
way to Wolfgang. Anyhow there was no danger if the children came to him
in the garden; she could always see and hear them there. And she would
be good to them, she made up her mind the children should not suffer
because she had already had to weep many a secret tear at night on her
pillow on account of their friendship. She would make her boy fond of
the garden, so fond that he would never long to go out into the street
again.

But when she hid the coloured eggs on Easter Sunday, the day she had
given Wölfchen permission to invite the Lämkes and also the coachman's
son into the garden, and put the nests and hares and chickens into the
box-tree that was covered with shoots and among the clusters of blue
scyllas that had just commenced to flower, something like anger rose in
her heart. Now these children would come with their bad manners and
clumsy shoes and tread down her beds, those flower-beds with which they
had taken so much trouble, and in which the hyacinths were already
showing buds under the branches that protected them and the tulips
lifting up their heads. What a pity! And what a pity they would not be
able to enjoy this first really spring day quietly, listening
undisturbed to the piping blackbird. And they had even refused to come.
Hans Flebbe had certainly accepted the invitation without showing any
resentment--the coachman knew what was the right thing to do--but the
Lämkes did not want to come on any account--that is to say,
their mother did not wish it. Lisbeth had been sent there twice; the
second time she had come back quite indignant: "Really, what notions
such people have." "Dear boy, it's no good, they won't come," Käte had
had to say. But then she had noticed how downcast he looked, and in the
night she had heard him sigh and toss about. No, that would not do. She
wanted to feel his arm, which he had flung so impetuously round her
waist when she gave him permission to invite the children, round her
neck too. And then she had sat down and written--written to this
uneducated woman, addressing her as "Dear Madam," and had asked her to
let the children look for eggs to please Wolfgang.

Now they were there. They stood stiff and silent on the path dressed
in their best clothes, and did not even look at the flower-beds. Käte
had always imagined she understood how to draw out children extremely
well, but she did not understand it in this case. She had praised
Frida's bran-new, many coloured check frock, and had lifted up her fair
plait on which the blue bow was dangling: "Oh, how thick!"--and she had
remarked on Artur's shiny boots and Flebbe's hair, which was covered
with pomade and which he wore plastered down on both sides of his
healthy-looking footman's face with a parting in the middle. She had
also made inquiries about their school report at Easter, but had never
got any longer answer than "yes" and "no."

The children were shy. Especially Frida. She was the eldest, and she
felt how forced the friendly inquiries were. She made her curtsey as
she always did, quickly and pertly like a water wagtail bobbing up and
down, but her high girl's voice did not sound so clear to-day; the tone
was more subdued, almost depressed. And she did not laugh.
Artur copied his sister, and Hans Flebbe copied the girl too, for he
always considered all she did worthy of imitation. The two boys stood
there, poor little wretches, staring fixedly at the points of their
boots and sniffing, as they dared not take out their handkerchiefs and
use them.

Käte was in despair. She could not understand that her Wolfgang
could find pleasure in having such playfellows. Moreover, he was
exactly like the others that day, taciturn and awkward. Even when they
commenced to look for the eggs, the children set about it very
stupidly; she had positively to push them to the hiding-place.

At last, tired out and almost irritable, Käte went indoors; she
would only stop there a short time. No, she could not stand it any
longer, always to have to talk and talk to the children and still not
get any answer out of them.

But hardly had she reached her room, when she pricked up her ears; a
cry reached her from outside that was as clear, as piercing and
triumphant as a swallow's when on the wing. Children shouted like that
when they were thoroughly happy--oh, she knew that from former times,
from the time before Wölfchen had come. Then she had often listened to
such shouts full of longing. Oh--_she_ had only to go, then the
children were merry, then Wolfgang was merry. She felt very bitter.

She had gone to the window and was looking out into the garden, with
her forehead pressed against the pane. How they ran, jumped, hopped,
laughed. As though they had been set free. They were trying to catch
each other. Frida darted behind the bushes like a weasel, came into
sight again with a sharp piercing laugh, and then disappeared once more
with a shriek. Wolfgang set off after her wildly. He took no notice of
the beds in which the flowers were growing, his mother's
delight; he jumped into the middle of them, caring little whether he
broke the hyacinths or the tulips, his one thought being to prevent
Frida escaping.

And the two others copied him. Oh, how they trampled on the beds
now. All three boys were after the girl. The fair plait flew up and
down in the sunshine like a golden cord, now here, now there. At last
Wolfgang seized hold of it with a triumphant shout. Frida endeavoured
to get it away, but the boy held it fast. Then she turned round as
quick as lightning, and, laughing all over her face, grasped him firmly
round the body with both hands.

It was a harmless merry embrace, a trick of the game--the girl did
not wish to be caught, she wanted to pretend that she had been the
captor--it was quite a childish innocent embrace, but Käte reddened.
She frowned: hardly had she turned her back, when the girl from the
street showed herself.

And the mother went into the garden again with a feeling of hatred
towards the girl who, in spite of her youth, already endeavoured to
attract her boy.

If Käte had thought she would earn her boy's boisterous gratitude
that evening after the children had gone home, loaded with Easter eggs
and having had plenty to eat, she was disappointed. Wolfgang did not
say a word.

She had to ask him: "Well, was it nice?"

"Hm."

That might just as well mean yes as no. But she learnt that it had
meant no when she bade him goodnight. It was his father's wish that he
should kiss her hand; he did so that evening as usual with an awkward,
already so thoroughly boyish, somewhat clumsy gesture. His dark smooth
head bent before her for a moment--only a short moment--his
lips just brushed her hand. There was no pressure in the kiss, no
warmth.

"Haven't you enjoyed yourself at all?" She could not help it, she
had to ask once more. And he, who was candid, said straight out:

"You always came just when it was nice."

"Well then, I won't disturb you in the future." She tried to smile.
"Good night, my son." She kissed him, but after he had gone there was a
great terror in her heart, besides a certain feeling of jealousy at the
thought of being superfluous. If he were like that now, what would he
be later on?

Wolfgang could not complain, his mother let the children come to him
in the garden as often as he wanted them--and he wanted them almost
every day. The friendship that had languished during the winter became
warmer than ever now that it was summer.

"Pray leave them," Paul Schlieben had said to his wife, as she
looked at him with anxious eyes: what would he say? Would he really not
mind Wolfgang rushing about with those children in his garden? "I think
it's nice to see how the boy behaves to those children," he said. "I
would never have thought he could attach himself to anybody like
that."

"You don't think it will do him any harm only to associate with
those--those--well, with those children who belong to quite a different
sphere?"

"Nonsense. Harm?" He laughed. "That will stop of its own accord
later on. I infinitely prefer him to keep to the children of such
people than to those of snobs. He'll remain a simple child much longer
in that manner."

"Do you think so?" Well, Paul might be right in a manner. Wölfchen
was not at all fanciful, he liked an apple, a plain piece of bread and
butter just as much as cake. But all the same it would have
been better, and she would have preferred it, had he shown himself more
dainty with regard to his food--as well as to other things. She took
great trouble to make him more fastidious.

When the cook came to her quite indignant one day: "Master Wolfgang
won't have any more of the good saveloy on his bread now, nor of the
joint from dinner either, ma'am he says it's 'always the same.' What am
I to do now?" she was delighted. At last she had succeeded in
instilling into him that people do not swallow everything thoughtlessly
without making any choice, just for the sake of eating something.

If she had seen how he stuffed bread and dripping with liver and
onion sausage on it down his throat at Frau Lämke's, or gobbled up
potato cake baked in oil hot from the pan, she would not have been so
delighted. But now she was grateful for every finer feeling she thought
she observed in him, be it ever so small. She did not notice at all
what tortures she caused herself in this manner.

Oh, why did not her husband help her to train him? If only he would.
But he no longer understood her.

Paul Schlieben had given up remonstrating with his wife. He had done
so several times, but what he had said had had no effect owing to the
obstinacy with which she held fast to her principles. Why should he
quarrel with her? They had lived so many years happily together--it
would soon be their silver wedding--and was this child, this boy who
could hardly write correctly as yet, into whose head the master was
just drilling the first rules in Latin--this child who after all had
nothing to do either with her or him--this outsider to separate him and
his wife now after they had been married so long? Rather than that it
would be better to let many things pass which it would perhaps
have been better for Käte to have done differently. Let her see how she
could manage the boy in her way--she was so very fond of him. And when
he, no longer the plaything, had outgrown her delicate hands, then he,
the man, was still there to make him feel a more vigorous hand.
Fortunately there was no deceit in the boy.

Paul Schlieben was not dissatisfied with Wolfgang. He certainly did
not show any brilliancy at school, he did not belong to the top boys of
his form by any means, but still he kept quite respectably in the
middle of it. Well, there was no need for him to be a scholar.

Paul Schlieben had not the same opinion as formerly of the things he
used to find in his younger years the only ones worth considering:
science, art, and their study. Now he was content with his calling as
merchant. And as this child had come into his life, had come into that
position without having done anything to bring it about himself, it was
the duty of him who allowed himself to be called "father" by him to
prepare a future for him. So the man mapped out a certain plan. When
the boy had got so far as to pass the examination that entitled him to
one year's service in the army, he would take him away from school,
send him a year to France, England and possibly also to America, to
firms of high standing in each country, and then, when he had started
from the bottom and learnt something, he would make him a partner. He
thought how nice it would be then to be able to lay many things on
younger shoulders. And the boy would no doubt be reliable; one could
see that already.

If only Käte did not expect such a ridiculous amount of him. She was
always after the boy--if not in person, then in her thoughts, at any
rate. She worried him--it could not be helped, he was not an
affectionate child--and did it make her happy?

He had many a time given the boy an imperceptible, pacifying nod,
when his eyes had sought his across the table as though asking for
help. Yes, it was really getting more and more difficult to get on with
Käte.

           *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

The Schliebens went away. The husband had consulted the doctor with
regard to his wife, and he had ordered Franzensbad. But it was
absolutely impossible for him to accompany her there. He would employ
the time making some excursions on foot in the Tyrol, as it was a long
time since he had had a holiday. A couple of pounds less in weight
would do him no harm.

But where was Wolfgang to be meanwhile?

"At home," said his father. "He's old enough; eleven years. He is at
school in the morning and in the garden in the afternoons, and Hofmann
can come and see him every other day--to reassure you."

It was an unbearable thought for the mother to leave the child
alone. She would have preferred to take him with her. But Paul had got
vexed: "What next?" And the doctor had said. "On no account."

Then Käte had wanted to induce her husband to take the boy with him:
"How healthy it would be for him to run about to his heart's content
for once in a way."

"It seems to me he does enough of that here. Really, Käte, the boy
is as strong as can be, don't always make such a fuss about him.
Besides, I'm not going to take him away from school when it's quite
unnecessary."

To be sure, he must not lose his place in the form, and possibly
become one of the last. Käte was so ambitious on her son's account. But
as the July holidays were almost over and she had not gone away with
him during that time, which would have been more suitable, she would
remain at home for the present. She declared she could not go away.

However, the doctor and her husband arranged everything without her;
the more nervously and anxiously she refused to go, the more urgent a
thorough cure seemed to be to them. The day of departure had already
been proposed.

But Lisbeth gave notice beforehand: no, if the mistress was going
away for so long and the master too, she would go as well. Remain alone
with Wolfgang, with _that_ boy? No, that she wouldn't.

She must have saved a tidy little sum during the well-nigh ten years
she had been in the house, for even the promise of a rise could not
keep her. She persisted in her wish to leave, and threw an angry look
at the boy, whose laughing face appeared outside above the windowsill
at that moment.

Käte was beside herself. Not only because she did not want the
servant she had had so long to leave her, but she had reckoned so
firmly on Lisbeth keeping a watchful eye on the boy during her absence.
And it pained her that she spoke of Wolfgang in such a tone full of
hate. What had the child done to her?

But Lisbeth only shrugged her shoulders without speaking, and looked
sulky and offended.

Paul Schlieben took the boy in hand. "Just tell me, my boy, what's
been the trouble between you and Lisbeth? She has given notice, and it
seems to me she's leaving on your account. Listen"--he cast a keen
glance at him--"I suppose you've been cheeky to her?"

The boy's face brightened: "Oh, that's nice, that's nice that she's
going." He did not answer the question that had been put to him at
all.

His father caught him by the ear. "Answer me, have you been cheeky
to her?"

"Hm." Wolfgang nodded and laughed. And then he said, still
triumphing in the remembrance: "It was only yesterday. I gave
her a smack in the face. Why does she always say I've no right
here?"

The man did not tell anything of this to his wife; she would only
have brooded over it. He had not punished the boy either, only shaken
his finger at him a little.

Lisbeth went away. She left the house, in which she had served
so long and faithfully and in which she had had to put up with so
much--as she weepingly assured her mistress, who was also overcome
with emotion--like an offended queen.

Another maid had been engaged, one in whom Käte had certainly not
much confidence from the commencement--Lisbeth had straightway given
her the impression of being much more intelligent--but there was no
choice, as it was not the time of year when servants generally leave;
and she had to go to the baths as quickly as possible.

So Cilia Pioschek from the Warthe district came to the
Schliebens.

She was a big, strong girl with a face that was round and healthy,
white and red. She was only eighteen, but she had already been in
service a long time, three years as nurse at the farm bailiff's whilst
she still went to school. Paul Schlieben was amused at her--she did not
understand a joke, took everything literally and said everything
straight out just as it came into her head--but Käte called her
behaviour "forward." On the other hand the new maid was on better terms
with the old cook and the man-servant than Lisbeth, as she put up with
a good deal.

"You can go away with your mind at rest," said Paul. "Do me this
favour, Käte, don't oppose our plan any longer. In six weeks you will
be back again quite well, God willing, and I shall not see these"--he
gave a slight tap with his finger--"these small wrinkles at
the corners of your eyes any more." He kissed her.

And she returned his kiss, now when she was to be separated from him
for the first time since their marriage for so long; for they had
always, always travelled together before, and since Wölfchen had come
to the house he had only once asked permission to leave her for a
fortnight at the most. She had never left the child alone. And now she
was to leave her dear ones for six long weeks. She clung to him. She
had it on the tip of her tongue to ask him: "Why don't you go with me
as you used to? Franzensbad and Spa--there's surely no great difference
between those two?" But why say it if he had never thought of doing so
for a moment? Years had gone by, and some of the tenderness that had
united them so closely before, that they could only enjoy things
together, and that made them feel they never could be separated, had
disappeared under the winged flight of time.

She sighed and withdrew quietly from the arm that he had thrown
round her. "If anybody should come in and see us like this. Such an old
couple," she said, trying to joke. And he gave a somewhat embarrassed
laugh, as she thought, and did not try to hold her.

But when the carriage which was to take her to the station in Berlin
stood before the door early one morning, when the two large trunks as
well as the small luggage had been put on the top of it, when he held
out his hand to help her in and then took a seat beside her, she could
not refrain from saying: "Oh, if only you were going with me. I don't
like travelling alone."

"If only you had said so a little earlier." He felt quite perturbed;
he was exceedingly sorry. "How easily I could have taken you there the
one day, seen you settled there and come back the next."

Oh, he did not understand what she meant by "if only you were going
with me." Stay with her there as well--that was what she had meant.

Her sorrowful eyes sought the upstairs window behind which Wölfchen
was sleeping. She had had to say goodbye to him the evening before, as
she was leaving so early. She had only stood at his bedside with a mute
good-bye that morning, and her gloved hand had passed cautiously over
his head, that rested so heavily on the pillow, so as not to waken him.
Oh, how she would have liked to have said some loving words to him
now.

"Give my love to the boy, give my love to the boy," she said
quickly, hastily, several times after each other, to the cook and
Friedrich, who were standing near the carriage. "And take good care of
him. Do you hear? Give my love to the boy, give my love to the boy."
She could not say anything more or think of anything more. "Give my
love to----"

Then the upstairs window rattled. Stretching both her arms out she
rose half out of her seat.

The boy put his head out. His cheeks, that were hot with sleep,
showed ruddy above his white night-shirt.

"Good-bye, good-bye. Come back well. And be sure to write to
me."

He called it out in a very contented voice and nodded down to her;
and she saw Cilia's round, healthy, white and red face behind his and
heard her friendly laugh.



CHAPTER X


Käte did not know herself how she got over those weeks in which she was
separated from her home. It was not so bad as she had imagined. She
felt that a greater tranquillity had come over her, a tranquillity she
never could feel at home; and this feeling of tranquillity did her
good. She wrote quite contented letters, and her husband's bright
accounts of "magnificent mountains" and "magnificent weather" delighted
her. She also heard good news from Dr. Hofmann, who used to send her
his reports most faithfully, as he had promised.

"The boy is in the best of health," he wrote, "you need not worry
about him, my dear lady. He certainly has to do without his playfellows
at present, for a boy and girl are ill, and he feels bored when alone
with the fat boy who is still left. He is generally by himself in the
garden; Friedrich has given him some lettuce plants, and he has also
sown some radishes. I have found him at his lessons as well."

Thank God! It seemed to the woman as if she could breathe freely
now, as though free from a load. She carried the letter from her old
friend about in her pocket for a long time, read it whilst out for a
walk, when sitting on a bench and in the evening when lying in bed. "A
boy and girl are ill"--oh, the poor children. What could be the matter
with them? But thank God, he was mostly by himself in the
garden now. That was the best.

She wrote a letter to her boy, a very bright one, and he answered
her in the same strain. The letter in itself was certainly rather
funny. "Beloved mother"--how comical. And the whole wording as though
copied from a polite letter-writer. She made up her mind to enclose it
in her next letter to her husband what would he say to it? "Beloved
mother"--but it pleased her all the same, and also "Your obedient son"
at the end of it. Otherwise the letter really contained nothing,
nothing of what he was doing, not even anything about the Lämkes, also
no longing "come back soon"; but it was written carefully, tidily and
clearly, not such a scrawl as he usually wrote. And that showed her
that he loved her.

He had also enclosed a little picture, a small square with a border
of lace paper, on which there was a snow-white lamb holding a pink
flag. Under it stood in golden letters, "Agnus Dei, miserere
nobis."

Where could he have got that from? Never mind from where, he had
wanted to give her something. And the small tasteless picture touched
her deeply. The good boy.

She put the picture with the lamb of God carefully among her
treasures; it should always remain there. A tender longing came over
her for the boy, and she could not imagine how she had been able to
stand it so long without him.

           *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

August was over and September already almost half gone when Käte
returned home. Her husband, who had returned before her, came to meet
her; they met in Dresden, and their meeting was a very cordial one.
He could never get tired of looking at her bright colour, her bright
eyes; and she on her side found him very sunburnt, more
youthful-looking and almost as slender as formerly.

They sat hand in hand in the compartment he had had reserved for
them; quite alone like two young lovers. They had an enormous amount to
say to each other--there was nothing, nothing whatever that disturbed
them. They gazed at each other very tenderly.

"How delighted I am to have you again," she said, after he had told
her a lot about his journey in a lively manner.

"And I you." He nodded to her and pressed her hand. Yes, it really
seemed to both of them as if they had been separated from each other
for an eternity. He drew her still closer, held her as tightly as
though she were a precious possession that had been half snatched away
from him, and she clung to him, leant her head on his shoulder and
smiled dreamily.

Innumerable golden atoms danced on a slender slanting sunbeam before
her half-closed eyes. The even rattling of the carriages and the calm
feeling of a great joy in her heart lulled her to sleep.

Suddenly she started up--was it a jolt, a shock? She had all at once
got a fright, as it were: she had not asked anything about the child as
yet!

"Wölfchen--what's Wölfchen doing?"

"Oh, he's all right. But now tell me, darling, how did you spend
the whole day there? How was it divided? In the morning to the
spring--first one glass, after that a second--and then? Well?"

She did not tell him. "Wölfchen is surely well?" she asked hastily.
"There must be something wrong--you say so little about him. I've had
such a misgiving the whole time. Oh dear, do tell me." Her voice
sounded almost irritable--how could Paul be so indifferent. "What's the
matter with Wölfchen?"

"The matter?" He looked at her in great surprise. "But why must
there be something the matter with him? He's as strong as a horse."

"Really? But tell me, tell me something about him."

He smiled at her impatience. "What is there to tell about such a
boy? He sleeps, eats, drinks, goes to school, comes home, runs out into
the garden, sleeps, eats, drinks again and so on, vegetates like the
plants in the sunshine. It's much better for you to tell me how you
are."

"Oh, I--I--" that seemed so superfluous to her all at
once--"I--quite well, you can see that." How indifferent he was with
regard to the child. And she--his mother--had been able to forget him
so long too? She felt so ashamed of herself that she hastily raised her
head from her husband's shoulder and sat up straight. Now they were not
lovers any longer, only parents who had to think about their child.

And she only spoke of the boy.

Paul felt the sudden change in his wife. It depressed him: had they
gone back to where they were before? Did she already feel no interest
again in anything but the boy? He no longer felt any inclination to
speak of his journey.

The conversation became more and more monosyllabic; he bought a
paper at the next station, and she leant back in her corner and tried
to sleep. But she did not succeed in doing so, in spite of feeling very
tired; her thoughts continued to revolve round the one point: so there
was nothing the matter with him. Thank God! How indifferent Paul was,
to be sure. Would Wölfchen be very delighted when she came home? The
dear boy--the darling boy.

She must have slept a little at last nevertheless, for she suddenly
heard her husband's voice, as though far away, saying: "Get
ready, darling; Berlin," and she started up.

They were already among the innumerable lines that cross each other
there. Then the train rushed into the glass-roofed station.

"So we've got so far." He helped her out, and she began to tremble
with impatience. Would this running up and down stairs, this crossing
to the other side of the station, and then the waiting and watching for
the train to the suburbs never come to an end? Would not Wölfchen be
asleep? It would be dark before they got home.

"Is the train soon coming? What time is it? Oh dear, what a long
time we have to wait."

"Calm yourself, the boy is waiting for you, never fear. He sits a
long time with Cilia every evening; she hasn't much time for him during
the day. A nice girl. You've been very fortunate there."

She did not catch what he said, she was thinking the whole time how
she would find him. Would he have grown very much? Have changed?
Children at his age are said to change constantly--had he grown ugly,
or was he still so handsome? But never mind! she used to attach more
importance to his outward appearance--as long as he was good, very
good, that was all that mattered now. In her thoughts she could already
hear his shout of joy, already feel his arms round her neck, his kiss
on her mouth.

The wind, which had become pleasant towards evening after a day that
had been hot in spite of it already being autumn, fanned her face
without being able to cool her cheeks that glowed with emotion. As they
stopped in front of the house, which, with its balconies full of bright
red geraniums, lay prettily concealed behind the evergreen pines under
the starry September sky, her heart beat as though she had run much too
far and too quickly. At last! She drew a deep breath--now she
was with him again.

But he did not come running to meet her. How strange that he had not
watched for her.

"They'll be sitting in the veranda at the back," said her husband.
"They always sit there in the evening." He remained behind a little.
Let Käte see the boy alone first.

And she hurried through the hall past the beaming cook and without
seeing Friedrich, who had donned his livery after decorating all the
rooms with the flowers he had raised himself; she neither admired
his successes in the garden nor the cake the cook had placed on
the festive-looking table. She ran from the hall into her small
sitting-room and from thence through the dining-room, the door of
which led to the verandah. The door was open--now she stood on the
threshold--those outside did not see her.

There was only one of the shaded lamps on the veranda table that was
burning, but it was bright enough to light up the space around it. But
Cilia was doing nothing. The stocking she was to darn lay in her lap;
her right hand in which she held the long darning-needle rested idly on
the edge of the table. She was leaning back a little; her face, which
looked more refined and prettier in the twilight, was raised; she
seemed to be lost in thought with her mouth half open.

Nothing was to be seen of Wolfgang. But now his mother heard him
speak in a tone full of regret: "Don't you know any more? Oh!" And then
urgently: "Go on, Cilia, go on, it was so beautiful."

Ah, now she saw him too. He was sitting at the girl's feet, on quite
a low footstool, leaning against her knee. And he was looking up at her
imploringly, longingly at that moment, looking at her with eyes that
gleamed like dark polished agate, and speaking to her in a
tone his mother thought she had never heard from him before: "Sing,
Cillchen. Dear Cillchen, sing."

The girl began:

      "Quoth she with voice subdued, 'Cease from quaking--

"Oh no.

            "Not in wrath am I before thee standing--

"No, not that, either.

        "Only why did I, weak one, believe thy vows--

"No, I don't know any more. Well, I never! And I've sung it
so often when I was at home. At home in the village when me and my
sweetheart went for a walk together. Dear, dear"--she stamped her
foot angrily--"that I could forget like that."

"Don't be vexed, Cillchen. You mustn't be vexed. Begin again from
the beginning, that doesn't matter. I would love to hear it again,
again and again. It's splendid."

"Cillchen--Cillchen"--how playful that sounded, positively
affectionate. And how he hung on her lips.

Käte craned her neck forward; she was in the veranda now, but the
two had not noticed her yet.

The girl sang in a drawling, sing-song voice as she had sung in the
village street at home, but the boy's eyes glistened and grew big as he
listened to her. His lips moved as though he were singing as well:

           "Satin and silk new-wed Henry cover;
            Wealthy his bride, brought from land o' Rhine
            But serpent stings tease the perjured lover,
            Bid slumbers sweet his rich bed decline.

           "The clock strikes twelve: sudden are appearing
            Through curtain fringe, fingers, slender, white.
            Whom sees he now? His once dear----"

The singer came to a standstill--suddenly the sound of a
deep-drawn breath passed through the veranda. The boy gave a terrified
shriek--there she stood, there she stood!

"Why, Wolfgang! Wölfchen!" His mother stretched out her arms to him,
but he buried his head in the girl's lap.

Käte frowned at the girl: what nonsense to sing such songs to
him.

"Oh, the mistress!" Cilia jumped up, her face crimson, and let
everything she had on her lap stocking, darning ball, wool and
scissors--fall on the floor; the boy as well.

Why were they both so terrified? Wolfgang stared at her as if she
were a ghost.

He had risen now, had kissed his mother's hand, and mechanically
raised his face to receive her kiss; but his face did not show that he
was glad to see her. Or was it embarrassment, a boyish shame because
she had taken him by surprise? His eyes did not gaze straight at her,
but always sideways. Did he look upon her as a stranger--quite a
stranger?

An inexpressible disappointment filled the heart of the woman who
had just returned home, and her voice sounded harsh without intending
it as she told the girl to go away. She sat down on the seat near the
table, which she had just vacated, and drew her boy toward her.

"How have you got on, Wölfchen? Tell me--well?"

He nodded.

"Have you missed your mother a little?"

He nodded again.

"I've brought such a lot of pretty things for you."

Then he grew animated. "Have you also brought something for Cilia?
She could find use for a workbasket with all kinds of things in it very
well: she has only an old one she used at school, you know. Oh, she can
tell such splendid stories--ugh, that make you shiver. And how she can
sing. Let her sing this one for you:

           "A smart pretty maiden, quite a young sprig,
            A farmer did choose for his bride;
            Her favours, however, to a soldier man jig,
            And sly to her old man she cried--

"It's perfectly ripping, I can tell you."

And he began to hum the continuation with a laugh:

           "He had much better toss the hay, hooray,
            The hay, hooray----"

"Hush!" She put her hand to his mouth. "That's not at all a nice
song--it's a horrid one. You mustn't sing that any more."

"But why not?" He gazed at her with eyes round with amazement.

"Because I don't wish it," she said curtly. She was indignant: she
would give the girl a bit of her mind to-morrow, yes, to-morrow.

Her cheeks were no longer hot. A cold wind blew through the veranda,
which pierced her to the very heart. When her husband called out: "Why,
Käte, what have you been doing with yourself? Do take off your things
first," she quickly answered his call.

The boy remained alone behind, and looked out into the mild night
that was now quite dark, with blinking, dreamy eyes. Oh, how
beautifully Cilia had sung. She would have to sing and tell him stories
to-morrow as well. But if she were to come there again! Never mind,
they would be sure to be able to find a place where they would be
undisturbed.

Käte did not sleep at all that first night, although she was
dead-tired. Perhaps too tired. She had had a long talk about it with
Paul after they were in bed. He had said she was right, that neither
the one nor the other song was very suitable, but: "Good gracious, what
a lot of things one hears as a child that never leave any trace
whatever," he had said.

"Not on _him_." And then she had said plaintively: "I've so
often tried to read something really beautiful to him, the best our
poets have written but he takes no interest in it, he has no
understanding for it as yet. And for such--such"--she sought for an
expression and did not find it--"for such things he goes into raptures.
But I won't allow it, I won't stand it. Such things may not come near
him."

"Then let her go," he had said testily. He was on the point of
falling asleep, and did not want to be disturbed any more. "Good
night, darling, have a good night's rest. Now that you've come home
again you'll do what you think right."

Yes, that she would!

From that day forth she never let the boy out of her sight. And her
ears were everywhere. There was no reason to send the girl away--she
was honest and clean and did her duty--only she must not be alone with
Wölfchen again. Wolfgang was now in his twelfth year, it was not a
maid's place to look after him any more.

But it was difficult for Käte to live up to her resolutions. Her
husband, of course, had claims on her too, and also her house and her
social life; it was not possible to shake off, give up, neglect
everything else for the one, for the child's sake. Besides, it might
make her husband seriously angry with the child, if she constantly went
against his wishes; she trembled at the thought of it. She had to go
into society with him now and then, he was pleased when she--always
well dressed--was in request as an agreeable woman. He was fond of
going out--and went, alas, much, much too often. So she instructed the
cook and the man-servant--even begged them earnestly to keep a watch on
what was going on. They were quite amazed; if the mistress was so
little satisfied with Cilia, she should give her notice; there
would be girls enough on the 1st of January.

Käte turned away angrily: how horrid of the servants to want to
drive the other away. And if another one came into the house, might it
not be exactly the same with her? Servants are always a danger to
children.

Wolfgang was developing quickly, especially physically. It was not
that he was growing so tall, but he was getting broader, becoming
robust, with a strong neck. When he threw snowballs with the Lämkes
outside the door he looked older than Artur, who was of the same age,
even older than Frida. He was differently fed from these children. His
mother was delighted to notice his clear, fresh-looking skin, and saw
that he had plenty of warm baths and a cold sponge down every morning.
And he had to go to the hairdresser every fortnight, where his thick,
smooth mop of dark hair, which remained somewhat coarse in spite of all
the care expended on it, was washed and a strengthening lotion rubbed
into it. The Lämkes looked almost starved when compared with him; they
had not recovered from the effects of scarlet fever very long. If only
Wölfchen did not get it too. His mother had a great dread of it. She
had kept him away from the Lämkes until quite recently; but there was
always the danger of infection at school. Oh dear, one never had peace,
owing to the child.

           *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

They had had a splendid time out of doors. The lake that lies below
the villas like a calm eye between the dark edges of the woods was
frozen; Wolfgang and half of his form had been skating there. Käte had
also walked up and down the shore for some time after their midday
meal, watching her boy. How nicely he skated already. He was more
secure on his legs and skated better than many of the lads who
were describing the figure eight and circles, skating in the Dutch
style and dancing with ladies. He was always trying to do all kinds of
tricks already, he was certainly courageous. If only he did not fall
down or tumble into the water! And he was always skating into the
middle of the lake, where the wisps of straw had been placed to show
that it was dangerous. It seemed to the mother that nothing could
happen to him as long as she stood on the shore watching him
incessantly. But at last her feet were quite frozen, and she had to go
home.

When the boy came home, as it was commencing to grow dark, he was
very bright. He spoke of the skating with great glee. "Oh, that was
ripping. I should like to run like that for ever--to-morrow, the day
after to-morrow--every day--and further and further every time. The
lake is much too small."

"Aren't you tired at all?" inquired his mother, smiling at him. She
never grew weary of gazing at him, he looked so beaming.

"Tired?" The corners of his mouth drooped with a smile that was
almost contemptuous. "I'm never tired. Not of such things. Cilia said
she would like to skate with me some time."

"Well, why not?" His father, who was sitting at the table drinking
his coffee, smiled good-humouredly; it amused him to tease the lively
boy a little. "Then your mother will have to engage a second housemaid,
as long as there's ice on the ground."

Wolfgang did not understand that he was bantering. He cried out,
quite happy: "Yes, she must do that." But then his face grew long: "But
she has no skates, she says. Father, you'll have to buy her some."

"I'l be hanged if I will--well, what next?" His father gave a loud
laugh. "No, my boy, with all due respect to Cilia, it would be
carrying it a little too far to let her skate. Don't you agree with
me?"

He looked at his wife, who was rattling the cups loudly, quite
contrary to her custom. She said nothing, she only gave a silent nod,
but her face had quite changed and grown cold.

The boy could not understand it. Why should Cilia not skate? Did not
his mother like her? Funny. It was always like that, whenever there was
anything he liked very, very much, she did not like it.

He rested his head on both hands as he sat working at his desk: it
felt so heavy. His eyes burnt and watered when he fixed them on his
exercise-book--he must be tired, he supposed. His Latin would not be
good. In his mind's eye he already saw the master shrug his shoulders
and hurl his book on to the bench over so many heads: "Schlieben, ten
faults. Boy, ten faults! If you don't pull yourself together, you'll
not get your remove to Form IV. with the others at Easter."

Pooh, he did not mind much--no, really not at all. On the whole
nothing was of any importance to him whatever. All at once he felt so
dead-tired. Why did she begrudge Cilia everything? She told such
ripping stories. What was it she had told last night when his parents
were out and she had crept to his bedside? About--about--? He could not
collect his thoughts any more, everything was confused.

His head sank on his desk; he fell asleep, with his arms stretched
out over his books.

When he awoke an hour might have passed by, but he did not feel
rested all the same. He stared round the room and shivered. All his
limbs ached.

And they hurt him the whole night through, he could not sleep; his
feet were heavy as he dragged himself to the lake to skate next
afternoon.

He returned home from skating much earlier than usual. He did not
want to eat or drink anything, he constantly felt sick. "How green the
boy looks to-day," said his father. His mother brushed his hair away
from his forehead anxiously: "Is anything the matter with you,
Wölfchen?" He said no.

But when evening came round again and the wind whispered in the
pine-trees outside and a ghostly hand tapped at the window--ugh, a
small white hand as in Cilia's song--he lay in bed, shivered with cold
in spite of the soft warm blankets, and felt his throat ache and his
ears tingle and burn.

"He's ill," his mother said very anxiously next morning. "We'll get
the doctor to come at once."

"Oh, it can't be anything much," said the man reassuringly. "Leave
him in bed, give him some lemon to drink so that he can perspire, and
then an aperient. He has eaten something that has disagreed with him,
or he's caught cold."

But the doctor had to be telephoned for at noon. The boy was
slightly delirious and had a great deal of fever.

"Scarlet fever!" The doctor examined his chest and then pulled up
the cover again very carefully. "But the rash isn't quite out yet."

"Scarlet fever?" Käte thought she would have sunk down on her
knees--oh, she had always been so terribly afraid of that.

           *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

The clear frosty weather with the bright sunshine and a sky that was
almost as blue as in summer was over. Grey days with a heavy atmosphere
hung over the roof of the villa; Käte, who was standing at the window
in the sick-room, staring out at the tops of the pines that were
mourning in the dull mist with tired eyes, thought she had never seen
anything greyer.

The disease had seized hold of the boy with powerful grip, as though
his vigorous, well-nourished body were just the sort of hot-bed for the
flames of the fever to rage in. The doctor shook his head: the scarlet
fever had taken such a mild form everywhere else except in this case.
And he warned them against the boy catching cold, prescribed this and
that, did his best--not only as his duty, no, but because he felt such
deep and hearty sympathy for them--he had always been so fond of the
robust lad. They all did their best. Every precaution was taken, every
care--everything, everything was to be done for him.

Käte was untiring. She had refused the assistance of a nurse; she
violently opposed the wishes both of her husband and her old friend;
no, she wanted to nurse her child alone. A mother does not grow tired,
oh no.

Paul had never believed that his wife could do so much and be so
patient at the same time--she, that nervous woman, to be so untiring,
so undaunted. She had always had a light step, now she could not even
be heard when she glided through the sick-room; now she was on the left
side of the bed, now on the right. She, whose strength gave way so
easily even if her intentions were good, was always, always on the
spot. There were many nights in which she did not get an hour's sleep.
Next morning she would sit like a shadow in the large arm-chair near
the bed, but still she was full of joy: Wolfgang had slept almost two
hours!

"Don't do too much, don't do too much," implored her husband.

She put him off with: "I don't feel it. I'm so fond of doing
it."

How long was it to go on? Would, could her strength hold out? "Let
the girl sit up with him for one night at least. She would be so glad
to take your place."

"Cilia? No."

Cilia had offered her services again and again: oh, she would take
such good care of him, she knew how, for a little brother of hers had
died of scarlet fever. "Let me do it," she implored, "I shall not fall
asleep, I'll take such good care of him."

But Käte refused. It cut her to the heart every time she heard her
boy say in his feverish dreams during the nights that were so long and
so black: "Cillchen--we'll toss the hay--hooray--Cillchen."

Oh, how she hated that round-cheeked girl with her bright eyes. But
she feared her more than she hated her. In the hours of darkness, in
those hours in which she heard nothing but the sick boy's moans and the
restless beating of her own heart, this girl seemed to wander about in
another form. She appeared to her out of the night, large and broad,
she stationed herself boldly near the child's bed, and something of the
triumph of power flashed in her eyes, that were otherwise so dull and
unintelligent.

Then the tired-out woman would press her hands to her throbbing
temples, and stretch out her arms as though to ward her off: no, no,
you there, go away! But the phantom remained standing at the child's
bed. Who was it: the mother--the Venn--the maid--Frau Lämke? Oh, they
were all one.

Tears of anguish rolled down Käte's cheeks. How the boy laughed now.
She stooped over him so closely that their breaths intermingled, as she
had done once before, and whispered to him: "Your mammy is here, your
mammy is with you."

But he made no sign of recognition.

Cilia's face was swollen with weeping as she opened the kitchen door
in the basement on hearing somebody give a gentle knock. Frau Lämke
greeted her in a whisper; she had always sent the children so
far, but they had come home the day before with such a confusing
report, that her anxiety impelled her to come herself. She wanted to
ask how he was getting on. Two doctors' carriages stood outside the
gate, and that had terrified her anew.

"How is he? How is he to-day?"

The girl burst into tears. She drew the woman into the kitchen in
silence, where she found the cook leaning against the fireplace without
stirring any pan, and Friedrich just rushing upstairs to answer the
electric bell as if somebody were in pursuit of him.

"Dear, dear!" Frau Lämke clasped her hands. "Is the boy so bad,
really so bad?"

Cilia only nodded and hid her streaming eyes in her apron, but the
cook said dully: "It's about over."

"About over? Will he really die Wolfgang, the boy?" The woman stared
incredulously: that was impossible. But she had turned terribly
pale.

"Well, it's bad enough," said the cook. "Our doctor has called in
another professor, a very well-known one--he was here yesterday--but
they don't believe that they can do anything more. The illness has
attacked the kidneys and heart. He no longer knows anybody, you know. I
was in the room this morning, I wanted to see him once more--there he
lay quite stiff and silent, as though made of wax. I don't believe
he'll pull through." The good-natured woman wept.

They all three wept, sitting round the kitchen table. Frau Lämke
entirely forgot that she had made up her mind never to enter that
kitchen again, and that her cabbage, that she had put on for their
dinner, was probably burning. "Oh, dear, oh dear," she repeated again
and again, "how will she get over it? Such a child--and an only child,
whom she adored so."

Upstairs the doctors were standing at the sick-bed, the old family
doctor and the great authority, who was still a young man. They were
standing on the right and the left of it.

The rash had quite disappeared; there was not a trace of red on the
boy's face now, and his eyes with their extremely black lashes remained
persistently closed. His lips were blue. His broad chest, which was
quite sunken now, trembled and laboured.

At every gasping breath he took his mother gasped too. She was
sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed, stiffly erect; she had sat
like that the whole night. Her piercing eyes with their terrified
expression flew to the doctors' grave faces, and then stared past them
into space. There they stood, to the right and to the left--but there,
there!--did they not see it?--there at the head of the bed stood
Death!

She started up with an inarticulate sound, then sank down again as
though broken in spirit.

The doctors had given the child, who was so dangerously ill, an
injection; his heart was very weak, which made them fear the worst.
Then the authority took leave: "I'll come again to-morrow"--but a shrug
of the shoulders and a "Who knows?" lay in that "I'll come again
to-morrow."

The family doctor was still there; he could not leave them, as he
was their friend. Käte had clung to him: "Help! Help my child!" Now he
was sitting with Paul Schlieben downstairs in his study; Käte had
wished to remain alone with the sick boy, she only wanted to know that
he was near.

The two men sat in silence with a glass of strong wine before them.
"Drink, do drink, my dear friend," Paul Schlieben had said to the
doctor; but he did not drink himself. How will she stand it, how will
she stand it? That buzzed in his head the whole time. He was
wrapped in thought, and there were deep lines on his forehead. And the
doctor did not disturb him.

Käte was on her knees upstairs. She had sunk down in front of the
chair in which she had watched through all those anxious nights, and
was holding her hands pressed against her upturned face. She was
seeking the God on high who had once upon a time laid the child so
benignantly in her path, and was now going to cruelly tear it away from
her again. She cried to God in her heart.

"O God, O God, don't take him from me. Thou must not take him from
me. I have nothing else in the world beside him. God, God!"

Her surroundings, all her other possessions--also her husband--were
forgotten. She had only the child now. That one child that was so dear,
so good, so clever, so excellent, so obedient, so beautiful, so
charming, so extremely lovable, that had made her life so happy, so
rich that she would be poor, poor as a beggar were he to leave her.

"Wölfchen, my Wölfchen!"

How dear he had always, always been; so entirely her child. She did
not remember anything more about the tears she had shed on his account;
if she had ever shed any, they had been tears of joy, yes, only tears
of joy. No, she could not do without him.

Starting up from the position in which she had been praying she
dragged herself to his bedside. She took his body, which was growing
cold, into her arms and laid it on her breast in her despair, and her
glowing breath passed all over him. She wanted to let all her warmth
stream into him, to hold him fast to this earth with the force of her
will-power. When his breast fought for air, her breast fought too, when
his heart-beat flagged, hers flagged too. She felt that his
coldness was making her cold, that her arms were stiffening. But she
did not let him go. She fought with Death standing at the head of the
bed--who was stronger, Death or her love, the mother's love?

Nobody could get her away from the boy's bed, not even the nurse
whom Dr. Hofmann had sent out when he had at last been compelled to go
to town that afternoon. The nurse and her husband attempted to raise
her by gentle force: "Only an hour's rest, only half an hour's. In the
next room or here on the sofa."

But she shook her head and remained on her knees: "I'm holding him,
I'm holding him."

Evening came on. Then midnight. It had blown a good deal earlier in
the day, but it was very quiet outside now. As quiet as death. There
was no longer any wind to shake the pines around the house; they stood
bolt upright against the clear, frosty sky, their tops as though cut
out of stiff cardboard. The stars blinked mercilessly; the full moon
was reflected on the glittering silvery surface of the frozen lake,
from which the strong wind had swept all the damp snow the day before
and made it clean. A terrible cold had set hi all at once, which seemed
to lay hold of everything with its icy breath.

The watchers shivered with cold. When Paul Schlieben looked at the
thermometer, he was horrified to see how little it registered even in
the room. Was the heating apparatus not in order? You could see your
own breath. Had the servants forgotten to put coals on?

He went down into the basement himself; he could have rung, but he
felt he must do something. Oh, how terribly little you could do. His
wife cowered in the arm-chair in silence now, with large, staring eyes;
the nurse was half asleep, nothing stirred in the room. The boy, too,
was lying as quietly as if he were already dead.

A great dread took possession of the man, as he groped his way
through the dark house. There was something so paralysing in the
silence; all at once everything, the rooms, the staircase, the hall
seemed so strange to him. Strange and empty. How the breath of youth
had filled them with life before, filled them with the whole untamed
thoughtlessness of a wild boy!

He leant heavily on the banisters as he groped his way downstairs.
Would the servants still be up?

He found them all there. They sat shivering round the table in the
kitchen, which was as cold as though there had not been a bright,
blazing fire there all day. The cook had made some strong coffee, but
even that did not make them any warmer. An icy cold crept through the
whole house; it was as though the ice and snow from outside had come
in, as though the chill breath of frozen nature were sweeping through
the house too, from attic to cellar.

It was no use throwing more coals into the jaws of the huge stove,
or that the water that streamed through all the pipes was hotter.
Nobody's feet or hands were any warmer.

"We will try what a very hot bath will do for the patient," said the
nurse. She had often seen this last remedy rewarded with success in
similar cases.

All hands were busy. The cook made a fire, the other two dragged the
boiling water upstairs; but Cilia carried more and was quicker about it
than Friedrich. She felt all the inexhaustible strength of youth in her
that is glad to be able to do something. How willingly she did it for
that good boy. And she murmured a short prayer in a low voice every
time she poured a bucketful into the tub that had been placed near the
bed. She could not make the sign of the cross, as neither of her hands
was at liberty, but she was sure the saints would hear her all the
same.

"Holy Mary! Holy Joseph! Holy Barbara! Holy guardian angel! Holy
Michael, fight for him!"

The cook, who remained downstairs in the kitchen, looked for her
hymn-book; she was a Protestant and did not use it every day. When she
found it she opened it at random: the words would be sure to suit. Oh
dear! She showed it to Friedrich, trembling. There was written:

           "When my end is drawing nigh,
            Ah, leave me not----"

Oh dear, the boy was to die. They were both as though paralysed with
terror.

Meanwhile nimble Cilia was flying up and down stairs. She did not
feel so dismayed any longer. He would not die, she was sure of that
now.

Whilst those who were in the room lifted him into the bath, Paul
Schlieben and the nurse, and his mother placed her feeble hands
underneath him to support him, Cilia stood outside the door and called
upon all her saints. She would have liked to have had her manual of
devotion, her "Angels' Bread," but there was no time to fetch it. So
she only stammered her "Help" and "Have mercy," her "Hail" and "Fight
for him," with all the fervour of her faith.

And the boy's pallid cheeks began to redden. A sigh passed his lips,
which had not opened to utter a sound for so long. He was warm when
they put him back into the bed. Very soon he was hot; the fever
commenced again.

The nurse looked anxious: "Now ice. We shall have to try what
ice-bags will do."

Ice! Ice!

"Is there any ice in the house?" Paul Schlieben hurried from the
sick-room. He almost hit the girl's forehead with the door as she stood
praying outside.

Ice! Ice! They both ran down together. But the cook was at
her wits' end too; no, there was no ice, they had not thought any would
be required.

"Go and get some, quick."

The man-servant rushed off, but oh! before he could reach the shop,
awake somebody and return, the flame upstairs might have burnt so
fiercely that there was nothing left of the poor little candle. The man
looked round, almost out of his mind with anxiety, and he saw Cilia
with a chopper and pail running to the back-door.

"I'm going to fetch some ice."

"But where?"

"Down there." She laughed and raised her arm so that the chopper
glittered. "There's plenty of ice in the lake. I'm going to chop
some."

She was already out of the kitchen; he ran after her without a hat,
without a cap, with only the thin coat on he wore in the house.

The terrors of the night gave way before the faint hope, and he did
not feel the cold at first. But when the villas were lost sight of
behind the pines, when he stood quit alone on the banks of the frozen
lake that shone like a hard shield of metal, surrounded by silent black
giants, he felt so cold that he thought he should freeze to death. And
he was filled with a terror he had never felt the like to before
a--deadly fear.

Was not that a voice he heard? Hallo! Did it not come from the wood
that had the appearance of a thicket in the blue, confusing glitter of
the moonlight? And it mocked and bantered, half laughed, half moaned.
Terrible. Who was shrieking so?

"The owl's screeching," said Cilia, and she raised the chopper over
her shoulder with both hands and let it whiz down with all her might.
The ice at the edge splintered, It cracked and broke; the sound was
heard far out on the lake, a growling, a grumbling, a voice out of the
deep.

Would the boy die--would he live?

The man gazed around him with a distraught look. O God! Yes, that
was also in vain--would also be in vain. Despite all his courage he
felt weak as he stood there. Here was night and loneliness and the wood
and the water--he had seen it all before, it was familiar to him--but
it had never been like this, so quiet and still, so alive with terrors.
The trees had never been so high before, the lake never so large, the
world in which they lived never so far away.

Something seemed to be lurking behind that large pine--was a
gamekeeper not standing there aiming at him, ready to shoot an arrow
through his heart? The silence terrified him. This deep silence was
awful. True, the blows of the chopper resounded, he could hear the echo
across the lake, and nothing deterred Cilia from doing her work--he
admired the girl's calmness--but the menace that lay in the silence did
not grow any less.

The distracted man shuddered again and again: no, he knew it
now--oh, how distinctly he felt it--nobody could do anything against
that invisible power. Everything was in vain.

He was filled with a great grief. He seized hold of the pieces of
ice the girl had chopped off with both hands, and put them into the
pail; he tore his clothes, he cut himself on the jagged edges that were
as sharp as glass, but he did not feel any physical pain. The blood
dripped down from his fingers.

And now something began to flow from his eyes, to drip down his
cheeks, heavy and clammy--slow, almost reluctant tears. But still the
hot tears of a father who is weeping for his child.



CHAPTER XI


"Dear me, how big you've grown!" said Frau Lämke. "I suppose we shall
soon have to treat you as a grown-up gentleman and say 'sir' to
you?"

"Never!" Wolfgang threw his arms round her neck.

The woman was quite taken aback: was that Wolfgang? He was hardly to
be recognised after his illness so approachable. And although he had
always been a good boy, he had never been so affectionate as he was
now. And how merry he was, he laughed, his eyes positively sparkled as
if they had been polished.

Wolfgang was full of animal spirits and a never-ending, indomitable
joyousness. He did not know what to do with himself. He could not sit
still for a moment, his arms twitched, his feet scraped the ground.

His master stood in terror of him. He alone, the one boy, made the
whole of the fourth form that had always been so exemplary run wild.
And still one could not really be downright angry with him. When the
tired man, who had had to give the same lessons year after year, sit at
the same desk, give the same dictations, set the same tasks, hear the
same pieces read, repeat the same things, had to reprove the boy,
something like a gentle sadness was mingled with the reproof, which
softened it: yes, that was delight in existence, health, liveliness,
unconsumed force--that was youth.

Wolfgang did not mind the scoldings he got, he had no ambition to
become head of his form. He laughed at the master, and could not even
get himself to lower his head and look sad when his mother waved a bad
report in his face in her nervous excitement: "So that's all one gets
in return for all one's worry?"

How ambitious women are! Paul Schlieben smiled; he took it more
calmly. Well, he had not had the hard work that Käte had had. As the
boy had missed so many lessons owing to his illness, she had sat with
him every day, and written and read and done sums and learnt words and
rules and repeated them with him indefatigably, and set him exercises
herself besides the schoolwork, and in this manner he had succeeded in
getting his remove into the fourth form with the others at Easter, in
spite of the weeks and weeks he had been away from school. She had
drawn a deep breath of relief: ah, a mountain had been climbed. But
still the road was not straight by any means. When the first blackbirds
began to sing in the garden he became No. 15 in his form--that is to
say, an average pupil--when the first nightingale trilled he was not
even among the average, and when summer came he was among the last in
his form.

It was too tempting to sow, plant, and water the garden, to lie on
the grass in the warm sunshine and have a sun bath. And still better to
rove about out of doors along the edges of the wood or bathe in the
lake and swim far out, so far that the other boys would call out to
him: "Come back, Schlieben, you'll be drowned."

"Be thankful that there is so much life in him," said Paul to his
wife. "Who would have thought only six months ago that he would ever be
like this? It is fortunate that he isn't fond of sitting indoors.
'Plenty of fresh air,' Hofmann said, 'plenty of movement. Such
a severe illness always does some harm to the constitution.' So let us
choose the lesser of two evils. But still the rascal must remember that
he has duties to perform as well."

It was difficult to combine the two. Käte felt she was becoming
powerless. When the boy's eyes, which were as bright as sloes, implored
her to let him go out, she dared not keep him back. She knew he had not
finished his school-work, had perhaps not even commenced it; but had
not Paul said: "One must choose the lesser of two evils," and the
doctor: "Such a severe illness always leaves some weakness behind,
therefore a good deal of liberty"?

She suddenly trembled for his life; the horror of his illness was
still fresh in her mind. Oh, those nights! Those last terrible hours in
which the fever had risen higher and higher after the hot bath, the
pulse and the poor heart had rushed along at a mad pace, until the ice
from the lake had at last, at last brought coolness, and he had fallen
into a sound sleep, which, when the sky commenced to glow in the east
and a new day had looked in through the window, had turned into a
beneficial, miraculous perspiration.

So she had to let the boy run about.

But that he hung on Cilia's arm when she had to go an errand in the
evening, that he hurried after her when she only took a letter to the
box, or that he brought her a chair when she wanted to sit with her
mending-basket under the elderberry bush near the kitchen door was not
to be tolerated. When Käte heard that Cilia had not gone further than
the nearest pines on the edge of the wood when it was her Sunday out,
and had sat there for hours with the boy on the grass, there was a
scene.

Cilia wept bitter tears. What had she done? She had only told
Wölfchen about her home.

"What's your home to him? He is to mind his own business and
you yours." Käte was about to say still more, to cry out: "Leave
off telling him your private concerns, I won't have it," but she
controlled herself, although with difficulty. She could have boxed this
round-cheeked girl's ears, as she looked at her so boldly with her
bright eyes. Even Frida Lämke was preferable to her.

But Frida did not show herself very often now. She already wore a
dress that reached to her ankles, attended a sewing class out of
school-hours, and after her confirmation, which was to be a year next
Easter she was to go "to business," as she said very importantly.

"I shall give her notice," said Käte one evening, when Cilia had
cleared the table and she was sitting quite alone with her husband.

"Oh!" He had not really been listening. "Why?"

"Because of her behaviour." The woman's voice vibrated with
suppressed indignation more than that, with passionate excitement. Her
eyes, which were generally golden brown and gentle, became dark and
sombre.

"Why, you're actually trembling! What is the matter now?" He laid
the paper he was about to read aside, quite depressed. There was some
trouble with the boy again; nothing else excited her in that
manner.

"I can't have it any longer." Her voice was hard, had lost its
charm. "And I won't stand it. Just think, when I came home to-day I was
away an hour towards evening, hardly an hour good gracious, you cannot
always be spying, you demean yourself in your own eyes." Her hands
closed over each other, gripped each other so tightly that the knuckles
showed quite white. "I had left him at his desk, he had so much to do,
and when I returned not a stroke had been done. But I heard--heard them
downstairs, at the back of the house near the kitchen door."

"Heard whom?"

"Wolfgang and her, of course--Cilia. I had only been away quite a
short time."

"Well--and then?"

She had stopped and sighed, full of a deep distress which drove away
the anger from her eyes.

"He put his arms round her neck from behind. And he kissed her.
'Dear Cillchen,' he said. And she drew him towards her, took him almost
on her lap--he is much too big for that, much too big--and spoke softly
to him the whole time."

"Did you understand what she said?"

"No. But they laughed. And then she gave him a slap behind--you
should only have seen it--and then he gave her one. They took turns to
slap each other. Do you consider that proper?"

"That goes too far, you are right. But it's nothing bad. She is a
good girl, quite unspoilt as yet, and he a stupid boy. Surely you don't
intend to send the girl away for that? For goodness' sake, Käte, think
it well over. Did they see you?"

"No."

"Well, then, don't do it. It's much wiser. I'll speak to the boy
some time when I find an opportunity."

"And you think I couldn't--I can't--I mustn't send her away?" Käte
had grown quite dejected in the presence of his calmness.

"There's no reason whatever for it." He was fully convinced of what
he said, and wanted to take up his paper again. Then he caught her
eyes, and stretched out his hand to her across the table. "Dear child,
don't take everything so much to heart. You're making your life
miserable--your own, the boy's--and--yes, mine too. Take
things easier. There! And now I'll read my paper at last."

Käte got up quietly--he was all right, he was reading. She had not
given him her hand. His calmness hurt her. It was more than calmness,
it was indifference, slackness. But she would not be slack, no, she
would not get tired of doing her duty.

And she went after her boy.

Wolfgang was already upstairs in his room. But he had first crept
softly up to Cilia, who was drying the plates and dishes in the
kitchen, from behind, had given her a pinch and then thrown both arms
round her and begged for a story: "Tell me something"--but she would
not.

"I don't know anything."

"Oh, do tell me something. About the procession. Or even if it's
only about your sow. How many little ones did she have last time?"

"Thirteen." Cilia could not resist _that_ question, but still she
remained taciturn.

"Is your cow going to calve this year too? How many cows has the
biggest farmer near you? You know, the one down near the Warthe,
Hauländer. Do tell me." He knew all about everything, knew all the
people at her home and all the cattle. He could never get tired of
hearing about them and about the country where the bells tinkle for
matins and vespers or call with a deep, solemn sound for high mass on
Sundays. He was so very fond of hearing about the country, about the
large fields in which the blue flax and golden rye grow, about the
bluish line of forest on the horizon, about the wide, wide stretches of
heath, where the bees buzz busily over the blooming heather and the
fen-fowls screech near the quiet waters in the evening, when the sky
and the sun are reflected red in them.

"Tell me about it," he begged and urged her.

But she was reluctant and shook her head. "No, go away; no, I won't.
The mistress has been looking at me like that again this evening--oh,
like--no, I can't explain. I believe she's going to give me
notice."

He had crept up to his room in a sulk and undressed himself. He had
grown so accustomed to it that he could not sleep now when Cilia did
not tell him something first. Then he fell into such a quiet sleep, and
dreamt so beautifully of wide stretches of heather covered with red
blossoms, and of quiet waters near which the fen-fowls screeched, which
he went out to shoot.

Oh, that Cilia, what was the matter with her to-day? How stupid!
"The mistress is going to give me notice." Nonsense, as if he would
stand that. And he clenched his hand.

Then the door creaked.

He craned his neck forward: was it she? Was she coming, after all?
It was his mother. He slipped hastily into bed and drew the covering up
to his forehead. Let her think he was already asleep.

But she did not think so and said: "So you're still awake?" and she
sat down on the chair near his bed on which his things were. Cilia
always sat there too. He compared the two faces in silence. Oh, Cilia
was much prettier, so white and red, and she had dimples in her fat
cheeks when she laughed, and she was so jolly. But his mother was not
ugly either.

He looked at her attentively; and then suddenly a hitherto quite
unknown feeling came over him: oh, what narrow cheeks she had. And the
soft hair near her temples--was--was----

"You're getting quite grey," he said all at once, quite dismayed,
and stretched out his finger. "There, quite grey."

She nodded. A look of displeasure lengthened her delicate face, and
made it appear still narrower.

"You should laugh more," he advised. "Then people would never see
you had wrinkles."

Wrinkles--oh yes, wrinkles. She passed her hand over her forehead
nervously. What uncharitable eyes children had. Youth and beauty had no
doubt disappeared for ever--but it was this boy who had deprived her of
the last remnant of them. And it sounded like a reproach as she said:
"Sorrow has done that. Your serious illness and--and----" she
hesitated: should she begin now about what troubled her so?"--and many
other things," she concluded with a sigh.

"I can understand that," he said naïvely. "You're so old, too."

Well, he was honest, she had to confess that; but he said it without
a trace of tender feeling. She could not suppress a slight irritation;
it was not pleasant to be reminded of your age by your child. "I'm not
so old as all that," she said.

"Oh, I don't mean either that you're _very_ old. But still much
older than Cilia, for example."

She winced--he always brought in that person.

"Cilia is a pretty girl, don't you think so, mother?"

She got so angry that she lost control of herself. "Do you think
so?" she said curtly, rising. "She's leaving on the first of
October."

"She's leaving? Oh no!" He stared at her incredulously.

"Yes, yes." She felt she was cruel, but could she be otherwise? His
disbelieving tone expressed such terror. "She's leaving. I'm going to
give her notice."

"Oh no, you won't." He laughed. "You won't do that."

"Yes, I will." She emphasised each word; it sounded irrevocable.

He still shook his head incredulously: it could not be. But then he
suddenly remembered Cilia's depression and her words that evening: "I
suppose she's going to give me notice." "No, you shan't do so." He
started up in bed.

"I shall not ask you."

"No, you shan't, you shan't," he cried. All at once Cilia moved
across his mental vision, her ingenuous eyes looked at him so sadly--he
liked her so much--and she was to go? He was seized with fury.

"She shan't go, she shan't go," he howled, and shouted it louder and
louder: "She shan't go." He was in a mad, indescribable frame of mind.
He threw himself back, stretched himself out and struck the bedstead
with his feet, so that it creaked in all the joints.

Käte was terrified; she had never seen him so violent before. But
how right she was. His behaviour showed her that plainly. No, she must
not call herself cruel even if his tears flowed; it was necessary that
Cilia went. But she was sorry for him.

"Wölfchen," she said persuasively, "why, Wölfchen. She tried to
soothe him, and drew up his cover that had fallen down with gentle
hand. But as soon as she touched him he pushed her away.

"Wölfchen--Wölfchen--you with your Wölfchen! As if I were a baby
still. My name is Wolfgang. And you are unjust--envious--you only want
her to go away because I like her better, much better than you."

He shouted in her face, and she became deathly white. She felt as
though she must scream with pain. She who had suffered so much for his
sake was of less account than Cilia in his opinion? All at once she
remembered all the burning and ineffaceable tears she had
already shed for his sake. And of all the hard hours during his illness
none had been so hard as this one.

She forgot that he was still a child, a naughty boy. Had he not said
himself: "I'm not a child any longer"? His behaviour seemed
unpardonable. She left the room without a word.

He followed her with eyes full of dismay: had he hurt her? All at
once he was conscious that he had done so--oh no, he did not want to do
that. He had already got half out of bed to run after her on his bare
feet, to hold her fast by her dress and say: "Are you angry?"--when he
suddenly remembered Cilia again. No, it was too bad of her to tell her
to go.

He wept as he crept under the bed-clothes and folded his hands.
Cilia had told him he was to pray to the Holy Virgin, to that smiling
woman in the blue mantle covered with stars, who sits on a throne over
the altar with the crown on her head. She healed everything. And when
she asked God in Heaven for anything, He did it. He would pray to her
now.

Cilia had once taken him to her church, when his mother was at the
baths and his father in the Tyrol. He had had to promise her not to
tell anybody about it, and the charm of the secrecy had increased the
charm of the church. An unconscious longing drew him to those altars,
where the saints looked so beautiful and where you could see God
incarnate, to whom he had been told to pray as to a father. He had
never liked the church so much which his mother sometimes went to, and
in which he had also been.

That longing, which had clung to him ever since like a fairy tale,
now came over him forcibly and vividly. Yes, it was beautiful to be
able to kneel like that before the Holy Virgin, who was lovelier than
all women on earth, and hardly had you laid your request
before her when its fulfilment was insured. Splendid!

"Hail Mary!" Cilia's prayer began like that. He did not know any
more, but he repeated the words many times. And now he smelt the
incense again, which had filled the whole church with perfume, heard
again the little bell announcing the transubstantiation, saw the Lord's
anointed with the splendid stole over his chasuble bow first to the
left of the altar, then to the right. Oh, how he envied the boys in
their white surplices, who were allowed to kneel near him. Blessed
harmonies floated under the high, arched dome:

           "Procedenti ab utroque
            Compar sit laudatio----"

They had sung something like that. And then the priest had raised
the gleaming monstrance on high, and all the people had bowed deeply:
_Qui vivis et regnas in sæcula sæculorum._ Yes, he had remembered
_that_ Latin well. He would never forget it all his life.

Cilia had had to nudge him and whisper: "Come, we're going now,"
otherwise he would have remained kneeling much longer in the
magnificent and still cosy church, in which nothing was cold and
strange.

If only he could go there again. Cilia had certainly promised to
take him if she found an opportunity--but now she was to go away, and
the opportunity would never come. What a pity. He was filled with a
great regret and defiance at the same time; no, he would not go to the
church his mother went to, and where the boys from his school went.

And he whispered again, "Hail, Mary!" and the hot and angry tears
that had been running down his cheeks ceased as he whispered it.

He had climbed out of his bed, and was kneeling by the side of it on
the carpet, his clasped hands raised in prayer, as he had seen
the angels do in the altar-piece. His eyes sparkled and were wide open,
his defiance melted into fervour.

When he at last got into bed again, and his excessive fatigue had
calmed his agitation and he had fallen asleep, he dreamt of the
beautiful Virgin Mary, whose features were well known to him, and he
felt his heart burn for her.

           *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

It was a fortnight later, the first of October, that Cilla left her
situation. Käte had given her a good character; it was still not clear
to the girl why she had been dismissed, even when she stood in the
street. The lady wanted an older, more experienced maid--that was what
she had said--but Cilia did not quite believe that, she felt vaguely
that there was another reason: she simply did not like her. She would
go home for a short time before taking another situation, she felt
homesick, and it had been difficult for her to leave the place--on
account of the boy. How he had cried, even yesterday evening. He had
hung on her neck and kissed her many times like a little child, that
big boy. And there was so much he still wanted to say to her. They had
been standing together upstairs in the dark passage, and then the
mistress's step as she came up the stairs had driven them away; he was
just able to escape to his room.

And she had not even been able to say good-bye to him to-day, the
good boy. For he had hardly gone to school when her mistress said:
"There, now you can go." She was quite taken aback, for she had not
reckoned on getting away before the afternoon. But the new housemaid,
an elderly person with a pointed face, had already come, so what was
there for her to do? So all she had done was to wrap up all the
pictures of the saints she kept in her prayer-book quickly in
paper, and stick them into the drawer in the table that stood at the
boy's bedside--he would be sure to find them there--after she had
written "Love from Cilia" on them. Then she had gone away.

Cilia had sent her basket on by goods train, and she had nothing to
carry now but a little leather bag and a cardboard box tied with
string. So she could get on quickly. But on her way to the station she
stopped all at once: the school would be over at one o'clock, it was
almost eleven now, it really did not matter if she left somewhat later.
How pleased he would be if she said good-bye to him once more and
begged him not to forget her.

She turned round. She would be sure to find a bench near the school,
and there she would wait for him.

The passers-by looked curiously at the young girl who had posted
herself near the school like a soldier, stiff and silent. Cilia had not
found a bench; she dared not go far from the entrance for fear of
missing him. So she placed the cardboard box on the ground, and stood
with her little bag on her arm. Now and then she asked somebody what
time it was. The time passed slowly. At last it was almost one. Then
she felt her heart beat: the good boy! In her thoughts she could
already see his dark eyes flash with joy, hear his amazed: "Cillchen!
You?"

Cilia pushed her hat straight on her beautiful fair hair, and stared
fixedly at the school-door with a more vivid red on her red cheeks: the
bell would soon ring--then he would come rushing out--then--. All at
once she saw the boy's mother. She? Frau Schlieben was approaching the
door with quick steps. Oh dear!

A few quick bounds brought her behind a bush: did she intend
fetching her Wolfgang herself to-day? Oh, then she would have
to go. And she stole away to the station, full of grief. The joy that
had made her heart beat had all disappeared; but she still had one
consolation: Wolfgang would not forget her. No, never!

Wolfgang was much surprised to see his mother. Surely he need not be
fetched? She had never done that herself before. He was disagreeably
impressed. Was he a baby? The others would make fun of him. He felt
very indignant, but his mother's kindness disarmed him.

She was specially tender that day, and very talkative. She inquired
about everything they had been doing at school, she did not even scold
when he confessed he had had ten faults in his Latin composition; on
the contrary, she promised he should make an excursion to Schildhorn
that afternoon. It was such a beautiful, sunny autumn day, almost like
summer. The boy sauntered along beside her, quite content, dangling his
books at the end of the long strap. He had quite forgotten for the
moment that Cilia was to leave that day.

But when they came home and the strange maid answered the door, he
opened his eyes wide, and when they sat down at table and the new girl
with the pointed face, who did not look at all like a servant, brought
in the dishes, he could not contain himself any longer.

"Where's Cilia?" he asked.

"She has gone away--you know it," said his mother in a casual tone
of voice.

"Away?" He turned pale and then crimson. So she had gone without
saying good-bye to him! All at once he had no appetite, although he had
been so hungry before. Every mouthful choked him; he looked stiffly at
his plate--he dared not look up for fear of crying.

His parents spoke of this and that--all trivial matters--and a voice
within him cried: "Why has she gone without saying good-bye to me?" It
hurt him very much. He could not understand it--she was so fond of him.
How could she have found it in her heart to go away without letting him
know where he could find her? His Cillchen to leave him like that! Oh,
she could not have done so--not of her own free will, oh no, no. And
just when he was at school.

He was seized with a sudden suspicion: he had not thought of such a
thing before, but now it was clear to him--oh, he was not so stupid as
all that--she had had to go just because he was at school. His mother
had never liked Cilia, and she had not wanted her to say good-bye to
him.

The boy cast angry glances at his mother from under his lowered
lashes: that was horrid of her.

He rose from the table full of suppressed wrath, and dragged his
feet up the stairs to his room. He found the pictures of the saints
that had been stuck into his drawer at once--"With love from
Cilia"--and then he gave way to his fury and his grief. He stamped with
his feet and kissed the gaudy pictures, and his tears made lots of dark
spots on them. Then he rushed downstairs into the dining-room, where
his father was still sitting at the table and his mother packing cakes
and fruit into her small bag. Oh, she had wanted to go for a walk with
him. That would be the very last thing he would do.

"Where has Cilia gone? Why haven't you let her say good-bye to
me?"

His mother gazed at him, petrified; how did the boy guess her innermost
thoughts? She could not utter a word. But he did not let her speak
either, his boy's voice, which was still high, cracked and then
became deep and hoarse: "Yes, you--oh, I know it quite well--you did
not want her to say good-bye to me. You've sent her away so that I
should not see her any more--yes, you! That's horrid of you!
That's--that's vile!" He went towards her.

She shrank back slowly--he raised his hands--was he going to strike
her?

"You rascal!" His father's hand seized him by the scruff of his
neck. "How dare you? Raise your hand against your mother?" The angry
man shook the boy until his teeth chattered, and did so again and
again. "You--you rascal, you good-for-nothing!"

"She didn't let her say good-bye to me," the boy screamed as an
answer. "She's sent her away because--because----"

"You still dare to speak to----"

"Yes! Why didn't she let Cilia say good-bye to me? She never did
anything to her. I loved her and it was for that, only for that----"

"Silence!" He gave the boy a violent blow on the mouth. The man no
longer recognised himself; his calmness had abandoned him, the boy's
obstinacy made him lose his temper. How he struggled against the hand
that was holding him, how he stared at him with his bold eyes. How
dared he shout at him like that? "You"--he shook him--"so you are so
insolent? So ungrateful? What would have become of you? You would have
died in misery--yes--it's she who has made something out of you--who
picked you up out of----"

"Paul!" His wife's scream interrupted the man. Käte seized hold of
his arm as though she were out of her mind: "No, no, leave him. You are
not to--no!" She held her hand in front of his mouth. And when he
pushed her away angrily and seized hold of the boy more firmly, she
tore him away from him and pressed his head against her dress
as if to protect him. She held her hand before his ears. Her face was
deathly white, and, turning her dilated eyes to her husband, she
implored him full of terror: "Not a word! I beseech you, I beseech
you!"

The man's anger had not yet cooled. Käte must really have lost her
senses. Why did she take the boy away from the punishment he so richly
deserved? He approached the boy once more with a hard: "Well, really,
Käte I'm not going to condone this."

Then she fled with him to the door and pushed him outside, bolted it
and then placed herself in front of it, as though to bar her husband's
egress.

Now Wolfgang had gone. They were both alone now, she and her
husband, and with a cry full of reproach: "You had almost betrayed it
to him," she tottered to the sofa. She fell rather than sat down on it,
and broke out in hopeless weeping.

Paul Schlieben strode up and down the room. He had indeed almost
allowed himself to be carried away by his indignation. But would it
have been a misfortune if he had told the boy about it? Let him know
where he came from, and that he had nothing, really nothing whatever to
do there. That he received everything as a favour. It was absolutely
unnecessary--in fact, more prejudicial than desirable--to keep it a
secret from him. But if she would not allow it on any account!

He interrupted his walk to and fro, remained standing before his
wife, who was weeping in the corner of the sofa, and looked down at
her. He felt so extremely sorry for her. That was the reward for all
her kindness, her unselfishness, for all her devotion! He laid his hand
softly on her drooping head without saying a word.

Then she started up suddenly and caught hold of his hand: "And don't
do anything to him, please. Don't hit him. It's my fault--he
guessed it. I did not like her, I gave her notice, and then I sent her
away secretly--only because he loved her, only for that reason. I
feared her. Paul, Paul"--she wrung her hands repentantly--"oh, Paul, I
stand abashed before the child, I stand abashed before myself."

Wolfgang was sitting huddled up in his room, holding the pictures of
the saints in his hand. Those were now his most costly, his only
possessions; a precious memory. Where could she be now? Still in the
Grunewald? Already in Berlin? Or much further? Oh, how he longed for
her. He missed the friendly face that was always smiling secretly at
him, and his longing for her increased until he could not bear it any
longer. There was no one there who loved him as she did whom he loved
as he had loved her.

Now that Cilia was gone he forgot that he had often laughed at her
and played tricks on her, and had also quarrelled with her in a boyish
manner. His longing for her grew and grew, and her figure grew as well.
It became so large and so strong, so powerful that it took his eyes
away from everything else that still surrounded him. He threw himself
on the carpet and dug his fingers into it; he had to hold himself in
that manner, otherwise he would have broken everything to bits,
everything, big and small.

That was his father's step on the stairs. He shook the door-handle.
Let him shake it. Wolfgang had locked himself in.

"Open at once!"

Ah, now he was to have a whipping. Wolfgang wiped his tears away
hastily, gnashed his teeth and closed his lips tightly.

"Well, are you soon going to do it?" The handle was shaken louder
and louder.

Then he went and opened it. His father stepped in. Not with the
stick the boy expected to see in his hand, but with anger and grief
written on his brow.

"Come down at once. You have hurt your poor, good--much too
good--mother very much. Come to her and ask her pardon. Show her that
you are sorry; do you hear? Come."

The boy did not move. He stared past his father into space with an
unutterably unhappy, but at the same time obstinate expression on his
face.

"You are to come--don't you hear? Your mother is waiting."

"I'm not coming," Wolfgang muttered; he hardly opened his lips at
all.

"What?" The man stared at the boy without speaking, quite dismayed
at so much audacity.

The boy returned his look, straight and bold. His young face was so
pale that his dark eyes appeared still darker, a dense black.

"Bad eyes," said the man to himself. And suddenly a suspicion took
possession of him, a suspicion that was old and long forgotten, but
still had slumbered in the recesses of his heart in spite of everything
and had now all at once been roused again, and he seized hold of the
boy, gripped hold of his chest so tightly that he made no further
resistance.

"Boy! Rascal! Have you no heart? She who has done so much for you,
she, she is waiting for you and you, you won't come? On your knees, I
say. Go on in front--ask her pardon. At once." And he seized the boy,
who showed no emotion whatever, by the scruff of his neck instead of by
his chest, and shoved him along in front of him down the stairs and
into the room where Käte was sitting buried in her grief, her eyes red
with weeping.

"Here's somebody who wants to beg your pardon," said the man,
pushing the boy down in front of her.

Wolfgang would have liked to cry out: "No, I won't beg her pardon,
and especially not now"--and then all at once he felt so sorry for her.
Oh, she was just as unhappy as he--they did not suit each other, that
was it. This knowledge came to him all at once, and it deepened his
glance and sharpened the features of his young face so much that he
looked old beyond his years.

He jerked out with a sob: "Beg your pardon." He did not hear himself
how much agony was expressed in his voice, he hardly felt either that
her arms lifted him up, that he lay on her breast for some moments and
she stroked his hair away from his burning brow. It was as if he were
half unconscious; he only felt a great emptiness and a vague
misery.

As in a dream he heard his father say: "There, that's right. Now go
and work. And be a better boy." And his mother's soft voice: "Yes, he's
sure to be that." He went upstairs as though he were walking in his
sleep. He was to work now--why? What was the object? Everything was so
immaterial to him. It was immaterial whether these people praised or
blamed him--what did it matter to him what they did? On the whole he
did not like being there any longer, he did not want to stay there any
more--no, no! He shook himself as though with loathing.

Then he stood a long time on one spot, staring into space. And
gradually a large, an immeasurable expanse appeared before his staring
eyes--cornfields and heather in bloom, heather in which the sun sets,
quiet waters near which a lonely bird is calling, and over all the
solemn, beautiful sound of bells. He must go there. He stretched out
his arms longingly, the eyes that were swollen with weeping
flashed.

If they were to keep him with them, keep hold of him! No, they could
not hold him. He must go there.

He crept nearer to the window as though drawn there. It was high up,
too high for a jump, but he would get down nevertheless. He could not
go down the stairs of course, they would hear him--but like this, ah,
like this.

Kneeling on the window-sill he groped about with his feet to find
the water-pipe that ran down the whole side of the house close to the
window. Ah, he felt it. Then he slid down from the sill, only hanging
on to it by the tips of his fingers, dangled in the air for a few
moments, then got the water-pipe between his knees, let go of the
window-sill altogether, grasped hold of the pipe and slid down it
quickly and noiselessly.

He looked round timidly: nobody had seen him. There was nobody in
the street, and there were only a few people walking in the distance.
He bent his head and crept past the windows on the ground-floor--now he
was in the garden behind the bushes--now over the hedge his trousers
slit, that did not matter--now he looked back at the house with a
feeling of wild triumph. He stood in the waste field, in which
no houses had been built as yet, stood there hidden behind an
elderberry-bush, of which he had planted the first shoot years before
as a child. He did not feel the slightest regret. He rushed away into
the sheltering wood like a wild animal that hears shots.

He ran and ran, ran even when it was not necessary to run any more.
He did not stop until complete exhaustion forced him to do so. He had
run straight across the wood without following any path; now he no
longer knew where he was. But he was far away, so much was certain. He
had not got so far into the wood on his robber expeditions with his
play-fellows, and, in his walks, had never gone into the parts
where there were no paths whatever and where it was quite lonely. He
could rest a little now in peace.

He threw himself on the ground, where the sand showed nothing but
fine grass and some bracken in small hollows. Trees in which there was
not the slightest motion towered above him all around, like slender
pillars that seemed to support the heavens.

He lay there for some time on his back, and let his blood, which was
coursing through his veins like mad, cool down. He thought he could
hear his heart throb quite distinctly, although he could not account
for it--oh, it was pounding and stabbing so unpleasantly in his breast;
he had never felt it do like that before. But he had never run like
that before, at any rate since his illness. He had to fight for air, he
thought he was going to choke. But at last he was able to breathe again
more comfortably; now he had not to distend his nostrils and pant for
breath any more. He could enjoy the feeling of ease and comfort that
gradually came over him now.

It was not yet dusk when he set out again, but still the light began
to show that it was October. There was a sweet softness, something
extremely gentle and glorified about the sunshine that fell through the
red branches of the pines, which also softened the wild runaway. He
went in a dream--whither? He did not know, he did not think of it
either, he only walked on and on, in pursuit of a longing that drew him
on irresistibly, that fluttered in front of him and cooed and called
like a dove seeking her nest. And the dove's wings were stronger than
the wings of an eagle.

There were no people where the longing flew. It was so peaceful and
quiet there. Not even his foot made any noise as it sank into the moss
and short grass. The pines stood in the glow of the setting
sun like slender lighted candles. No autumn leaves lay on the ground in
which the wind might have rustled; the air swept noiselessly over the
smooth pine-needles and the colourless cones that had dropped down from
the tree-tops.

Wolfgang had never known it was so beautiful there. He looked round
with amazed delight. It had never seemed so beautiful before. But it
was not like this, of course, where the villas were and the roads. His
eyes glanced curiously now to the right, now to the left and then in
front of him into the twilight of the wood. There, where the last gold
of the setting sun did not cling to the cleft bark like red blood and
the light did not penetrate, there was a soft mysterious dusk, in which
the mossy dark-green stems gleamed nevertheless. And there was a
perfume there, so moist and cool, so pungent and fresh, that the boy
drew a deep breath as though a weight had been lifted from his chest
and a new strength ran through his veins.

The memory of all he had gone through during the day came back to
Wolfgang now in the deep calm. He pressed his hands to his hot
forehead--ah, now he noticed he had not even a cap on. But what did
that matter? He was free, free! He hurried on, shouting with glee, and
then he got terrified at the sound of his own loud voice: hush, be
quiet! Let him only not be shut up again, let him be free, free!

He did not feel any more longing now. He was filled with a great
repose, with a boundless happiness. His eyes sparkled--he opened them
wide--he could not stare enough at the world, it was as though he saw
it for the first time to-day. He ran up to the trunks that seemed to be
supporting the heavens, and threw both arms round them; he pressed his
face against the resinous bark. Was it not soft? Did it not
cling to his glowing cheek like a caressing hand?

He threw himself down on the moss and stretched his limbs and tossed
from side to side in high glee, and then jumped up again--he did not
like being there, after all--he must look about, enjoy his liberty.

A single red stripe over the wood that was turning blue still showed
where the sun had been, when he became conscious of his actual
whereabouts for the first time. Here the former high-road from Spandau
to Potsdam had been; ruddy brown and yellow chestnuts formed an avenue
through the desolate country. The sand lay a foot deep in the ruts that
were seldom used now. Ah, from here you came to Potsdam or Spandau,
according to the road you took--alas, could you not already hear cocks
crowing and a noise as of wheels turning slowly?

Deciding quickly, the boy turned off from the old high-road to the
left, crept through a bent barbed wire fence, that was to protect a
clearing which had lately been replanted, bounded like a stag over the
small plants that were hardly a hand's-breadth high, and looked out for
a cover.

He did not require any, nobody came there. He walked more slowly
between the small trees; he took care not to tread on them, stooped
down and examined them, measured them out by steps as a farmer does his
furrows.

And all at once it was evening. A mist had crept over the earth,
light and hardly visible at first, then it had risen and increased in
size, had slipped across the piece of clearing on the night wind that
was coming up, and had hung on to each gnarl like the beckoning veils
of spectres.

But Wolfgang was not afraid; he did not feel any terror.
What could happen to him there, where the distant whistle of a train
was only heard at intervals, and where the wind carried the smoke it
had torn away from the locomotive like a light cloud that rapidly
vanishes?

Just as if you were on the prairie, on the steppes, the boy thought
to himself, where there are no longer any huts and only the camp fires
send their little bit of smoke up as a token. A certain love of
adventure was mingled with the bliss of being free. He had always
wished to camp out. Of course he would not be able to light a fire and
cook by it; he had nothing to do it with. But he did not feel hungry.
There was only one thing he needed now, to sleep long and soundly.

He lay down without hesitating. The ground was already cool, but his
clothes were thick and prevented the cold from penetrating. He made a
sort of pillow for his head, and lay with his face turned towards the
evening sky. Pale stars gradually appeared on it, and smiled down at
him.

He had thought he would fall asleep at once, he felt tired out, but
he lay a long time with open eyes. An inexplicable sensation kept him
awake: this was too beautiful, too beautiful, it was like a splendid
dream. Golden eyes protected him, a velvety mantle enveloped him, a
mother rocked him gently.

Longing, defiance, pain, fury, everything that hurt had disappeared.
Only happiness remained in this infinite peace.



CHAPTER XII


Frida Lãmke had now been confirmed. She wore a dress that almost
touched the ground, and when she saw Wolfgang Schlieben for the first
time after a long interval, her greeting was no longer the familiar
nod of childhood. But she stopped when she came up to her former
play-fellow.

"Hallo, Wolfgang," she said, laughing, and at the same time a little
condescendingly--she felt so infinitely superior to him--"well, how are
you getting along?"

"All right." He put on a bold air which did not exactly suit the
look in his eyes.

She examined him; what a fine fellow Wolfgang had grown. But he held
himself so badly, he bent forward so. "Hold yourself up, for goodness'
sake," she exhorted, and she straightened her own rush-like figure.
"Why do you make such a round back? And you blink your eyes as if you
were short-sighted. Hm, you should be with my employer--oh my, she
would make you sit up." She chuckled to herself, her whole slender
figure shook with a secret inclination to laugh.

"You're so happy," he said slowly.

"Well, why shouldn't I be? Do you think such an old dragon can spoil
my good humour? Come, that would be stupid. When she scolds I lower my
head, I don't say a word, but I laugh to myself. Ha ha!" Her clear
voice sounded very gay.

How pretty she was. The boy's dark eyes were fixed on Frida Lämke as
though he had never seen her before. The sun was shining on her fair
hair, which she no longer wore in a long plait, but in a thick knot at
the back of her head. Her face was so round, so blooming.

"You never come to see me now," he said.

"How can I?" She shrugged her shoulders and assumed an air of
importance. "What do you think I have to do? Into town with the car
before eight in the morning, and then only two hours for my dinner
always in and out and in the evening I'm hardly ever at home before
ten, often still later. Then I'm so tired, I sleep as sound as a top.
But on Sundays mother lets me sleep as long as I like, and in the
afternoon I go out with Artur and Flebbe. We----"

"Where do you go?" he asked hastily. "I could go with you some
time."

"Oh, you!" She laughed at him. "You mayn't, you know."

"No." He bowed his head.

"Come, don't look so glum," she said encouragingly, stroking his
chin with her fore-finger, and disclosing a hole in her shabby kid
glove. "You go to college, you see. Artur is to be apprenticed too,
next autumn. Mother thinks to a hairdresser. And Flebbe is already
learning to be a grocer--his father can afford to do that--who knows?
perhaps he may have a shop of his own in time."

"Yes," said Wolfgang in a monotonous voice, breaking into her
chatter. He stood in the street as though lost in thought, his books
pressed under his arm. Oh, how far, far this girl, all three of them,
had gone from him all at once. Those three, with whom he had once
played every day, whose captain he had always been, were already so
big, and he, he was still a silly school-boy.

"Oh, hang it all!" He hurled his pile of books away from him with a
violent gesture, so that the strap that held them together came undone.
All the books and exercise-books flew apart, and lay spread out in the
dust of the street.

"Oh dear, Wölfchen!" Frida stooped down, quite terrified, and
gathered them all up.

He did not help her to collect them. He stared in front of him with
an angry look.

"There--now you've got them again," said the girl, who had grown
quite red with stooping so busily. She blew off the dust and pressed
them under his arm again.

"I don't want them." He let them fall again.

"Hm, you're a nice fellow. What can you be thinking of?--those
expensive books." She felt really quite angry with him. "Don't you know
that they cost money?"

"Pooh!" He made a gesture as if to say, what did that matter? "Then
some new ones will be bought."

"Even if your father has sufficient money," she said, firing up,
"it's still not right of you to treat these good books like that."

He did not say a word to that, but took them up and fastened the
strap round them again. They stood together, both feeling embarrassed.
She glanced sideways at him: how he had changed. And he felt vexed that
he had got into a passion: what would she think of him now?

"I shall have to go now," she said all at once, "or I shan't even
get my dinner eaten ugh, how hungry I am!" She put her hand on her
stomach. "How good it'll taste! Mother has potatoes in their jackets
and herrings to-day."

"I shall go too." Suiting his step to hers he trotted beside her as
she tripped hastily along.

She got quite red: what would her mother say if she brought
Wolfgang with her? No, that would really not do, this was just the day
when their room had not been tidied. And she had told a fib too: there
were no herrings, only onion sauce with the potatoes in their
jackets.

She felt ashamed that Wolfgang should find it out.

"No, you go home," she said, intrenching herself behind a pout. "As
you've not been to see us for so long, you needn't come to-day either.
I'm angry with you."

"Angry with me--me? What have I done? I wasn't allowed to come to
you, I mightn't--that's not my fault, surely. Frida!"

She commenced to run, her face quite scarlet; he ran beside her.
"Frida! Frida, surely you can't be angry with _me_? Oh, Frida, don't be
angry. Frida, let me go with you. At last I've met you, and then you
behave like this?"

There was sorrow in his voice. She felt it, but she was angry all
the same: why should he cling to her like that? Flebbe would not like
it at all. And so she said in a pert voice: "We don't suit each other
and never shall. You go with your young ladies. You belong to
them."

"Say that once more--dare to do it!" He shouted in a rough voice,
and raised his hand as though he would strike her. "Affected creatures,
what are they to me?"

He was right--she had to confess it in her heart--he had never taken
any notice of the young girls who lived in the villas around him. She
knew very well that he preferred them to them all, and her vanity felt
flattered; she said soothingly, but at the same time evasively: "No,
Wölfchen, you can't go with me any more, it's not proper any more." And
she held out her hand: "Good-bye, Wolfgang."

They were among the bushes in a small public garden in which there
were benches, the villas lying at a good distance from it,
quite hidden behind their front gardens. There was nobody in sight in
the quiet radiance of the noonday sun. But even if somebody had come,
it would not have made any difference; he seized hold of her with both
hands in a kind of rage. "I am going with you--I shall not let you
go."

She resisted forcibly: what was the stupid boy thinking of? "Let me
go," she said, spitting at him like a little cat, "will you let me go
at once? You hurt me. Just you wait, I'll tell Flebbe about it, he'll
be after you. Leave me in peace."

He did not let her go. He held her clasped in his arms without
saying a word, his books were again lying in the dust.

Did he want to kiss or strike her? She did not know; but she was
afraid of him and defended herself as best she could. "You runaway!"
she hissed, "hm, you're a nice one. Runs away from home, hides himself
in the wood. But they got you all the same--and it served you
right."

All at once he let her go; she stood in front of him mocking him.
She could easily have run away now, but she preferred to stand there
and scold him: "You runaway!"

He got very red and hung his head.

"How could you think of doing such a thing?" she continued with a
certain cruelty. "So silly. Everybody laughed at you. We positively
could not believe it at first. Well I never, said I, the boy runs away
without money, without a cap, without a piece of bread in his pocket.
You wanted to go to America like that, I suppose, eh?" She eyed him
from top to toe and then threw her head back and laughed loudly: "To
think of doing such a thing."

He did not raise his head, only murmured half to himself: "You
shouldn't laugh at it, no, you shouldn't."

"Come, what next? Cry, perhaps? What does it matter to me? Your
mother cried enough about it, and your father ran about as if he were
crazy. All the rangers in the district were on their legs. Tell me,
didn't you get a good thrashing when they dragged you home by the
collar?"

"No." He suddenly raised his head and looked straight into the eyes
that were sparkling a little maliciously.

There was something in his glance--a mute reproach--that compelled
her to lower her lids.

"They didn't beat me--I wouldn't have stood it either--no, they
didn't beat me."

"Shut you up?" she asked curiously.

He did not answer; what was he to say? No, they had not shut him up,
he might go about as he liked in the house and garden, in the street,
to school--and still, still he was not free.

Tears suddenly started to his eyes. "You--you shouldn't--shouldn't
taunt me--Frida," he cried, stammering and faltering. "I'm so--so----"

He wanted to say "unhappy"; but the word seemed to mean too little
and in another way too much. And he felt ashamed of saying it aloud. So
he stood silent, colouring up to the eyes. And only his tears, which he
could not restrain any longer, rolled down his cheeks and fell into the
dust of the street.

They were tears of sorrow and of rage. It was already more than six
months ago--oh, even longer--but it still enraged him as though it had
happened the day before. He had never forgotten for a moment that they
had caught him so easily. They had found him so soon, at daybreak, ere
the sun had risen on a new day. And they had carried him home in
triumph. What he had looked upon as a great deed, an heroic
deed, was a stupid boy's trick to them. His mother had certainly cried
a good deal, but his father had only pulled his ear: "Once, but not
more, my son. Remember that."

Wolfgang was crying quietly but bitterly. Frida stood in front of
him, watching him cry, and suddenly her eyes filled with tears as
well--she had always been his good friend. Now she cried with him.

"Don't cry, Wölfchen," she sobbed. "It isn't so bad. People don't
remember anything more about it--such things are forgotten. You
certainly need not feel ashamed of it--why should you? There's no harm
in your having frightened your people a little for once in a way.
Simply say to them: 'Then I'll run away again,' if they won't let you
come to us. Come next Sunday afternoon. Then I won't go with Artur and
Flebbe--no, I'll wait for you."

She wiped her own tears away with the one hand and his with the
other.

They stood thus in the bright sunshine amidst the flowering bushes.
The lilac spread its fragrance around; a red may and a laburnum strewed
their beautifully coloured petals over them, shaken by the soft wind of
May. The dark and the light head were close to each other.

"Frida," he said, seizing hold of her hand firmly, as though
clinging to it, "Frida, are _you_ still fond of me, at any rate?"

"Of course." She nodded, and her clear merry laugh was heard once
more, although there were still traces of tears on her face. "That
would be a nice sort of friendship, if it disappeared so quickly.
There!" She pursed up her mouth and gave him a kiss.

He looked very embarrassed; she had never given him a kiss
before.

"There!" She gave him another one. "And now be happy again, my boy.
It's such beautiful weather."

           *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

"You're late to-day," said his mother, when Wolfgang came home from
school at two instead of at one o'clock. "You've not been kept, I
hope?"

A feeling of indignation rose in him: how she supervised him. The
good temper in which his friend Frida had put him had disappeared; the
chains galled him again. But he still thought a good deal of Frida.
When he was doing his lessons in the afternoon, her head with its thick
knot of hair would constantly appear behind his desk, and bend over his
book and interrupt him; but it was a pleasant interruption. What a pity
that Frida had so little time now. How nice it had been when they were
children. He had always been most fond of her; he had been able to play
better with her than with the two boys, she had always understood him
and stuck to him--alas!

He felt as though he must envy, from the bottom of his heart, the
boy who had been the captain when they played at robbers in those days
and roasted potatoes in the ashes, nay, even the boy who had once been
so ill that they had to wheel him in a bath-chair the first time he
went out into the open air. The boy who sat at the desk now, staring
absently into space over the top of his exercise-book, was no longer
the same. He was no longer a child. All at once it seemed to Wolfgang
as though a golden time had gone for ever and lay far behind him, as
though there were no pleasures in store for him. Had not the clergyman
who was preparing him for confirmation also said: "You are no longer
children"? And had he not gone on to say: "You will soon have your
share of life's gravity"? Alas, he already had it.

Wolfgang sat with knit brows, the chewed end of his penholder
between his teeth, disinclined to work. He was brooding. All manner of
thoughts occurred to him that he had never had before; all at
once words came into his mind that he had never thought of seriously
before. Why did the boys in his form constantly ask him such strange
questions? They asked about his parents--well, was there anything
peculiar about them?--and then they exchanged glances among themselves
and looked at him so curiously. What was so funny about him? Lehmann
was the most curious--and so cheeky. Quite lately he had blinked at him
sideways so slyly, and puffed up his cheeks as though they must burst
with laughter when he made the specially witty remark: "I'll be hanged
if I can see any likeness between you and your governor!" Was he really
not like his father or his mother? Not like either of them?

When Wolfgang undressed that evening, he stood a long time in front
of the looking-glass that hung over his washstand, with a light in his
hand, holding it first to the right, then to the left, then higher,
then lower. A bright light fell on his face. The glass was good, and
reflected every feature faithfully on its clear surface--but there was
no resemblance whatever between his big nose and his mother's fine one.
His father's nose was also quite different. And neither of his parents
had such a broad forehead with hair growing far down on it, and such
brows that almost met. His father had certainly dark eyes, but they did
not resemble those he saw in the glass, that were so black that even
the light from the candle, which he held quite close, could not make
them any lighter.

At last the boy turned away with a look full of doubt. And still
there was something that resembled a slight feeling of relief in the
sigh he now uttered. If he were so little like them externally, need he
wonder then that his thoughts and feelings were often so quite, quite
different from theirs?

It was strange how the boys at school were an exact copy of their
parents; and how the big boys were still tied to their mothers'
apron-strings. There was Kullrich, for example; he had been away for a
fortnight because his mother had died, and when he came to school again
for the first time--with a black band round his coat-sleeve--the whole
form went almost crazy. They treated him as though he were a raw egg,
and spoke quite low, and nobody made a joke. And when the passage,
_When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me
up_, happened to occur in the Bible-lessons, in which Kullrich also
took part, they all looked at him as though at the word of command, and
Kullrich laid his head down on his Bible, and did not raise it again
during the whole lesson. Afterwards the master went up to him and spoke
a long time to him, and laid his hand on his head.

That was already a long time ago, but Kullrich was still not happy.
When they all walked in the playground during the interval, eating
their bread and butter, he stood at some distance and did not eat. Was
it really so hard to lose one's mother?

There was a wonderful moon shining over the silent pines that night;
the boy lay half out of the window for a long, long time. His eyes were
burning: his thoughts buzzed in his head like a swarm of gnats that
whirl round and round and up and down in the air like a cloud. Where
did they come from all at once?

He exposed his hot forehead, his chest, from which his nightshirt
had slipped, to the cool night air in May--ah, that did him good. That
was the best, the only thing that soothed, that gave peace. Oh, how
delightful the air was, so pure, so fresh.

Where could Cilia be now? he wondered. He had never heard anything
more about her, She was where he would like to have been--oh,
how he would have liked it. Something that resembled the sound of bells
came floating along, and he stretched out his arms and bent further and
further out of the window.

Wolfgang had such a vivid dream about Cilia that night that when he
awoke he thought she was standing at his bedside, that she had not left
him yet. But after he had rubbed his eyes, he saw that the spot on
which she had just been standing smiling so pleasantly was empty.

After school was over he had to go to the Bible-lesson; he was to be
confirmed the following Easter. True, he was still young, but Paul
Schlieben had said to his wife: "He is so developed physically. We
can't have him confirmed when he is outwardly, at any rate, a grown-up
man. Besides, his age is just right. It is much better for him if he
does not begin to reflect first."

Did he not reflect already? It often seemed to Käte as if the boy
evaded her questions, when she asked him about the Bible-lesson. Did
his teacher not understand how to make an impression on him? Dr.
Baumann was looked upon as an excellent theologian, everybody rushed to
hear his sermons; to be allowed to join his confirmation classes, that
were always so crowded, was a special favour; all his pupils raved
about him, people who had been confirmed by him ten, fifteen years
before, still spoke of it as an event in their lives.

Käte made a point of going to hear this popular clergyman's sermons
very often. Formerly she had only gone to church at Christmas and on
Good Friday, now she went almost every Sunday to please her boy, for he
had to go now. They left the house together every Sunday, drove to
church together, sat next to each other; but whilst she thought: "How
clever, how thought-out, what fervour, surely he must carry a youthful
mind away with him"? Wolfgang thought: "If only it were over!"
He felt bored. And his soul had never soared there as when the little
bell rang when the monstrance had been raised, when he had smelt the
odour of incense before dim altars.

There was something in him that drove him to the church he had once
visited with Cilia. When he went to the Bible-class he had to pass
close by it; but even if the road had been longer, he would still have
made it possible to go there. Only to stand a few minutes, a few
seconds in a corner, only to draw his breath once or twice in that
sweet, mysterious, soothing air laden with incense. He always found the
church door open; and then when he stepped out again into the noise of
Berlin, he went through the streets with their hurry and their rush
like one come from another world. After that he did not take any
notice of what he was told about the doctrines and the history of the
Church--what were Martin Luther, Calvin and other reformers to him? His
soul had been caught, his thoughts submerged in a feeling of gloomy
faith.

Thus the summer and winter passed. When the days grew longer, and
the mild warmth of the sun promised to dry up all the moisture winter
had left behind ere long, Paul Schlieben had his villa cleaned and
painted. It was to put on a festive garment for their son's great day,
too.

The white house looked extremely pretty with its red roofs and green
shutters, as it peeped out from behind the pines; there would almost
have been something rustic about it, had it not been for the large
plate-glass windows and the conservatory, with its palms and flowering
azaleas, that had lately been built on. Friedrich was sowing fresh
grass in the garden, and an assistant was tidying up the flower-beds;
they were digging and hoeing everywhere. The sparrows were
chirping noisily, bold and happy; but strips of paper tied to long
pieces of string and stretched across the lawns that had just been sown
fluttered in the purifying wind and frightened the impudent birds away
from the welcome food. All the gardens were waking up. The stems of the
roses had not yet been released from their coverings, in which they
looked like a chrysalis made of straw, but the young shoots had
appeared on the fruit-trees, and the spurge-laurel made a fine show
with its peach-coloured blossoms. Perambulators painted white and
sky-blue were being driven up and down the street, the baby inside was
already peeping out from behind the curtains, and little feet tripped
along by the side. Nurses and children came out of all the doors, the
boys with hoops, the girls with their balls in a knitted net. Giggling
young girls went off to tennis, and big boys from the third form made
love to them.

Brightness and gaiety everywhere. There was a glad excited rustling
in the tops of the pines, and the sap rose and fell in the willows
along the shores of the lake. A flight of starlings passed over the
Grunewald colony, and each bird looked down and chose in which box on
the tall pine stems it would prefer to nest.

The new suit of clothes--black trousers and coat--Wolfgang was to
wear at his confirmation lay spread out on his bed upstairs. Now he was
to try it on.

Käte was filled with a strange emotion, and her pulse quickened as
she helped him to put on his new suit. So far he had always been
dressed like a boy, in knickers and a sailor blouse, now he was to be
dressed like a man all at once. The festive black suit of fine cloth
did not suit him; for the first time one noticed that he was thick-set.
He stood there stiffly, he felt cramped in the trousers, the coat was
uncomfortable, too: he looked miserable.

"Look at yourself, just look at yourself," said Käte, pushing him in
front of the glass.

He looked into it. But he did not see the clothes, he only saw his
mother's face as she looked into the glass at the same time as he, and
he saw they had not a single feature in common.

"We're not a bit alike," he murmured.

"Hm? What did you say?" She had not understood him.

He did not answer.

"Don't you like the suit?"

"It's awful!" And then he stared at himself absently. What had they
been saying again that morning? They had been jeering at him, Lehmann
and von Kesselborn, who were to be confirmed with him. Was it because
their fathers were not so rich as his? Kesselborn's father was a
retired officer, who now filled the post of registrar, but Kesselborn
was terribly proud of his "von"; and Lehmann was his bosom friend.
However, he had told them that he had already had a silver watch since
he was eight years old, and that he was to have a real gold one for his
confirmation, which he would then wear every day--that had vexed them
awfully.

It was before the lesson had commenced--they were all three
waiting--and Kesselborn had suddenly said: "Schlieben gives himself
airs," and had then turned to him and said: "You needn't be so
stuck-up." And then Lehmann had added, also quite loudly so that
everybody must have heard it: "Don't put on so much side, we know all
 about it."

"What do you know?" He had wanted to jump on Lehmann like a tiger,
but the clergyman had just then come in and they began prayers. And
when the lesson, of which he had hardly heard anything--he heard the
other words all the time--was over, he had wanted to tackle
Kesselborn and Lehmann, but they had been sitting near the door, and
had already gone before he could get out of his bench. He did not see
them again. But he noticed glances in which there was a certain
curiosity and spitefulness--or did he only imagine it? He was not quite
sure about it, and he had not thought any more about it either. But now
when he saw his mother's face so close to his in the glass, he suddenly
remembered it all again. And it all came back to him, plumped like a
stone into his thoughts.

"I'm not at all like you," he said once more. And then he watched
her face: "Not like father either."

"Oh yes," she said hastily, "you are very much like your
father."

"Not the slightest bit."

Her face had flamed, and then he noticed that she suddenly turned
pale. Then she laughed, but there was something forced in her laugh.
"There are many children who hardly resemble their parents at all--that
has nothing to do with the matter."

"No, but----" All at once he stopped and frowned, as he always did
when he exerted himself to think. And he shot such sharp, such
suspicious, such scrutinising glances at the glass under his knit brows
that Käte involuntarily moved aside, so that her head could not be seen
near his in the glass any more.

She was seized with a sudden fear: what did he mean? Had he spoken
like that intentionally, or had he said it quite unconsciously? What
had they said to him? What did he know?

Her hands that had found something to do to his clothes--she was on
her knees pulling down his trousers--were full of nervous haste, and
were pulling here, pulling there, and trembling.

He was not looking into the glass now, he was gazing at the kneeling
woman with an indefinable look. As a rule, his face had not much
expression and was neither handsome nor ugly, neither fine nor
insignificant--it was still a smooth, immature boy's face without a
line on it--but now there was something in it, something doubting,
restless, which made it appear older, which drew furrows on his
forehead and lines round his mouth. Thoughts seemed to be whirling
round behind that lowered brow; the broad nostrils quivered slightly,
the trembling lips were pressed tightly together.

A deep silence reigned in the room. The mother did not utter a word,
nor did the son. The birds were twittering outside, even the faintest
chirp could be heard as well as the soft rustling of the spring wind in
the tops of the pines.

Käte rose slowly from her knees. She found difficulty in getting up,
all her limbs felt as if they were paralysed. She stretched out her
hand gropingly, caught hold of the nearest piece of furniture and
helped herself up.

"You can take it off again now," she said in a low voice.

He was already doing so, visibly glad at being able to throw off the
clothes he was so unused to.

She would have liked so much to say something to him, something
quite unimportant--only to speak, speak--but she felt so strangely
timid. It was as though he might say to her: "What have I to do with
you, woman?" And her fear kept her silent.

He had taken off his new suit now, and was standing before her
showing his broad chest, which the unbuttoned shirt had left exposed,
his strong legs, from which the stockings had slipped down, and all his
big-boned, only half-clothed robustness. She averted her glance--what a
big fellow he was already!--but then she looked at him again
almost immediately: why should a mother feel shy at looking at her
child? A mother?

Her eyes flickered. As she walked to the door she said, without
turning her head to him again: "I'm going down now. You'll be able to
finish without me, no doubt."

He mumbled something she could not understand. And then he stood a
long time, half dressed as he was, and stared into the glass, as though
the pupils of his eyes could not move.

The day of his confirmation drew near; it was to take place on Palm
Sunday. Dr. Baumann had laid the importance of the step they were about
to take very clearly before the boys' eyes. Now a certain feeling of
solemnity took the place of Wolfgang's former indifference. He was more
attentive during the last lessons; the empty bare room with the few
pictures on the plain walls did not seem so bare to him any longer. Was
it only because he had grown accustomed to it? A softer light fell
through the dreary windows and glided over the monotonous rows of
benches, beautifying them.

Even Lehmann and Kesselborn were not quite so unsympathetic lately.
All his thoughts grew gentler, more forgiving. The boy's hard heart
became soft. When the clergyman spoke of the Commandments and specially
emphasised the one, "Honour thy father and thy mother," it seemed to
Wolfgang there was much for which he must ask forgiveness; especially
his mother's forgiveness.

But then when he came home and wanted to say something loving to
her--something quite unprepared, quite spontaneous--he could not do it,
for she had not perceived his intention.

Käte often went to the station to meet him--oh, how tired the poor
boy must be when he came home. It was really too great a rush for him
to have to go to town for his Bible-lessons so often, and
there was always twice as much work at school before the end of the
term. She would have liked to have caressed him, to have fondled him as
she formerly did little Wölfchen. But when she saw him come sauntering
along, never looking out for her, never imagining that she was there
waiting for him, she would turn quickly down the first street or remain
standing quietly behind a tree and let him pass by. He did not notice
her at all.

The popular clergyman had to prepare a great many boys for
confirmation, too many; he could not interest himself in each
individual one of them; nevertheless he thought he could assure
Wolfgang's mother, who came to see him full of a certain anxiety in
order to ask him how her son was getting on, that he was satisfied with
him.

"I know, I know, Frau Schlieben. Your husband considered it his duty
to explain it to me--I have also seen the boy's Catholic certificate of
baptism. But I think I can assure you with a clear conscience that the
lad is a sincere, evangelical Christian. What, you still have some
doubts about it?" Her doubtful mien, the questioning anxiety in her
eyes astonished him.

She nodded: yes, she had a doubt. Odd that she should have got it
quite lately. But a stranger, anybody else would not understand it, not
even this man with the clever eyes and the gentle smile. And she could
hardly have expressed her doubt in words. And she would have had to
tell her tale quite from the beginning, from the time when she took the
child away from its mother, took it into her own hands, the whole
child, body and soul.

So she only said: "So you believe--you really believe--oh, how happy
I am, Dr. Baumann, that you believe we have done right." She looked at
him expectantly--oh, how she yearned for him to confirm it and he bowed
his head:

"So far as our knowledge and understanding go--yes."

Wolfgang did not sleep the night before Palm Sunday. He had been
told at the last lesson that day that he was to prepare his thoughts.
And he felt, too, that the next day was an important day, a fresh
chapter in his life. He did his best to think of everything a boy
preparing for his confirmation ought to think of. He was very tired and
could not help yawning, but he forced his eyes open every time.
However, he could not help his thoughts wandering again and again; his
head was no longer clear.

What text would he get next day in remembrance of his confirmation?
he wondered. They had often talked about it at school, each one had his
favourite text which he hoped to get. And would he get the gold watch
early in the morning before going to church? Of course. Oh, how angry
Kesselborn and Lehmann would be then--those wretches! He would hold it
up before their eyes: there, look! They should be green with envy--why
should they always be whispering about him, meddling with things that
did not concern them at all? Pooh, they could not make him trouble
about it all the same, not even make him angry.

And still all at once he saw his own face so plainly before his
mind's eye and his mother's near it, as he had seen them in the glass.
There was not a single feature alike--no, not one.

It was really odd that mother and son resembled each other so
little. Now he was wide awake, and commenced to ponder, his brows knit,
his hands clenched. What did they really mean by their offensive
remarks? If only he knew it. He would be quite satisfied then, quite
easy. But he could not think of anything else as things were now, with
everything so obscure. All his thoughts turned round and round the same
point. It was a horrible feeling that tormented him now, a
great uncertainty in which he groped about in the dark. Light, light,
he must have light. Ah, he would see that he got some.

He tossed about restlessly, quite tortured by his thoughts, and
considered and pondered how he was to find it out, where he was to find
it out. Who would tell him for certain whether he was his parents'
child or not? Why should he not be their child? Yes, he was their
child--no, he was not. But why not? If he was not their real child,
would he be very sorry? No, no!--but still, it terrified him.

The perspiration stood out on the excited boy's body, and still he
felt icy-cold. He drew the cover up and shook as though with fever. His
heart behaved strangely too, it fluttered in his breast as though with
restless wings. Oh, if only he could sleep and forget everything. Then
there would be no thought of it next day, and everything would be as it
had always been.

He pressed his eyes together tightly, but the sleep he had driven
away did not come again. He heard the clocks strike, the old clock
resounded hi the dining-room downstairs, and the bronze one called from
his mother's room with its silvery voice. The silence of the night
exaggerated every sound; he had never heard the clocks strike so loudly
before.

Was the morning never coming? Was it not light yet? He longed for
the day to come, and still he dreaded it. All at once he was seized
with an inexplicable terror--why, what was it he feared so much?

If only he were already at church--no, if only it were all over. He
was filled with reluctance, a sudden disinclination. The same thought
continued to rush madly through his brain, and his heart rushed with
it; it was impossible to collect his thoughts. He sighed as he
tossed and turned on his bed; he felt so extremely lonely, terrified,
nay, persecuted.

_If I ascend up into heaven, Thou art there: if I make my bed in
hell, behold, Thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning, and
dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea_--alas, he could not escape
from that thought, it was everywhere and always, always there.

As the morning sun stole through the shutters that were still closed
on Palm Sunday, forcing its way into the room in delicate, golden rays,
Käte came into her son's room. She was pale, for she had been
struggling with herself the whole night: should she tell him something,
now that he was to enter upon this new chapter of his life or should
she tell him nothing? Something within her whispered: "The day has
come, tell him it, you owe it to him"--but when the morning sun
appeared she bade the voice of the night be silent. Why tell him it?
What did it matter to him? What he did not know could not grieve him;
but if he knew it, then--perhaps he would then--oh, God, she must keep
silent, she could not lose him!

But she longed to let him feel her love. When she came in with soft
steps she was amazed, for he was standing already quite dressed in the
new black coat and trousers at the window, gazing fixedly at the field
in which they were beginning to build a villa now. The ground floor was
already finished, there was a high scaffolding round it; it was going
to be an enormous building.

"Good morning, my dear son," she said.

He did not hear her.

"Wolfgang!"

Then he turned round quickly and looked at her, terrified and as
though he did not know her.

"Oh, you're already dressed." Her voice seemed to express
disappointment; she would have been so pleased to have helped
him just on that day. There was a strange feeling in her heart; she had
never thought the day would have affected her so. Was it not a day like
other days, a festival, of course, but one of many? And now it seemed
as though the day were unique, and as though there would never be
another like it again.

She went up to Wolfgang, laid her arms round his neck and looked
deep into his eyes: "My child!" And then she smiled at him. "I wish you
joy."

"Why?" He looked past her with such a strange expression that all
the heartfelt things she had wanted to say to him remained unsaid. He
was still quite a child although he was almost taller than she, much
too much of a child, he did not understand the importance of the day as
yet. So all she did was to improve on his appearance a little, to take
away a thread from his clothes here, to blow away some dust there and
pull his tie straight. And then he had to bend his head; she made a
parting again in his stiff obstinate hair, that never would remain
straight. And then she could not restrain herself, but took his round
face between both her hands and pressed a quick kiss on his
forehead.

"Why not on my mouth?" he thought to himself. "A mother would have
kissed her child on his mouth."

They went down to breakfast. There were flowers on the table; his
father, who was wearing a frock coat, was already seated, and the gold
watch lay on Wolfgang's plate. A splendid watch. He examined it
critically; yes, he liked it. "In remembrance of April 1, 1901," was
engraved inside the gold case. Neither Kesselborn nor Lehmann would get
such a watch, none of the boys who were to be confirmed would get
anything like such a beauty. It was awfully heavy--he really ought to
have a gold chain now.

Wolfgang's parents watched him as he stood there with the
watch in his hand, looking at it yes, he was pleased. And that pleased
them, especially Käte. She had wanted to have a text engraved inside it
as well, but Paul did not wish it: don't let them get sentimental about
it. But it was all right as it was, the boy was pleased with the gift,
and so they had gained their object.

"It strikes as well," she said to him eagerly. "You can know what
time it is in the dark. Look. If you press here--do you see?"

"Yes. Give it to me--you've to press here." He knew all about
it.

They had lost count of the time; they had to be going. Wolfgang
walked to the station between his parents. When they passed the house
where Lämke was hall-porter, Frida was standing at the door. She must
have got up earlier than usual this Sunday; she was already in her
finery, looked very nice and smiled and nodded. Then Frau Lämke stuck
her head out of the low cellar-window, and followed the boy with her
eyes.

"There he goes," she philosophised. "Who knows what life has in
store for him?" She felt quite moved.

It was splendid weather, a real spring day. The tasteful villas
looked so festive and bright; all the bushes were shooting, and the
crocuses, tulips and primroses were in bloom. Even Berlin with its
large grey houses and its noise and traffic showed a Sunday face. It
was so much quieter in the streets; true, the electric cars were
rushing along and there were cabs and carriages, but there were no
waggons about, no brewers' and butchers' carts. Everything was so much
quieter, as though subdued, softened. The streets seemed broader than
usual because they were emptier, and the faces of the people who walked
there looked different from what they generally did.

The candidates for confirmation were streaming to the
church; there was a large number of boys and girls. Most of the girls
drove, for they all belonged to good families.

Ah, all those boys and girls. Käte could hardly suppress a slight
feeling of longing, almost of envy: oh, to be as young as they were.
But then every selfish thought was swallowed up in the one feeling: the
boy, the boy was stepping out of childhood's land now. God be with
him!

Feelings she had not known for a long time, childlike, devout, quite
artless feelings crowded in upon her; everything the years and her
worldly life had brought with them fell from her. To-day she was young
again, as young as those kneeling at the altar, full of confidence,
full of hope.

Dr. Baumann spoke grave words full of advice to the boys and girls;
many of the young children sobbed, and their mothers, too. A shudder
passed through the crowded church, the young dark and fair heads bent
low. Käte's eyes sought Wolfgang; his head was the darkest of all. But
he did not keep it bent, his eyes wandered restlessly all over the
church until they came to a certain window; there they remained fixed.
What was he looking for there? Of what was he thinking? She imagined
she could see that his thoughts were far away, and that made her
uneasy. Moving nearer to her husband she whispered: "Do you see
him?"

He nodded and whispered: "Certainly. He's bigger than all the
others." There was something of a father's pride in the man's whisper.
Yes, to-day it came home to him: even if they had had many a sorrow
they would not have had under other circumstances, many a discomfort
and unpleasantness, still they had had many a joy they would otherwise
have missed. In spite of everything the boy might in time be all right.
How he was growing. There was an expression about his mouth
that was almost manly. It had never struck his father before--was it
the black clothes that made the boy look so grave?

Wolfgang's thoughts went along paths of their own; not along those
prescribed there. He had many sensations, but he could not keep hold of
any; he was lost in thought. He saw a bit of the sky through a square
in the window-pane, and the flitting figures of his father, mother,
Frida, his masters and school-fellows appeared to him in it. But they
all glided past, no vision remained. All at once he felt quite alone
among all that crowd of people.

When his turn came he stepped mechanically up to the altar with
Kullrich beside him; Lehmann and Kesselborn were in front of him. How
he hated those two again all at once. He would have liked to throw his
watch, his gold watch at their feet: there, take it! But take back
what you've said, take it back! Ugh, what a terrible night that had
been--horrible. He felt it still in all his limbs; his feet were heavy,
and as he knelt down on the cushion on the step leading up to the altar
his knees were stiff. Kullrich was crying the whole time. Ah, he was no
doubt thinking of his mother, who was not with him any longer. Poor
fellow! And Wolfgang felt suddenly that something moist and hot forced
its way into his eyes.

The organ above them was being played very softly, and the clergyman
repeated the texts he had chosen for the candidates in a low voice to
the accompaniment of its gentle tones:

"Revelation, 21st chapter, 4th verse. _And God shall wipe away all
tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither
sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the
former things are passed away._"

Ah, that was for Kullrich. He raised his face, that was wet
with tears and so red and hot, to receive the comforting words. But
now, now--Wolfgang stopped breathing--now _his_ text was coming. What
kind of a text would he get, what would he say to _him_?

"Hebrews, 13th chapter, 14th verse. _For here have we no continuing
city, but we seek one to come._"

That was to be for him--that? What was the meaning of it? A terrible
disappointment came over Wolfgang, for--had he not waited for the text
as for a revelation? The text was to be a judgment of God. It was to
tell him what was true--or what was not true. And now?

_Here have we no continuing city, we seek one to come._ That did not
tell him anything.

He got up from the steps mechanically, deceived in all his hopes. He
did not see that his mother's eyes sent him a covert greeting, that his
father was surreptitiously nodding to him with a friendly expression on
his face; he felt quite disillusioned, quite bewildered by this
disappointment.

If only it had been over now. How tiring it was to sit quiet for so
long. Wolfgang was pale and yawned covertly; the long night during
which he had not slept made itself felt, he could hardly keep himself
from falling asleep. At last, at last the "Amen" was said, at last, at
last the final hymn pealed from the organ.

The enormous crowd poured out of the church like a never-ending
flood. Each child joined its parents and passed through the church
porch between its father and mother.

Wolfgang walked like that, too, as he had done before. He saw
Kullrich in front of him--with his father only; both of them still wore
the broad mourning-band. Then he left his father and mother and hurried
after Kullrich. He had never been on specially friendly terms with him,
but he took hold of his hand now and pressed and shook it in
silence, without a word, and then went back again quickly.

Her boy's impulsive sympathy touched Käte greatly; altogether she
was very much moved that day. When Wolfgang walked beside her again,
she looked at him sideways the whole time with deep emotion: oh, he was
so good, so good. And her heart sent up burning hopes and desires to
heaven.

The sky was bright, so blue, there was not a cloud on it.

They took a carriage so as to drive home, as both parents felt they
could not be crowded together in the train with so many indifferent,
chattering people; they wanted to be alone with their son. Wolfgang was
silent. He sat opposite his mother and allowed his hand to remain in
hers, which she kept on her lap, but his fingers did not return her
tender, warm pressure. He sat as quiet as though his thoughts were not
there at all.

They drove past the house again in which Lämke was porter; Frida
sprang to the window on hearing the noise the carriage made on the
hard, sun-baked road, and smiled and nodded once more. But there was
nothing to be seen of Frau Lämke now, and Wolfgang missed her. Well,
that afternoon as soon as he could get free he would go to the
Lämkes.

Some guests were already waiting for them at the villa. They did not
wish to invite a lot of outsiders in honour of the confirmation, but
still the good old doctor, his wife, and the two partners had to be
asked--all elderly people. Wolfgang sat between them without saying
much more than "yes" and "no," when questions were put to him. But he
ate and drank a good deal; the food was always good, but still you did
not get caviar and plovers' eggs every day. His face grew redder and
redder, and then his head began to swim. At last his health was drunk
in champagne, and Braumüller, the oldest partner, a very
jovial man, had amused himself by filling the boy's glass again and
again.

"Well, Wolfgang, that will be grand when you come to the office.
Your health, my boy."

It was almost five o'clock when they got up from table. The ladies
sat down in the drawing-room to have a cup of coffee, the gentlemen
went to the smoking-room. Wolfgang stole away, he felt such a longing
for the Lämkes. First of all he wanted to show them the gold watch, and
then he wanted to ask what text Frida had got at her confirmation, and
then, then--what would Frau Lämke say to him?

_Here have we no continuing city, we seek one to come_; that was
really a stupid text. And still he could not get it out of his head. He
thought of it the whole time whilst sauntering slowly along through the
soft silvery air of spring, that is so full of presages. No, the text
was not so stupid, after all. He knit his brows thoughtfully, looked up
at the motionless tops of the pines and then around him--"Here have we
no continuing city"--could not that also mean, here is not your home?
But where then--where?

A strange gleam came into his dark eyes, a look as if seeking for
something. And then his face, which the wine had flushed, grew pale. If
it were true what the two had said? Oh, and so many other things
occurred to him all at once: there had been that Lisbeth, that horrid
woman who had been with them before Cilia came--what was all that
Lisbeth had always been babbling about when she was in a bad humour?
"You've no right here"--"you're here on sufferance"--and so on, only he
could not remember it all now. What a pity! At that time he had been
too young and too innocent, but now--now?

"Hang that woman!" He clenched his hand. But oh, if he only
had her there now. He would not call her names, oh no, he would get it
out of her quite gently and coaxingly, for he must, he must know it
now.

A violent longing, a burning curiosity had suddenly been roused in
him, and would not be repressed any longer. There must be some truth in
it, or how could they have taunted him like that? And he must know the
truth; he had a right to know it now. His figure grew taller. Self-will
and defiance engraved deep, firm lines round his mouth. And even if it
were ever so terrible, he must know it. But was it terrible? The lines
round his lips became softer. "Here have we no continuing city, but we
seek one to come"--very well then, he would seek it.

He gave up sauntering and began to stride along more quickly. What
would Frau Lämke say? And if he should ask her now--she meant so well
by him--if he should ask her in the way a man is asked when he has to
swear to anything, if he asked her whether--yes, but what was it he
really wanted to ask her?

His heart throbbed. Oh, that stupid heart. It often behaved as if it
were a wild bird that has been shut up in a small cage.

He had commenced to run again; now he had to slacken his pace. And
still he was quite breathless when he came to the Lämkes. The father
and son had gone out, but the mother and daughter were sitting there as
though waiting for him.

Frida jumped up, so that the edging she had been crocheting for the
kitchen fell to the ground, seized hold of both his hands, and her blue
eyes sparkled with admiration. "Oh, how fine you are, Wolfgang! Like a
gentleman--awfully grand."

He smiled: that was nice of her to say it.

But when Frau Lämke said in a voice full of feeling: "Now I
shall have to treat you as a grown-up, Wolfgang--you're getting too big
now--but I like you none the less for that, you may be sure, I could
hardly be fonder of my own children"--he felt happier than he had done
the whole day. His face grew tender and full of emotion, and he pressed
the gnarled hand that gave his such a hearty shake firmly.

Then he sat down near them; they wanted to hear about
everything.

He showed them his gold watch and let it strike the hour; but he did
not talk much, the atmosphere of the room filled him with a vague
feeling of delight, and he sat quite still. There was the same smell of
freshly-made coffee as once before, and the myrtle in the window and
the pale monthly rose mingled their fainter perfume with it. He had
quite forgotten that he had already been there some time; all at once
it occurred to him with a sudden feeling of dread that he had something
to ask. He cast a searching glance at the woman. She was just saying:
"Oh, how pleased your mother will be to have such a big son," when he
jerked out: "Am I her son?" And as she did not answer, but only looked
at him uncertainly with her eyes full of dismay, he almost shouted it:
"Am I her son?"

The mother and daughter exchanged a rapid glance; Frau Lämke had
turned scarlet and looked very embarrassed. The boy had got hold of her
arms with both hands and was bending over her. There was no getting out
of it.

"Don't tell me any lies," he said hastily. "I shall find it out all
the same. I must find it out. Is she my mother? Answer. And my
father--he isn't my real father either?"

"Good gracious, Wolfgang, what makes you think of such a thing?"
Frau Lämke hid her embarrassment under a forced laugh. "That's all
nonsense."

"Oh no." He remained quite serious. "I'm old enough now. I must know
it. I must."

The woman positively writhed: oh, how disagreeable it was for her;
let the boy go somewhere else and ask. "I should get into nice trouble
with them if I told tales," she said, trying to get out of it. "Ask
your parents themselves, they'll tell you all you want to know. I'll
take care not to meddle with such things."

Frida opened her mouth as though she wanted to say something, but a
warning glance made her remain silent. Her mother flew at her angrily:
"Will you be quiet? To think of you mixing yourself up with it. What
next. On the whole, what do chits like you know about such things?
Wolfgang's father knows very well what the boy is to him and where he
got him from. And if the lady is satisfied with it, no one else has a
word to say about it."

Wolfgang stared at the gossip. "The boys say--Lisbeth said--and now
you say--you too"--he jumped up--"I'll go and ask--them." He pointed
with his finger as though pointing at something at a great distance of
which he knew nothing. "Now I must know it."

"But Wolfgang--no, for God's sake!" Frau Lämke pressed him down into
the chair again, quite terrified. "Lämke will beat me if he gets to
know what I've done. He may possibly lose his situation as porter
because of it--now, straightway, and the children don't earn anything
as yet. I've not said anything, have I? How can I help that other
people make you suspicious and uneasy? I don't know your mother at all
and your father will, of course, have lost sight of her long ago. Let
the whole thing lie, my boy." She wanted to soothe him, but he was not
listening.

"My--my father?" he stammered. "So he is my real father?"

Frau Lämke nodded.

"But my--my real m--" He could not say the word "mother." He held
his hands before his face and his whole body quivered. He was suddenly
seized with a longing, that great passionate longing, for a mother who
had borne him. He did not say a word, but he uttered sighs that sounded
like groans.

Frau Lämke was frightened to death; she wanted to clear herself but
made it much worse. "Tut, tut, my dear boy, such a thing often happens
in life--very decent of him that he doesn't disown you; there are heaps
who do. And you would have far to go to find anybody like the lady who
has adopted you as her own child. Splendid--simply splendid!" Frau
Lämke had often been vexed with the fine lady, but now she felt she
wanted to do her justice. "Such a mother ought to be set in gold--there
isn't such another to be found." She exhausted herself in praise. "And
who knows if it's true after all?" And with that she concluded.

Oh, it was all true. Wolfgang had grown quiet--at least his face no
longer showed any special emotion when he let his hands fall. "I shall
have to be going now," he said.

Frida stood there looking very distressed. She had known it all a
long time--who did not know it?--but she was very sorry indeed that
_he_ knew it now. Her clear eyes grew dim, and she looked at her friend
full of compassion. Oh, how much more beautiful her own confirmation
last Easter had been. She had not had any gold watch, only quite a
small brooch of imitation gold--it had cost one shilling and sixpence,
for she had chosen it herself with her mother--but she had been so
happy, so happy.

"What text did you get?" she asked quickly, so as to take his
thoughts away from it.

"I don't know it by heart," he said evasively, and his
cheeks that had grown pale flamed. "But it suited." And with that he
went out of the door.

He went straight home--why should he waste any more time? the matter
was urgent. He did not notice the starlings flying in and out of their
boxes on the tall pines, did not notice that there was already a bright
crescent in the evening sky that was growing darker and darker, and a
golden star near it, he only noticed with satisfaction as he entered
the hall at the villa that the coats and hats had disappeared from
the pegs. That was good, the visitors had left. He rushed to the
drawing-room, he almost fell into the room. His father and mother were
still sitting there--no, his father and she, the--the----

"Come, tell us where you've been such along time," inquired his
father, not without a touch of vexation in his voice.

"To-day, just on this day," said his mother. "They all sent you
their love, they waited for you. But it's almost eight o'clock
now."

Wolfgang cast an involuntary glance at the clock on the
mantel-piece--right, nearly eight o'clock. But all that was immaterial
now. And, staring straight in front of him as though his eyes were
fixed on some object, he placed himself in front of the two.

"I have something to ask you," he said. And then--it came out quite
suddenly, quite abruptly. "Whose child am I?"

Now it was said. The young voice sounded hard. Or did it only sound
so cutting to Käte's ears? She heard something terribly shrill, like
the dissonant blast of a trumpet. O God, there it was, that awful
question. A sudden wave of blood laid a thick veil covered with
glittering spots before her eyes; she could not see her boy any more,
she only heard his question. She stretched out her hand
gropingly, helplessly--thank God, there was her husband! He was still
there. And now she heard him speak.

"What makes you ask that question?" said Paul Schlieben. "Our son of
course. Whose child could you be otherwise?"

"I don't know. That's just what I want to know from you," the boy
went on in his hard voice.

It was strange how calm the voice sounded, but it seemed doubly
terrible to Käte in its monotony.

Now it became a little louder: "Give me an answer--I will--I must
know it."

Käte shuddered. What inexorableness, what obstinacy lay in that "I
will"--"I must!" He would never stop asking again. She sank down as
though crushed, and shuddered.

Even the man's quiet voice betrayed a secret tremor. "Dear boy,
somebody--I will not ask who, there are always enough gossips and
abettors--has again put something into your head. Why do you treat us
as if we were your enemies? Haven't we always been like a father and
mother to you?"

Oh, that was wrong--_like_ a father and mother? Quite wrong. Käte
started up. She stretched out her arms: "My boy!"

But he remained standing as though he did not see those outstretched
arms; his brows were contracted, he only looked at the man. "I know
very well that you are my father, but she"--he cast a quick sidelong
glance at her--"she's not my mother."

"Who says that?" Käte shrieked it.

"Everybody."

"No, nobody. That's not true. It's a lie, a lie! You are my child,
my son, our son I And the one who denies that lies, deceives,
slanders!----"

"Käte!" Her husband looked at her very gravely, and there was a
reproach in his voice and a warning. "Käte!"

And then he turned to the boy, who stood there so sullenly, almost
defiantly--drawn up to his full height, with one foot outstretched, his
head thrown back--and said: "Your mother is naturally very much
agitated, you must take care of her--to-day especially. Go now, and
to-morrow we will----"

"No, no!" Käte did not let him finish speaking, she cried in the
greatest excitement: "No, don't postpone it. Let him speak--now--let
him. And answer him--now--at once that he is our son, our son alone.
Wolfgang--Wölfchen!" She used the old pet name from his childhood again
for the first time for months. "Wölfchen, don't you love us any more?
Wölfchen, come to me."

She stretched out her arms to him once more, but he did not see
those longing, loving, outstretched arms again. He was very pale and
his eyes were fixed on the ground.

"Wölfchen, come."

"I cannot."

His face never moved, and his voice had still the same monotonous
tone which sounded so terrible to her. She sobbed aloud, and her eyes
clung to her husband--he must help her now. But he looked at her with a
frown; she could plainly read the reproach in his face: "Why did you
not follow my advice? Had we told him in time--" No, she would not find
any help in him either. And now--what was it Paul was saying now? Her
eyes dilated with a sudden fear, she grasped the arms of her chair with
both hands, she wanted to sink back and still she started up to ward
off what must come now Was Paul out of his mind? He was saying: "You
are not our son."

"Not your son?" The boy stammered. He had made up his mind
that nothing should disconcert him, but this answer disconcerted him
all the same. It bewildered him; he turned red, then white, and his
eyes wandered uncertainly from the man to the woman, from the woman to
the man.

So he, too--that man--was not his father either? But Frau Lämke had
said so? Oh, so he wanted to disown him now? He looked suspiciously at
the man, and then something that resembled mortification arose within
him. If he were not his father, then he had really no--no right
whatever to be there?

And, drawing a step nearer, he said hastily: "You must be my father.
You only don't want to say it now. But she"--he gave a curt nod in the
direction of the chair--"she's not my mother." His eyes gleamed; then
he added, drawing a long breath as though it were a relief: "I've
always known that."

"You've been wrongly informed. If I had had my way, I
would have told you the truth long ago. But as the right
moment--unfortunately--has been neglected, I will tell you it to-day.
I tell you it--on my word of honour, as one man speaking to another--I
am not your father, just as little as she is your mother. You have
nothing to do with us by birth, nothing whatever. But we have adopted
you as our child because we wanted to have a child and had not one. We
took you from----"

"Paul!" Käte fell on her husband's breast with a loud cry, as she
had done at the time when he wanted to disclose something to the boy,
because he was indignant at his ingratitude. She clasped her arms round
his neck, she whispered hastily, passionately in his ear with trembling
breath: "Don't tell him from where. For God's sake not from where. Then
he'll go away, then I shall lose him entirely. I can't bear it--have
mercy, have pity on me--only don't tell him from where."

He wanted to push her away, but she would not let go of him. She
repeated her weeping, stammering entreaty, her trembling, terrified,
desperate prayer: only not from where, only not from where.

He felt a great compassion for her. His poor, poor wife--was this to
happen to her? And then he was filled with anger against the boy, who
stood there so bold--arrogant--yes, arrogant--who demanded where he had
to ask, and looked at them unmoved with large, cold eyes.

His voice, which had hitherto been grave but gentle whilst speaking
to Wolfgang, now became severe: "Besides, I won't allow you to question
me in this manner."

"I have a right to question you."

"Yes, you have." The man was quite taken aback. Yes, the lad had the
right. It was quite clear who was wrong. And so he said, thinking
better of it and in a more friendly voice again: "But even if you are
not our son by birth, I think the training and the care you have
received from our hands during all these years have made you our child
in spirit. Come, my son--and even if they all say you are not our son,
I tell you you are our son in truth."

"No," he said. And then he walked slowly backwards to the door, his
dry eyes fixed on those he had called parents for so long.

"Boy, where are you going? Stop!" the man called after him in a kind
voice. The boy was certainly in a terrible position, they must have
patience with him. And he called out once more "Stop, Wolfgang!"

But Wolfgang shook his head: "I cannot. You have deceived me. Let me
go." He shook off the man's hand that he had laid on his sleeve with a
violent gesture.

And then he screamed out like a wounded animal: "Why do you still
worry me? Let me go, I want to think of my mother--where is she?"



BOOK III



CHAPTER XIII


The clocks in the house ticked terribly loudly. They could be heard
through the silence of the night like warning voices.

Oh, how quickly the time flew. It had quite lately been
evening--midnight--and now the clock on the mantel-piece already struck
a short, clear, hard one.

The lonely woman pressed her hands to her temples with a shudder.
How they throbbed, and how her thoughts--torturing thoughts--hurried
along, madly, restlessly, like the hasty tick of the clocks.

Everybody in the house was asleep--the manservant, the maids, her
husband too--long ago. Only she, she alone had not found any sleep as
yet.

And everything was asleep outside as well. The pines stood around
the house motionless, and their dark outlines, as stiff as though cut
out of cardboard, stood out clearly against the silvery sky of
night.

No shouts, no footsteps, no sound of wheels, no singing, no
laughter, not even a dog's bark came from the sleeping colony in the
Grunewald. But something that sounded like a gentle sighing was heard
around the white villa with the red roof and the green shutters.

The mother, who was waiting for her son, listened: was anybody
there? No, it was the breeze that was trying to move the branches of
the old gnarled pines.

Käte Schlieben was standing at the window now. She had torn it open
impatiently some time before, and now she leant out of it. As far as
her eye could reach there was nobody to be seen, nobody whatever. There
was still no sign of him.

The clock struck two. The woman gazed round at the mantel-piece with
an almost desperate look: oh, that unbearable clock, how it tortured
her. It must be wrong. It could not be so late.

Käte had sat up waiting for Wolfgang many an evening, but he had
never remained out so long as to-day. Paul had no objection to the boy
going his own way. "My child," he had said, "you can't alter it. Lie
down and go to sleep, that is much more sensible. The boy has the key,
he will come home all right. You can't keep a young fellow of his age
in leading-strings any longer. Leave him, or you'll make him dislike
our house--do leave him in peace."

What strange thoughts Paul had. He was certainly quite right, she
must not keep the boy in leading-strings any longer. She was not able
to do so either--had never been able to do so. But how could she go to
bed quietly? She would not be able to sleep. Where could he be?

Käte had grown grey. In the three years that had elapsed since her
son's confirmation she had changed considerably outwardly. Whilst
Wolfgang had grown taller and stronger and broader like a young tree,
her figure had drooped like a flower that is heavy with rain or is
about to wither. Her fine features had remained the same, but her skin,
which had retained almost the delicate smoothness of a young girl's for
so long, had become looser; her eyes looked as if she had wept a great
deal. Her acquaintances found Frau Schlieben had grown much older.

When Käte saw herself in the glass now, she did not blush with
pleasure at the sight of her own well-preserved looks; she did not like
looking at herself any more. Something had given her a shock both
inwardly and outwardly. What that had been nobody guessed. Her husband
knew it certainly, but he did not speak of it to his wife. Why agitate
her again? Why tear open old wounds?

He took good care never again to mention the day on which the boy
had been confirmed. It was also best not to do so. He had certainly
taken him very severely to task on account of his ungrateful behaviour
at the time, and had demanded of him that he should treat them more
considerately and his mother also more affectionately. And the lad, who
had no doubt repented of his conduct long ago, had stood there like a
poor sinner; he had said nothing and had not raised his eyes. And when
his father had finally led him to his mother, he had allowed himself to
be led and to be embraced by his mother, who had thrown both her arms
round his neck. She had wept over him and then kissed him.

And then nothing more had ever been said about it.

The white house with its bright green and red, which was always
being embellished and improved, both inside and out, struck everybody
who passed by as extremely cosy. The trippers on Sundays used to stand
outside the wrought iron railing and admire the abundance of flowers,
the ivy-leaved geraniums on the balconies and the splendid show of fine
rose-trees in summer, the azaleas and camellias behind the thick glass
of the conservatory and the rows of coloured primulas and early
hyacinths and tulips between the double windows in winter. The lady in
her dress of soft cloth and with the wavy grey hair and the gentle
face, with its rather sad smile, suited the house and the
flowers and her peaceful surroundings well. "Delightful," the people
used to say.

When Wolfgang heard such things in former years when he was a boy,
he used to make faces at the people: the house and garden were no
concern of theirs, there was nothing to admire about them. Now it
flattered him when they remained standing, when they even envied him.
Oh yes, the place was quite nice. He felt very important.

Paul Schlieben and his wife had never placed any special value on
money, they had always had enough, a competency was simply a matter of
course to them; and they never guessed that their son placed any value
on wealth. When Wolfgang used to think now of how little he had once
cared for it all in his boyish impetuosity, and that he had run away
without money, without bread, he had to smile. How childish. And when
he remembered that he once, when he was already older and able to
reflect upon his actions, had asked impetuously for something that
would have been equivalent to giving up all that made his life so
comfortable, he shook his head now. Too silly.

To compare himself with others afforded him a certain satisfaction.
Kesselborn was still sweating in the top form--his people made a point
of his studying theology, possibly in order to become court chaplain on
account of his noble birth--Lehmann had to help his father in his
forwarding business in spite of the very good examination he had passed
on leaving school, and look after the furniture-vans. And Kullrich--ah,
poor Kullrich, he had consumption, like his mother.

The corners of Wolfgang's mouth drooped with a half-contemptuous,
half-compassionate smile when he thought of his school-fellows. Was
that living? Oh, and to live, to live was so beautiful!

Wolfgang was conscious of his strength: he could tear up trees by
the roots, blow down walls that stood in his way with his breath as
though they were cards.

School was no longer the place for him, his limbs and his
inclinations had outgrown the benches. Besides, he was already growing
a moustache. There had long been a black shadow on the upper lip that
made one guess it was coming, and now it had come, it had come!

Surely such a grown-up person could not remain in the second form
any longer? And why should he? He was not to be a scholar. Wolfgang
left school after passing the examination that admitted him to the top
form.

Paul Schlieben had given up, for the present, his intention of
sending him abroad as soon as he had finished school; he wished to keep
him a little longer under his own eye first. Not that he wanted to
guard him as carefully as Käte did, but the old doctor, their good
friend whom he esteemed so highly, had warned him in confidence once
when they were sitting quite alone over a glass of wine: "Listen,
Schlieben," he had said, "you had better take care of the boy. I
wouldn't let him go so far away as yet--he is so young. And he is a
rampageous fellow and--after what he went through as a child, you
know--hm, one can never tell if his heart will hold out."

"Why not?" Schlieben had asked in surprise. "So you look upon him as
ill?"

"No, certainly not." The doctor had grown quite angry: at once this
exaggeration! "Who says anything about 'ill'? All the same, the lad
must not do everything in a rush. Well, and boys will be boys. We know
that from our time."

And both men had nodded to each other, had brightened up and
laughed.

Wolfgang had a horse to ride on, rode first at the riding-school and
then a couple of hours each day out of doors. His father made a point
of his not sitting too much at the office. He would easily learn what
was necessary for him to know as a merchant, and arithmetic he knew
already.

The two partners, old bachelors, were delighted with the lively lad,
who came to the office with his whip in his hand and sat on his stool
as if it were a horse.

Paul Schlieben did not hear any complaints of his son; the whole
staff, men who had been ten, twenty years with the firm, all well-oiled
machines that worked irreproachably, hung round the young fellow: he
was their future chief. Everything worked smoothly.

Both father and mother were complimented on their son. "A splendid
fellow. What life there is in him." "He's only in the making," the man
would answer, but still you could see that he was pleased to hear it in
his heart. He did not feel the torturing anxiety his wife felt. Käte
only raised her eyebrows a little and gave a slight, somewhat sad smile
of consent.

She could not rejoice in the big lad any longer, as she had once
rejoiced in the little fellow on her lap. It seemed to her as though
she had altogether lost the capacity for rejoicing, slowly, it is true,
quite gradually, but still steadily, until the last remnant of the
capacity had been torn out by the roots on one particular day, in one
particular hour, at the disastrous moment when he had said: "I will go,
I want to think of my mother--where is she?" Ever since then. She still
wished him to have the best the earth could give, but she had become
more indifferent, tired. He had trodden too heavily on her heart, more
heavily than when in days gone by his small vigorous feet had stamped
on her lap.

She bent further out of the window with a deep sigh, as she waited
all alone for him. Was it not unheard of, unpardonable of him to come
home so late? Did he not know that she was waiting for him?

She clenched her hand, which rested on the windowsill, in such a
paroxysm of anger as she had rarely felt. It was foolish of her to wait
for him. Was he not old enough--eighteen? Did he still want waiting for
like a boy coming home alone from a children's party for the first
time? He had made an appointment with some other young fellows in
Berlin--who knew in what café they were spending their night?

She stamped her foot. Her hot breath rose like smoke in the cold
clear night in spring, she shivered with exhaustion and discomfort. And
then she thought of the hours, all the hours during which she had
watched for him already, and her heart was filled with a great
bitterness. Even her tongue had a bitter taste--that was gall. No, she
did not feel the love of former years for him any longer. In those
days, yes, in those days she had felt a rapture--even when she suffered
on his account; but now she only felt a dull animosity. Why had he
forced himself into her life? Oh, how smooth, how free from sorrow,
how--yes, how much happier it had been formerly. How he had broken her
spirit--would she ever be able to rise again?

No. A hard curt no. And then she thought of her husband. He had also
robbed her of him. Had not he and she been one formerly, one in
everything? Now this third one had forced his way between them, pushed
her husband and her further and further apart--until he went on this
side and she on that.

A sudden pain seized the woman as she stood there pondering, a great
compassion for herself drove the tears into her eyes; they felt hot as
they dripped down on her hands that she had clenched on the
window-sill. If he--if he had only never come into their lives----

At that moment a hand touched her shoulder and made her start. She
turned round like lightning: "Are you there at last?"

"It's I," said her husband. He had woke up, and when he did not hear
her breathing beside him he had got vexed: really, now she was sitting
downstairs again, waiting for the lad. Such want of sense. And after
lying a little time longer waiting for her and vexed with her, he had
cast on a few necessary garments, stuck on his slippers and groped his
way through the dark house. He shivered with cold and was in a bad
humour. That he had been disturbed in his best sleep and that she would
have a sick headache next day was not all; no, what was worse was that
Wolfgang must find it downright intolerable to be watched in that
manner.

It was natural that he scolded her. "What wrong is there if he
remains away a little longer for once in a way, I should like to know,
Käte? It's really absurd of you. I used also to loaf about as a young
fellow, but thank goodness, my mother was sensible enough not to mind.
Come, Käte, come to bed now."

She drew back. "Yes--you!" she said slowly, and he did not know what
she meant by it. She turned her back on him and leant out of the window
again.

He stood a few moments longer waiting, but as she did not come, did
not even turn round to him, he shook his head. He would have to leave
her, she really was getting quite peculiar.

He was half asleep as he went upstairs again alone; he almost
stumbled with fatigue, and his limbs were heavy. But in spite of that
his thoughts were clearer, more inexorable than in the daytime, when
there is so much around one to distract one's attention. At that hour
his heart was filled with longing for a wife who would lead him quietly
and gently along a soft track in his old age, and whose smiles were
not only outward as the smiles on Käte's face. A wife whose heart
laughed--and, alas, his Käte was not one of those.

The man lay down again with a sigh of disappointment and shivered as
he drew up the covering. But it was a long time before he could fall
asleep. If only the lad would come. It really was rather late to-day.
Such loafing about realty went too far.

The morning was dawning as a cab drove slowly down the street. It
stopped outside the white villa, and two gentlemen helped a third out
of it. The two, who were holding the third under his arms, were
laughing, and the driver on his seat, who was looking down at them full
of interest, also laughed slyly: "Shall I help you, gentlemen? Well,
can you do it?"

They leant him up against the railing that enclosed the front
garden, rang the bell gently, then jumped hastily into the cab again
and banged the door. "Home now, cabby."

The bell had only vibrated softly--a sound like a terrified
breath--but Käte had heard it, although she had fallen asleep in her
chair; not firmly, only dozing a little. She jumped up in terror, it
sounded shrill in her ears. She rushed to the window. Somebody was
leaning against the railing outside. Wolfgang? Yes, yes, it was. But
why did he not open the gate and come in?

What had happened to him? All at once she felt as though she must
call for help--Friedrich! Paul! Paul!--must ring for the maids.
Something had happened to him, something must have happened to him--why
did he not come in?

He leant so heavily against the railing, so strangely. His
head hung down on his chest, his hat was at the back of his head. Was
he ill?

Or had some vagrants attacked him? The strangest ideas shot suddenly
through her head. Was he wounded? O God, what had happened to him?

Fears, at which she would have laughed at any other time, filled her
mind in this hour, in which it was not night any longer and not day
either. Her feet were cold and stiff as though frozen, she could hardly
get to the door; she could not find the key at first, and when her
trembling hands stuck it into the lock, she could not turn it. She was
so awkward in her haste, so beside herself in her fear. Something
terrible must have happened. An accident. She felt it.

At last, at last! At last she was able to turn the key. And now she
rushed through the front garden to the gate; a chilling icy wind like
the breath of winter met her. She opened the gate: "Wolfgang!"

He did not answer. She could not quite see his face; he stood there
without moving.

She took hold of his hand: "Good gracious, what's the matter with
you?"

He did not move.

"Wolfgang! Wolfgang!" She shook him in the greatest terror. Then he
fell against her so heavily that he almost knocked her down, and
faltered, lisped like an idiot whose heavy tongue has been taught to
say a few words: "Beg--par--don."

She had to lead him. His breath, which smelt strongly of spirits,
blew across her face. A great disgust, more terrible than the fear she
had had before, took possession of her. This was the awful thing she
had been expecting no, this was still more awful, more intolerable. He
was drunk, drunk! This was what a drunken man must look like.

A drunken man had never been near her before; now she had one close
to her. The horror she felt shook her so that her teeth chattered. Oh
for shame, for shame, how disgusting, how vulgar! How degraded he
seemed to her, and she felt degraded, too, through him. This was not
her Wolfgang any more, the child whom she had adopted as her son. This
was quite an ordinary, quite a common man from the street, with whom
she had nothing, nothing whatever to do any more.

She wanted to push him away from her quickly, to hurry into the
house and close the door behind her--let him find out for himself what
to do. But he held her fast. He had laid his arm heavily round her
neck, he almost weighed her down; thus he forced her to lead him.

And she led him reluctantly, revolting desperately in her heart, but
still conquered. She could not leave him, exposed to the servants'
scorn, the laughter of the street. If anybody should see him in that
condition? It would not be long before the first people came past, the
milk-boys, the girls with the bread, the men working in the street,
those who drank Carlsbad water early in the morning. Oh, how terrible
if anybody should guess how deeply he had sunk.

"Lean on me, lean heavily," she said in a trembling voice. "Pull
yourself together--that's right." She almost broke down under his
weight but she kept him on his feet. He was so drunk that he did not
know what he was doing, he actually wanted to lie down in front of the
door, at full length on the stone steps. But she snatched him up.

"You must--you must," she said, and he followed her like a child.
Like a dog, she thought.

Now she had got him into the hall--the front door was again
locked--but now came the fear that the servants would see him.
They were not up yet, but it would not be long before Friedrich would
walk over from the gardener's lodge in his leather slippers, and the
girls come down from their attics, and then the sweeping and tidying up
would commence, the opening of the windows, the drawing up of the
blinds, so that the bright light--the cruel light--might force its way
into every crevice. She must get him up the stairs, into his room
without anybody guessing anything, without asking anyone for help.

She had thought of her husband for one moment--but no, not him
either, nobody must see him like that. She helped him upstairs with a
strength for which she had never given herself credit; she positively
carried him. And all the time she kept on entreating him to go quietly,
whispering the words softly but persistently. She had to coax him, or
he would not go on: "Quietly, Wölfchen. Go on, go on, Wölfchen--that's
splendid, Wölfchen."

She suffered the torments of hell. He stumbled and was noisy; she
gave a start every time he knocked his foot against the stairs, every
time the banisters creaked when he fell against them helplessly, and a
terrible fear almost paralysed her. If anybody should hear it, oh, if
anybody should hear it. But let them get on, on.

"Quietly, Wölfchen, quite quietly." It sounded like an entreaty, and
still it was a command. As he had conquered her before by means of his
heavy arm, so she conquered him now by means of her will.

Everybody in the house must be deaf, that they did not hear the
noise. To the woman every step sounded like a clap of thunder that
continues to roll and roll through the wide space and resounds in the
furthermost corner. Paul must be deaf as well. They passed his door.
The intoxicated lad remained standing just outside his parents'
bedroom, he would not on any account go further--in there--not a step
further. She had to entice him, as she had enticed the child in bygone
days, the sweet little child with the eyes like sloes that was to run
from the chair to the next halting-place. "Come, Wölfchen, come." And
she brought him past in safety.

At last they were in his room. "Thank God, thank God!" she
stammered, when she had got him on the bed. She was as pale as the lad,
whose face with its silly expression grew more and more livid as the
day dawned. Ah, that was the same room in which she had once, many
years ago--it was exceedingly long ago!--fought for the child's
precious life with fear and trembling, where she had crawled before
God's omnipotence like a worm: only let him live, O God, only let him
live! Alas, it would have been better had he died then.

As an arrow shot from a too tight bow whizzes along as quick as
lightning, so that thought whizzed through her mind. She was horrified
at the thought, she could not forgive herself for having had it, but
she could not get rid of it again. She stood with shaking knees,
terrified at her own heartlessness, and still the thought came: if only
he had died at the time, it would have been better. This--this was also
the room in which she had tried on the suit the boy, who was growing so
fast, was to wear at his confirmation. Now she drew off the grown-up
man's clothes, tore off his dinner jacket, his fine trousers--as well
as she could in his present state of complete unconsciousness--and
unlaced his glacé shoes.

Where had he been? A smell of cigarettes and scent and the dregs of
wine streamed from him; it almost took her breath away. There hung the
same looking-glass in which she had seen the brown boy's face near
her fair woman's face, fresh and round-cheeked, a little coarse, a
little defiant, but still so nice-looking in its vigorous strength, so
dear in its innocence. And now--?

Her eyes glanced at the livid face with the open mouth, from which
the breath reeking with spirits came with a snore and a rattle, in the
glass, and then at her own terrified, exhausted face, on which all the
softness had been changed into hard lines that grief had worn. A
shudder passed through her; she smoothed the untidy grey strands of
hair away from her forehead with her cold hand; her eyes blinked as
though she wanted to weep. But she forced her tears back; she must not
cry any more now; that time was over.

She stood some time longer in the centre of the room, motionless,
with bated breath, letting her tired arms hang down loosely; then she
crept on her toes to the door. He was sleeping quite firmly. She locked
the door from the outside and stuck the key in her pocket--nobody must
go in.

Should she go to bed now? She could not sleep--oh, she was too
restless--but she would have to lie down, oh yes, she must do so,
or what would the maids think, and Paul? Then she would have to
get up again as she did every day, wash herself, dress, sit at the
breakfast-table, eat, talk, smile as she did every day, as though
nothing, nothing whatever had happened. And still so much had
happened!

She felt so hopelessly isolated as she lay in bed beside her
husband. There was nobody to whom she could complain. Paul had not
understood her before, he would understand her even less now; he had
changed so much in the course of time. Besides, was he not quite
infatuated with the boy now? Strange, formerly when she had loved
Wolfgang so, her love had always been too much of a good thing--how
often he had reproached her for it!--and now, now!--no, they
simply did not understand each other any longer. She would have to
fight her battles alone, quite alone.

When Käte heard the first sounds in the house, she would have liked
to get up, but she forced herself to remain in bed: it would attract
their attention if they saw her so early. But a great fear tortured
her. If that person--that, that intoxicated person over there should
awake, make a noise, bang on the locked door? What should she say then
to make excuses for him? What should she do? She lay in bed quite
feverish with uneasiness. At last it was her usual time to get up.

"I suppose the boy came home terribly late--or rather early, eh?"
said Paul at breakfast.

"Oh no. Just after you went upstairs."

"Really? But I lay awake quite a long time after that."

He had said it lightly, unsuspiciously, but she got a fright
nevertheless. "We--we--he talked to me for quite a long time," she said
hesitatingly.

"Foolish," he said, nothing more, and shook his head.

Oh, how difficult it was to tell lies. In what a position Wolfgang
placed her.

When Schlieben had driven to town and the cook was busy in the
kitchen and Friedrich in the garden, Käte kept an eye on the housemaid.
What a long time she was in the bedroom to-day. "You must finish the
rooms upstairs more quickly, you are excessively slow," she said in a
sharp voice.

The maid looked at her mistress, quite astonished at the unusual way
in which she spoke to her, and said later on to the cook downstairs:
"Ugh, what a bad temper the mistress is in to-day. She has been after
me."

Käte had stood beside the girl until the bedroom was finished, she
had positively rushed her. Now she was alone, quite alone with
him up there, now she could see what was the matter with him.

Would he still be drunk? As she stood outside his door she held her
breath; putting her ear to the door she listened. There was nothing to
be heard inside, not even his breathing. After casting a glance around
her she opened the door like a thief, crept inside and locked it again
behind her. She approached the bed cautiously and softly; but she
started back so hastily that the high-backed chair she knocked against
fell over with a loud noise. What was that--there? What was it?

A disgusting smell, which filled the closed room, made her feel
sick. Staggering to the window she tore it open, thrust back the
shutters--then she saw. There he lay like an animal--he, who had always
been accustomed to so much attention, he who as a child had stretched
out his little hands if only a crumb had stuck to them: "Make them
clean!" and had cried. There he lay now as if he did not feel anything,
as if he did not care anything whatever about what was going on around
him, as if the bed on which he lay were fresh and clean; his eyes, with
their jet-black lashes that fell like shadows on his pale cheeks, were
firmly closed, and he slept the heavy sleep of exhaustion.

She did not know what she was doing. She raised her hand to strike
him in the face, to throw a word at him--a violent word expressive of
disgust and loathing; she felt how the saliva collected in her mouth,
how she longed to spit. It was too horrible, too filthy, too terrible!

A stream of light forced its way in through the open window, of
light and sun; a blackbird was singing, full and clear. Outside was the
sun, outside was beauty, but here, here? She would have liked to cover
up her face and whimper, to run away and conceal herself. But
who should do what was necessary? Who should make everything tidy and
clean? The chair she had knocked down, the clothes she had drawn off
him so hastily, the disgusting smell--alas, all reminded her only too
distinctly of a wild night. It must not remain like that. And even if
she did not love him any longer--no, no, there was no voice in her
heart now that spoke of love--her pride bade her not to humble herself
before the servants. Let her get it away quickly, quickly, let nobody
else find out anything about it.

She set her teeth hard, pressing back the disgust that rose again
and again as though to choke her, and commenced to wash, scrub, clean.
She fetched water for herself again and again, the pitcher full, a
whole pailful. She had to do it furtively, to creep across the passage
on tiptoe. Oh dear, how the water splashed, how noisily it poured into
the pail when she turned the tap on. If only nobody, nobody found out
anything about it.

She had found a cloth to scour with, and what she had never done
before in her life she did now, for she lay on her knees like a servant
and rubbed the floor, and crept about in front of the bed and under the
bed, and stretched out her arms so as to be sure to get into every
corner. Nothing must be forgotten, everything must be flooded with
fresh, clean, purifying water. Everything in the room seemed to her to
be soiled--as though it were damaged and degraded--the floor, the
furniture, the walls. She would have preferred to have washed the
wall-paper too, that beautiful deep-coloured wallpaper, or to have torn
it off entirely.

She had never worked like that in her life before. Her pretty
morning-gown with the silk insertions and lace clung to her body with
the perspiration of exertion and fear. The dress had dark
spots on the knees from slipping about in the wet, the hem of the train
had got into the water; her hair was dishevelled; it had come undone
and was hanging round her hot face. Nobody would have recognised Frau
Schlieben as she was now.

At last, thank goodness! Käte looked round with a sigh of relief;
the air in the room was quite different now. The fresh wind that blew
in through the open window had cleared everything. Only he, he did not
suit amid all that cleanliness. His forehead was covered with clammy
sweat, his cheeks were livid, his lips swollen, cracked, his hair
bristly, standing straight up in tufts. Then she washed him, too,
cooled his forehead and dried it, rubbed his cheeks with soap and a
sponge, fetched a brush and comb, combed and smoothed his hair, ran
quickly across to her room, brought the Florida water that stood on her
dressing-table and sprinkled it over him. Now she had only to put on
another bed-spread. She could not do any more, it was too difficult for
her to lift him. For he did not awake. He lay there like a tree that
had been hewn down--dead, stiff, immovable--and noticed nothing of the
trembling hands that glided over him, that pulled and smoothed now
here, now there.

She did not know how long she had been engaged with him; a knock at
the door brought her thoughts back to the present.

"Who is there?"

"I, Friedrich."

"What do you want?"

"The master wishes to know if you will come down to dinner,
ma'am."

"To dinner--the master?" She pressed her hands to her head. Was it
possible? Paul back already--dinner-time? It could not be. "What time
is it?" she cried in a shrill voice. She never thought of
looking herself at the watch that lay on the table beside the bed; and
it would not have been any use--the expensive gold watch, the gift he
had received at his confirmation, had stopped. It had not been wound
up.

"It's half past two, ma'am," said Friedrich outside. And then the
man, who had been there for years, ventured to inquire respectfully:
"Is the young master not well, as he has not got up? Could I perhaps be
of some use, ma'am?"

She hesitated for a moment. Should she let him into the secret? It
would be easier for her then. But the shame of it made her call out:
"There's nothing to be done, you had better go. The young master has a
headache, he will remain in bed for another hour. I'll come
directly."

She rushed across to her room. There was no time to change her
dress, but she would at any rate have to fasten up her hair that had
fallen down, smooth it and put a little cap on trimmed with dainty
ribbons.

"Still in your morning-gown?" said her husband in a tone of
surprise, as she came into the dining-room. There was also a little
reproach in his voice as he asked the question; he did not like people
not to dress for dinner.

"You came exceptionally early to-day," she said in excuse. She did
not dare to look up frankly, she felt so exceedingly humiliated. She
could not eat, an intolerable memory rendered every drink, every
mouthful loathsome.

"Where is Wolfgang?"

There was the question for which she really ought to have been
prepared and which crushed her nevertheless. She had no means of
warding it off. What was she to answer? Should she say he was ill? Then
his father would go up and see him. Should she say he was
drunk and sleeping? Oh no, no, and still it could not remain a secret.
She turned red and white, her lips quivered and not a word crossed
them.

"Ha ha!" All at once her husband gave a loud laugh--a laugh partly
good-natured and partly mocking--and then he stretched his hand to her
across the table and eyed her calmly: "You must not agitate yourself
like that if the boy feels a little seedy for once in a way. Such
things do happen, every mother has to go through that."

"But not to that degree--not to that awful degree!" She screamed out
aloud, overwhelmed with pain and anger. And then she seized her
husband's hand and squeezed it between both hers that were cold and
damp, and whispered, half stifled: "He was drunk--quite drunk--dead
drunk!"

"Really?" The man frowned, but the smile did not quite disappear
from his lips. "Well, I'll have a word with the boy when he has
finished sleeping. Dead drunk, you say?"

She nodded.

"It won't have been quite as bad as that, I suppose. Still, to be
drunk--that must not happen again. To take a little too much"--he
shrugged his shoulders and a smile passed over his face as at some
pleasant memory--"by Jove, who has been young and not taken a little
too much for once in a way? Oh, I can still remember the first time I
had done so. The headache after it was appalling, but the drop too much
itself was fine, splendid! I would not like to have missed that."

"You--you've been drunk too?" She stared at him, with eyes
distended.

"Drunk--you mustn't call that drunk exactly. A little too much," he
corrected. "You mustn't exaggerate like that, Käte." And then
he went on with his dinner as if nothing had happened, as if the
conversation had not succeeded in depriving him of his appetite.

She was in a fever. When would Wolfgang wake? And what would happen
then?

Towards evening she heard his step upstairs, heard him close his
window and then open it again, heard his low whistle that always
sounded like a bird chirping. Paul was walking up and down in the
garden, smoking his cigar. She was sitting in the veranda for the first
time that spring, looking down at her husband in the garden. The
weather was mild and warm. Then she heard Wolfgang approaching; she
made up her mind she would not turn her head, she felt so ashamed, but
she turned it nevertheless.

He was standing in the doorway leading from the dining-room to the
veranda; behind him was twilight, in front of him the brightness of the
evening sun. He blinked and pressed his eyes together, the sun shone on
his face and made it flame--or was it red because he felt so ashamed?
What would he say now? How would he begin? Her heart throbbed; she
could not have spoken a single word, her throat felt as though she were
choking.

"Good evening," he said in a loud and cheery voice. And then he
cleared his throat as though swallowing a slight embarrassment and said
in a low voice, approaching his mother a little more: "I beg your
pardon, mater, I've overslept myself. I had no idea it was so late--I
was dead tired."

Still she did not say anything.

He did not know how he stood with her. She was so quiet, that
confused him a little. "The fact is, I came home very late last
night."

"Oh! did you?" She turned her head away from him and looked
out into the garden again with eyes full of interest, where her husband
was just speaking to Friedrich and pointing with his finger to an
ornamental cherry-tree that was already in bloom.

"I think so, at least," he said. What was he to say? Was she angry?
He must indeed have come home very late, he could not remember at what
time, altogether he could not remember anything clearly, everything
seemed rather blurred to him. He had also had a bad dream and had felt
wretched, but now he was all right again, quite all right. Well, if she
had any fault to find with him, she would have to come out with it.

Pointing his lips again so as to whistle like a bird and with his
hands in the pockets of his smart, well-cut trousers, he was about to
go down into the garden from the veranda when she called him back.

"Do you want anything, mater?"

"You were drunk," she said softly, vehemently.

"I--? Oh!" He was overcome with a sudden confusion. Had he really
been drunk? He had no idea of it. But she might be right all the same,
for he had no idea how he had come home.

"I suppose you've again been sitting up waiting for me?" He gave her
a suspicious sidelong glance, and frowned so heavily that his dark
eyebrows met. "You mustn't always wait up for me," he said with secret
impatience, but outwardly his tone was anxious. "It makes me lose all
liking to do anything with the others if I think you are sacrificing
your night's rest. Please don't do so again, mater."

"I won't do so again," she said, with her eyes fixed on her lap. She
could not have looked at him, she despised him so. How broad and big
and bold he had looked as he stood there saying good evening quite
happily. He had behaved as if he knew nothing of all that
had happened, that he had wanted to creep on all fours, stretch
himself on the doorstep as if that were his bed or he a dog. He was
as unembarrassed as though he had not been lying in his room at
dinner-time in such--such a filthy condition; as though she had not
seen him in his deep humiliation. No, she would never, never be able to
kiss him again or caress him, to lay her arms round his neck as she had
been so fond of doing when he was a boy. All at once he had become
quite a stranger to her.

She did not say another word, did not reproach him. She heard what
her husband said to him, when he joined him in the garden, as if it did
not concern her.

Although Paul Schlieben had seemed very mild when speaking to his
wife at dinner-time, he was not so now when face to face with his son.
"I hear you came home drunk--what do you mean by that?" he said to him
severely. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

"Who has said so?"

"That's nothing to do with you, I know it, and that is
sufficient."

"_She_, of course," said the boy bitterly. "The mater always
exaggerates everything. I was certainly not drunk, I only had a little
too much--we all had--good gracious, pater, you must do what the others
do! What else is one to do on such a long evening? But it was certainly
nothing bad. See how fresh I am." And he took hold of the ornamental
cherry-tree, under which they were standing, with both hands, as if he
were going to root it up, and a whole shower of white blossoms fell
down on him and on the path.

"Let my tree alone," said his father, smiling.

Käte saw it. Could Paul laugh? So he did not take it very seriously,
after all. But that did not provoke her as it would have done
some time ago, she felt as if everything in her were cold and dead. She
heard the two speak as though they were far, far away, their voices
sounded quite low, and still they were speaking loudly and also
animatedly.

All the same the conversation was not altogether friendly. Even if
the man was not seriously angry with the lad, he still considered it
his duty to expostulate with him. He concluded by saying: "Such
immoderate drinking is disgusting!"--but he thought to himself: "It
cannot have been so bad as Käte makes out, or I should have seen some
signs of it." His brown cheeks were smooth and firm, so shiny and so
lately washed, his eyes, which were not large but noticeable on account
of their dark depths, were even more sparkling than usual.

The man laid his hand on his son's shoulder: "So we must have no
more of that, Wolfgang, if we're to remain friends."

The boy shrugged his shoulders carelessly. "I really don't know what
crime I've committed, pater. The whole thing is something of a mystery
to me. But it shan't happen again, I promise you."

And they shook hands.

Now something really did stir in Käte. She would have liked to have
jumped up, to have cried: "Don't believe him, Paul, don't believe him.
He's sure to get drunk again. I don't trust him. I cannot trust him. If
you had seen him as I saw him--oh, he was so vulgar!" And as in a
vision a village tavern suddenly appeared before her eyes, a tavern she
had never seen. Rough men sat round the wooden table, leaning on their
elbows, smoking evil-smelling tobacco, drinking heavily, bawling wildly
... ah, had not his father sat among them? His grandfather too? All
those from whom he was descended? She was seized with a
terrible fear. It could never, never end well.

"You are so pale, Käte," her husband said at the evening meal. "You
sat still too long; it is still too cold outside."

"Aren't you well, mater?" inquired Wolfgang, politely anxious.

Käte did not answer her son, she only looked at her husband and
shook her head: "I am quite well."

That satisfied them.

Wolfgang ate with a good appetite, with a specially big one even; he
was quite ravenous. There were also lots of good things of which he was
fond: hot fricassee of chicken with sweetbread, force-meat balls and
crawfish tails, and then some very good cold meat, butter and cheese
and young radishes.

"Boy, don't drink so much," said Paul Schlieben, as Wolfgang seized
the decanter again.

"I'm thirsty," said his son with a certain defiance, filling his
glass to the brim and drinking it in one gulp.

"That comes of revelling." His father shook his finger at him, but
smiled at the same time.

"It comes of swilling," thought Käte, and she shuddered with disgust
again. She had never used such an expression before even in her
thoughts, but now none seemed strong, blunt, contemptuous enough.

There was no pleasant conversation in spite of the room being so
cosy, the appointments of the table so beautiful, the flowers so
prettily arranged in a cut-glass bowl on the white table-cloth, and
above it all a soft subdued light under a green silk shade. Käte was so
monosyllabic that Paul soon seized the newspaper, and the boy, after
trying to stifle his yawns, at last got up. It was really too awfully
slow to have to sit there. Should he drive into Berlin again
or go to bed? He did not quite know himself what to do.

"You are going to bed now?" said his mother. It was intended for a
question, but Käte heard herself that it did not sound like one.

"Of course he's going to bed now," said his father, looking up from
his paper for a moment. "He's tired. Good night, my lad."

"I'm not tired." Wolfgang grew red and hot. What did they mean by
wanting to persuade him that he was tired? He was no longer a child to
be sent to bed. His mother's tone irritated him especially--"you are
going to bed now"--that was an order.

The sparkle in his dark eyes became a blaze; the expression of
defiance and refractoriness on his face was not pleasant to see. They
could no doubt see in what a passion he was, but his father said "Good
night," and held out his hand to him without looking up from the
newspaper.

His mother also said "Good night."

And the son grasped first one hand and then the other--he imprinted
the usual kiss on his mother's hand--and said "Good night."



CHAPTER XIV


Paul Schlieben was sitting in his private office, in the red armchair
he had had placed there for his comfort. But he was not leaning back in
it, he was sitting very uncomfortably, straight up, and he looked like
a man who has made a disagreeable discovery. How could the boy have
contracted debts--with such ample pocket-money? And then that he had
not the courage to come and say: "Father, I've spent too much, help
me," was simply incomprehensible. Was he such a severe father that his
son had reason to fear him? Did the fear drive out love? He reviewed
his own conduct; he really could not reproach himself for having been
too strict. If he had not always been so yielding as Käte--she was too
yielding--he had always thought he had repeatedly shown the boy that he
was fond of him. And had he not also--just lately--thought the boy was
fond of him too? More fond of him than before? Wolfgang had just grown
sensible, had seen that they had his welfare at heart, that he was his
parents' dear son, their ever-increasing delight, their hope--nay, now
that they had grown old, their whole future. How was it that he
preferred to go to others, to people with whom he had nothing to do,
and borrow from them instead of asking his father?

The man took up a letter from his writing-desk with a
grieved look, read it through once more, although he had already read
it three or four times, and then laid it back again with a gesture of
vexation. In it Braumüller, who had lately retired from the firm and
was at present in Switzerland for his health and recreation, wrote that
the boy had already borrowed money from him several times. Not that he
would not gladly give him it, that did not matter to him in the
slightest, but still he considered it his duty--&c., &c.

"The fact is, dear Schlieben, the boy has got into a fast set. I'm
awfully sorry to have to tell tales about him, but I cannot put it off
any longer, as he goes to others just as well as he comes to me. And it
would be extremely painful, of course, if the son of Messrs. Schlieben
& Co., to whom I still count myself as belonging with the old devotion,
should become common talk. Don't take it amiss, old friend. I make the
boy a present of all he owes me; I am fond of him and have also been
young. But I am quite pleased to have no children, it is a deucedly
difficult job to train one. Good-bye, remember me very kindly to your
wife, it is splendid here ..."

The man stared over the top of the paper with a frown; this letter,
which had been written with such good intentions and was so kind, hurt
him. It hurt him that Wolfgang had so little confidence in him with
respect to this matter. Was he not straightforward? He remembered very
distinctly that he had always been truthful as a child, had been so
outspoken as to offend--he had been rude, but never given to lying.
Could he have changed so now? How was that, and why?

The man resolved not to mention anything about the letter, but to
ask Wolfgang when he found an opportunity--but it must be as soon as
possible--in what condition his money matters were. Then he would
hear.

He quite longed to ask the question, and still he did not
say a word when Wolfgang entered the private room soon afterwards
without knocking, as all the others did, and with all the careless
assurance of a son. He sat down astride on his father's writing-desk,
quite unmindful of the fact that his light trousers came into
unpleasant contact with the ink-stand. The air out of doors was clear
and the sun shone brightly; he brought a large quantity of both with
him into the room that was always kept dark, cool and secluded.

"Had something to vex you, pater?" What fancies could the old
gentleman have got hold of now? Certainly nothing of importance. On the
whole, who could feel vexed in such delightful, pleasant summer
weather?

Wolfgang loved the sun. As he had gazed admiringly at the small copy
of it when a child, the round yellow sunflower in his garden, so he
still delighted in it. If the perspiration stood in drops on his brown
skin, he would push his white panama hat a little further back from his
forehead, but he never drew his breath more freely, easily, and felt
less oppressed.

"It was splendid, pater," he said, and his eyes gleamed. "First of
all I swam the whole width of the lake three times, there and back and
there and back and there and back again without stopping. What do you
say to that?"

"Much too tiring, very thoughtless," remarked Paul Schlieben, not
without some anxiety. Indeed Hofmann was not at all anxious that the
boy should swim.

"Thoughtless? Fatiguing? Ha ha!" Wolfgang thought it great fun.
"That's a mere trifle to me. I've really missed my vocation, you know.
You ought not to have put me into an office. I ought to have been a
swimmer, a rider or--well, a cowboy in the Wild West."

He had said it in joke without meaning anything, but it seemed to
the man, who suddenly looked at him with eyes that had grown
suspicious, that something serious, an accusation, was concealed behind
the joke. What did he want then? Did he want to gallop through life
like an unrestrained boy?

"Well, your sporting capacities will be of use to you when you are a
soldier," he said coolly. "At present what you have to do here is of
more importance. Have you drawn up the contract for delivery for White
Brothers? Show it to me."

"Directly."

Wolfgang disappeared; but it was some time before he returned. Had
he only done the work now, which he had been told was urgent and was to
be done carefully? The ink was still quite fresh, the writing was very
careless, even if legible; it was no business hand. Schlieben frowned;
he was strangely irritable to-day. At any other time he would have been
struck by the celerity with which the boy had finished the work he had
neglected; but to-day the careless writing, the inkspots in the margin,
the slipshod manner in which it had all been done, which seemed to him
to point to a want of interest, vexed him.

"Hm!" He examined it once more critically. "When did you do
this?"

"When you gave me it to do." The tone in which Wolfgang said this
was so unabashed that it was impossible to doubt it.

The man felt quite ashamed of himself. How a seed of suspicion
grows! He had really wronged his son this time. But that question of
the money still remained, the boy had not been open and honest in that.
It seemed to the father that he could not quite rely on his son any
more now.

It was hardly noon when Wolfgang left the office again. He had
arranged to meet a couple of acquaintances in the Imperial Café not far
from the Linden; he would have to have something to eat, and
whether he had his lunch there or somewhere else was of no consequence;
a sandwich, which was all his father took with him from home, was not
sufficient for him after swimming and riding.

Then he showed himself again at the office for an hour in the
afternoon, but in his tennis clothes this time, in white shoes, a
racket in his hand.

When Wolfgang left the West End tennis-ground that afternoon, hot
and red--the games had been long and obstinate--and went across to the
Zoological Gardens' Station, he hesitated as he stood at the entrance
to it. He did not feel as if he wanted to go home at all. Should he not
drive into town again instead? As a matter of fact he did not feel
tempted to go into the streets either, which the drifting crowds made
still closer; it was better in the suburbs, where there was at least a
breath of fresh air blowing over the villa--but then he would have to
sit with his parents. And if his father were in just as bad a humour as
he had been at the office that morning, it would be awful. Then it
would be better to find some friend or other in Berlin. If only he had
not had his tennis suit on. That hindered him. He was still standing
undecided when he suddenly saw in the crowd that now, when work was
over and free-time come, was winding its way through the entrance to
the station like a long worm and dividing itself into arms to go up the
steps to the right and left, a mass of fair hair gleaming under a white
sailor-hat trimmed with a blue velvet band and pressed down on a
forehead, which seemed well-known to him. It was beautiful fair silky
hair, smooth and shining; carelessly arranged in an enormous knot to
all appearances, but in reality with much care. And now he recognised
the blue eyes and the pert little nose under the straw hat. Frida
Lämke! Oh, what a long time since he had seen her. He suddenly
remembered the hundreds of times he had neglected them. How little he
had troubled himself about those good people. That was very wrong of
him. And all at once it seemed to him that he had missed them always,
the whole time. He reached her side with one bound like an impetuous
boy, not noticing that he trod on a dress here and that he gave
somebody a shove in the side there.

"Frida!"

She gave a little start. Who had accosted her so boldly?

"How do, Frida. How are you?"

She did not recognise him at first, but then she blushed and pouted.
What a gentleman Wolfgang had grown. And she answered a little pertly,
a little affectedly: "Very well, thanks, Mr. Wolfgang. Are you quite
well too?" and she threw her fair head back and laughed.

He would not hear of her calling him "Mr. Wolfgang." "Nonsense, what
are you thinking of?" And he was so cordial, so quite the Wolfgang of
former years, that she was soon on the old terms with him again. She
dropped her affectation entirely. They walked beside each other as
intimately as if almost a year had not passed since last they had
talked together.

"Young lovers," thought many a one who came across them strolling
along near the coppices in the Tiergarten. They had let their train
go--he had no wish to hurry home, at any rate--and so they walked
further and further in among the green trees, where it was already dark
and where even his light tennis suit and her light blouse could not be
distinguished any longer. The nightingales had grown silent long ago;
all that was heard was a girl's soft laugh now and then, which sounded
like the cooing of a dove, and the low whispers of invisible couples.
Whispers came from the benches that stood in the dark, summer dresses
rustled, burning cigars gleamed like glow-worms; all the seats
one came across were occupied. It was extremely close in the park.

Wolfgang and Frida spoke of Frau Lämke. "She's always ill, she has
had to go to the doctor so often," said the girl, and her voice
trembled with sincere grief. Wolfgang was very sorry.

When Frida came home that evening extremely late--the house had been
closed long before; Frau Lämke had already begun to get nervous, and
did not know how she should keep the roast potatoes warm--she threw her
arms round her mother's neck: "Mother, mummy, don't scold." And then it
came out with a rush, that she had met Wolfgang: "Wolfgang Schlieben,
you know. He was so nice, mother, you can't think how nice he was. Not
the slightest bit stuck-up. And he asked at once how you were, and when
I told him you had something the matter with your stomach and your
nerves, he was so sorry. And he said: 'You must get your mother out in
this beautiful weather,' and he gave me this bank-note--here, do you
see it, a green one. I did not want to take it on any account, what
would people think of it?--but he was so strong, he stuffed it into my
hand. I could have screamed, he pulled my fingers apart so--are you
angry, mother, that I took it? I didn't want to, I really didn't want
to. But he said, 'It's for your mother.' And 'Do be sensible, Frida.'"
Frida almost cried, she felt so touched and so grateful.

Frau Lämke took it more calmly. "Perhaps I can go to Eberswald to
my brother, or even to my sister in the Riesengebirge. And I'll give up
the places where I clean for a few weeks, that will do me an enormous
amount of good. The good boy, that was nice of him, that he thought of
his old friend. Hm, he can do it too. What are fifty marks to people
like him?"

When Wolfgang had taken Frida to her door he had strolled on slowly,
his racket under his arm, his hands in the pockets of his wide
trousers. A sky, richly spangled with stars, extended over his head,
innumerable golden eyes watching him with a kind twinkle. There were no
more wheels to be heard, no crowds of pedestrians whirled up the dust
of the street any longer. What the dust-carts, passing backwards and
forwards during the day, had not been able to do, the night-dew had
done. The loose sand had been settled, a cool freshness rose up out of
the earth, one could smell the trees and bushes; a fragrance of flowers
ascended from the beds in the gardens that the darkness had swallowed
up. Wolfgang drew a deep breath of delight and whistled softly; his
heart was full of peace and joy; now it was a good thing he was not
wandering about in Berlin. It had been so nice with Frida. What a lot
they had had to talk about--and then--he was really awfully pleased to
be able to help Frau Lämke a little.

He came home thoroughly happy.

"The master and mistress have had their supper long ago," Friedrich
took the liberty of remarking with a certain reproach--the young
gentleman was really too unpunctual.

"Well, can't be helped," said Wolfgang. "Tell the cook she's to
prepare me something quickly, a cutlet or some beefsteak, or--what else
was there for supper this evening? I'm ravenous."

Friedrich looked at him quite taken aback. Now! at half past ten?
The master or the mistress had never thought of asking for such a
thing--a warm supper at half past ten? He stood hesitating.

"Well, am I soon going to get something?" the young gentleman called
to him over his shoulder, and went into the dining-room.

His parents were still sitting at the table--both were reading--but
the table was empty.

"Good evening," said the boy, "is the table cleared already?" You
could plainly hear the surprise in his voice.

"So there you are!" His father nodded to him but did not look up; he
seemed to be quite taken up with his reading. And his mother said: "Are
you going to sit with us a little?"

All at once the lad shivered. It had been so nice and warm outside,
here it was cool.

And then everything was quiet for a while, until Friedrich came in
with a tray on which there was only a little cold meat, bread, butter
and cheese beside the knife and fork. It struck Wolfgang how loudly he
rattled the things; the housemaid generally waited. "Where's
Marie?"

"In bed," said his mother curtly.

"Already?" Wolfgang wondered why to himself. Hark, the clock in his
mother's room was just striking--eleven? Was it actually already eleven
o'clock? They would really have to be quick and get him something to
eat, he was dying for want of food. He fixed his eyes on the door
through which Friedrich had disappeared. Was something soon coming?

He waited.

"Eat something." His mother pushed the dish with cold meat nearer to
him.

"Why don't you eat?" asked his father suddenly.

"Oh, I am still waiting."

"There's nothing more," said his mother, and her face, which looked
so extremely weary like the face of one who has waited long in vain,
flushed slightly.

"Nothing else?--nothing more?--why?" The boy looked exceedingly
disappointed. He glanced from his mother to the table, then to
the sideboard and then round the room as though searching for
something.

"Haven't you had anything else to eat?"

"Yes, we have had something else--but if you don't come--" His
father knit his brows, and then he looked straight at his son for the
first time that evening, surveying him with a grave glance. "You can't
possibly expect to find a warm supper, when you come home so
unpunctually."

"But you--you are not obliged to"--the young man swallowed the
rest--he would have much preferred it had his parents not sat there
waiting for him; the servants would have done what was expected of
them.

"Perhaps you think the servants don't require their night's rest?"
said his father, as though he had guessed his thought. "The maids, who
have been in the kitchen the whole day, want to have done in the
evening as well as other people. So you must come earlier if you want
to have supper with us. Moreover, I don't suppose it will harm a young
fellow to get nothing but a piece of bread and butter for his supper
for once in a way. Besides, you who--" he was going to say "you who get
such a good dinner"--but the young man's face, which expressed such
immeasurable astonishment, irritated him, and he said in a loud and,
contrary to his custom, angry voice, angrier than he had intended:
"You--are you entitled to make such claims? How can you think of doing
so, you especially?" A movement made by his wife, the rustling of her
dress, reminded him of her presence, and he continued more temperately,
but with a certain angry scorn: "Perhaps you do too much? Two hours at
the office in the morning--hardly that--an hour in the afternoon--yes,
that's an astonishing, an enormous amount of work, which must
tax your powers greatly. Indeed, it requires quite special food. Well,
what, what?"

Wolfgang had been going to say something, but his father did not
allow him to speak: "Let me see a more modest look on your face first,
and then you may speak. Lad, I tell you, if you apply to Braumüller for
money any more----!"

There, there, it was out. In his wrath he had forgotten the
diplomatic questions he had intended asking, and all he had meant to
find out by listening to his replies. The man felt quite a relief now
he could say: "It's an unheard-of thing! It's a disgrace for you--and
for me!" The excited voice had calmed down, the last words were almost
choked by a sigh. The man rested his arm on the table and his head in
his hand; one could see that he took it much to heart.

Käte sat silent and pale. Her eyes were distended with horror--so he
had done that, that, borrowed money? That too? Not only that he got
drunk, dead drunk but that, that too? It could not be possible--no! Her
eyes sought Wolfgang's face imploringly. He must deny it.

"Why, really, pater," said Wolfgang, trying to smile, "I don't know
what's the matter with you. I asked your partner to do me a little
favour--besides, he offered to do it himself, he has always been most
friendly to me. I was just going to send it back to him"--he glanced
sideways at his father: did he know how much it was?--"I'll send it to
him to-morrow."

"Oh, to-morrow." There was suspicion in the man's tone, but a
certain relief nevertheless; he was so anxious to think the best of his
son. "What other debts have you?" he asked. And then he was suddenly
seized with the fear that the lad was deceiving him, and, terrified at
the great responsibility he had taken on himself, he said in a
voice that was harder than he really intended, much harder than was
compatible with his feelings: "I would punish you as a good-for-nothing
fellow if I heard you had! I would cast you off--then you could see how
you got on. Disgraceful debts! To be in debt!"

Käte gazed at her husband the whole time. She had never seen him
like that before. She wanted to call out, to interrupt him: "You are
too strict, much too strict. You'll prevent him confessing anything if
you speak like that"--but she could not say a word. She was mute under
the burden of the fears that overwhelmed her. Her eyes, full of a
terrible anxiety, hung on the young face that had grown pale.

Wolfgang's lips quivered; his thoughts were active. He wanted to
speak, had already opened his mouth to do so, to confess that he had
spent more than he had had. If only his father were not always so
extremely proper. Good gracious, you cannot help pulling handfuls of
money out of your pockets if you have got it to spend! But he did not
say anything to these--these two about it. They were good people on the
whole, but they could not put themselves into his place. Good people?
No, they were not.

And now came his indignation. What possessed his father to treat him
in that manner, to scold him in that tone of voice? Like a criminal.
And she, why did she stare at him in that way with eyes in which he
thought he read something that looked like contempt? Well, then, he
would horrify them still more, hurl into their faces: "Of course I have
debts, what does that matter?" But in the midst of his anger came the
cool calculation: what had his father said: "I would cast you off"?

All at once Wolfgang got a great fright. He had need of
these people, he could not do without them. And so he pulled himself
together quickly: he must not confess anything, by any means, he must
be sure not to betray himself. And he said, in a quick transition from
defiant passion to smooth calmness: "I don't know why you excite
yourself so, pater. I have none."

"Really none?" His father looked at him gravely and inquiringly, but
a glad hope shone already through the gravity.

And when his son answered "No," he stretched out his hand to him
across the table: "I'm pleased to hear it."

They were very nice to him that evening. Wolfgang felt it with much
satisfaction. Well, they owed him an apology, too. He allowed them to
make much of him.

The father felt glad, quite relieved that nothing else, nothing
worse had come to light, and the mother had the feeling for the first
time for many weeks that it was possible to love the lad again. Her
voice had something of the old sound once more when she spoke to him.
And she spoke a good deal to him, she felt the need to do so. She had
not spoken so much to him during all those weeks. She felt as if a
spring within her had been bricked up and had to discharge itself now.
He had contracted no debts. Thank God, he was not quite so bad then!
Now she was sorry she had sent the maids to bed, because she had been
annoyed with him for coming home so late--for his loafing about, as she
had called it in her thoughts--and had no proper supper for him. If she
had not been afraid of her husband, she would have gone down into the
kitchen and tried to prepare something better for him herself.

"Have you really had enough?" she said to him in a low voice.

"Oh, it'll do." He felt his superiority.

Paul Schlieben put his paper aside that evening. When his son asked
him politely if he would not read, he shook his head: "No, I've read
the whole evening." He, too, felt the need of, nay, felt it his duty to
have, a friendly talk to his son, even if he found that Käte was going
too far, as usual. She really need not make such a fuss of the boy, he
had done wrong hi any case; the Braumüller matter must not be
forgotten, he ought to have come openly--but really, after all, it was
only a stupidity, a thing that might happen ninety times out of every
hundred.

The man resolved to raise his monthly allowance by 100 marks, when
he paid him on the first of the month. Then he would certainly have
ample, and there could be no more talk of not being able to make both
ends meet and of secrecy.

It was already far past midnight when the parents and son at last
parted. Käte stretched herself in her bed with a feeling of happiness
she had not known for a long time: she would soon fall asleep; she
would not have to lie so long waiting for sleep to come to her, she
felt so relieved, so reassured, so soothed. Things were working better
now, everything would still be right at last. And she whispered softly
to her husband: "Paul!" He did not hear her, he was already half
asleep. Then she whispered more urgently: "Paul, Paul!" And when he
moved she said softly: "Paul, are you angry with me?"

"Angry? Why should I be?"

"Oh, I only thought you might be." She did not want to give any
explanation, besides it was hardly necessary, for she had the
impression that he, too, felt that they themselves would be on better,
pleasanter, more cordial and more united terms with each other
in the future. Oh yes, if they were on better terms with him--the
boy--then he and she would also be on better terms with each other.

The elderly woman was seized with a great longing for the days when
they loved each other. She felt ashamed of herself, but she could not
help it, she stretched out her hand to the bed that stood next to hers:
"Give me your hand, Paul."

And as she groped about in the dark, she found his hand that was
searching for hers. They clasped hands.

"Good night, dear husband."

"Good night, dear wife."

They fell asleep thus.

Wolfgang stood at the window of his room, looking out into the
obscurity that hid all the stars and listening to the roar of the
distant wind. Was the night so sultry, or was it only he who was so
unbearably hot? A thunder-storm seemed to be coming on. Or was it only
an inward restlessness that weighed him down? What was it that tortured
him?

He thought he had hardly ever felt so uncomfortable before. He was
vexed with his father, vexed with his mother--if they had been
different from what they were, if everything had been different from
what it was, he would not have been obliged to tell lies, to dissemble.
He was vexed with himself. Oh, then he would have felt easier now, much
freer. He knit his brows angrily; a sudden longing for something he
could not name made him tremble. What did he want, what was he longing
for? If he only knew!

He gave a loud sigh, and stretched his arms with the strong hands
out into the night. Everything was so narrow, so narrow. If he only
were the boy again who had once climbed out of this window, yes, this
window--he leant out and measured the height--who had run
away, hurrah! without asking himself where he was going, simply on and
on. That had been magnificent! A splendid run!

And he leant further and further out of the window. The night wind
was whispering, it was like an alluring melody. He trembled with
eagerness. He could not tear himself away, he had to remain there
listening. The wind was rising, there was a rustling in the trees, it
rose and rose, grew and grew. The rustling turned into a
blustering.

He forgot he was in a room in a house, and that he had parents there
who wanted to sleep. He gave a shout, a loud cry, half of triumph. How
beautiful it was out there, ah!

A storm. The snorting wind, that had risen so suddenly, blew his
hair about and ruffled it at the temples. Ah, how beautifully that
cooled. It was unbearable in the house, so gloomy, so close. He felt so
scared, so terrified. How his heart thumped. And he felt so out of
temper: how unpleasant it had been that evening again. His father had
said he ought to have confessed it to him--of course, it would have
been better--but if he threatened him in that way after the thing was
over in a manner, what would he have said before? This everlasting
keeping him in leading strings was not to be borne. Was he still a
child? Was he a grown-up man or was he not? Was he the son of rich
parents or was he not? No, he was not. That was just what he was
not.

The thunder rumbled afar in the dark night. Suddenly there was a
brilliant flash--that was just what he was not, not the son, not the
son of this house. Otherwise everything would have been different. He
did not know in what way--but different, oh, quite different.

Wolfgang had not thought of these things for a long
time--the days were so full of distractions but now in this dark stormy
night, in which he would not be able to sleep, he had to think. What he
had always driven back because it was not pleasant, what he thought he
had quite forgotten--perhaps because he wished to forget it--he would
have to consider now. What had been repressed for so long broke out
forcibly now, like the stormy wind that suddenly came rushing along,
bending the tops of the pines so that they cowered with terror.
Wolfgang would have liked to have made his voice heard above the roar
of the storm.

He was furious, quite absurdly furious, quite thoughtlessly furious.
Oh, how it lightened, crashed, rumbled, roared and snorted. What a
conflict--but it was beautiful nevertheless. He raised himself up on
his toes and exposed his hammering breast to the strong wind. He had
hardly ever felt such delight as when those gusts of wind struck his
chest like blows from a fist. He flung himself against them, he
regularly caught them on his broad chest.

And still there was torture mingled with the delight. Face to face
with this great storm, that became an event in his life as it were,
everything else seemed so pitifully small to him, and he too. There he
stood now in coat and trousers, his hands in his pockets, rattling his
loose money; he was annoyed because he had let them lecture him, and
still he had not the courage to throw everything aside and do exactly
as he liked.

The lad followed the yellow and blue flashes of lightning that clove
the dark stormy sky in zigzag, and poured a dazzling magic light over
the world, with sparkling eyes. Oh, to be able to rush along like that
flash of lightning. It rushed out of the clouds down to the earth, tore
her lap open and buried itself in it.

His young blood, whose unused vitality quivered in his
clenched fists, his energy, which had not been spent on any work,
groaned aloud. All at once Wolfgang cursed his life. Oh, he ought to be
somewhere quite different, live at quite a different place, quite
different.

And even if he were not so comfortable there, let him only get away
from this place, away. It bored him so terribly to be here. He loathed
it. He drew a deep breath, oh, if only he had some work he would like
to do! That would tire him out, so that he had no other desire but to
eat and then sleep. Better to be a day labourer than one who sits
perched on a stool in an office and sees figures, nothing but figures
and accounts and ledgers and cash-books--oh, only not let him be a
merchant, no, that was the very worst of all.

Hitherto Wolfgang had never been conscious of the fact that he would
never be any good as a merchant; now he knew it. No, he did not like
it, he could not go on being a merchant. Everyone must surely become
what nature has meant him to be.

He would say it in the morning--no, he would not go to the office
any more, he would not do it any longer. He would be free. He leant out
of the window once more, and scented the damp, pleasant smell that rose
up out of the soaked earth with distended nostrils, panting greedily
like a thirsty stag.

The rain had come after the thunder and lightning, and had saturated
the thirsty earth and penetrated into it, filling all its pores with
fertility. It rained and rained uninterruptedly, came down in torrents
as if it would never end.

Something gave way in Wolfgang's soul; it became soft.

"Mother," he whispered dreamily, stretching out his hot hands so
that the cool rain bathed them. Then he stretched his head far out too,
closed his eyes and raised his head, so that the falling drops
refreshed his burning lids and the wide-open, thirsty lips
drank the tears of heaven as though they were costly wine.

           *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

But in the morning, when the sand in the Grunewald had swallowed up
all the rain, and nothing was left of the storm that had cleared the
air during the night but the somewhat fresher green of the lawns, a
stronger smell of the pines and many fallen acorns and chestnuts on the
promenade, Wolfgang thought differently again. The day was beautiful;
he could swim, ride, go to the office for a short time, eat, drink,
play tennis, make an appointment for the evening--there were so many
places where you could amuse yourself--and why should he spoil this
splendid day for himself and, after all, his father too? He thrust
every graver thought aside as burdensome. But his soul was not at peace
all the same. He tried to deaden thought.

Käte did not fall asleep so quickly as on the previous night; even
if she had promised herself not to sit up and wait for him any more,
she could not sleep if he were not at home. She heard the clocks strike
terribly loudly, as she had done on a former occasion; every noise,
even the slightest, penetrated to her ear through the stillness of the
house, sounding much louder. She would hear him, she must hear him as
soon as he stuck the key into the front door.

But she heard nothing, although she lay long awake listening. The
hours crept on, the day dawned, a pale streak of light no broader than
her thumb stole through the closed shutters; she saw it on the wall
opposite to her bed. The light became gradually less and less wan, more
decided in colour, a warm, sunny, ruddy gold. No cock proclaimed the
new day with triumphant crow, the house was so quiet, the garden so
silent, but the light betrayed that it was morning.

She must have slept, however, without knowing it. What, was it
already morning? She was sure now that he must have been at home a long
time, she had simply not heard him come in. That calmed her. But she
dressed hurriedly, without paying as much attention to her dress as
usual, and she could not resist standing outside his door to listen
before going down to breakfast. He was not up yet--of course not, he
had come home so late--he was still asleep. She would be able to look
at him without his knowing. She went in, but he was not asleep.

The woman looked at the bed with bewildered eyes--there it was,
open, invitingly white and comfortable, but he was not in it. The bed
had not been touched. The room was empty.

Then her heart grew cold with dread. So she had not slept, his
return had not escaped her. On that former occasion he had come
home--true, he was drunk, but still he had come home--but not this
time!



CHAPTER XV


"Wolfgang not here again?" said Paul Schlieben as he joined his wife in
her room. "He comes so little to the office too. They always assure me
that he has just been--but why doesn't he keep the same office-hours as
I? Where is he?" He looked inquiringly and impatiently at his wife.

She shrugged her shoulders, and the evening sun, which was casting a
last gleam through the tall window as it set, touched her cheek with
red for a moment. "I don't know," she said in a low voice. And then she
looked so lost as she gazed out into the autumn evening, that her
husband felt that her thoughts were far away, looking for something
outside.

"I've just come from town, Käte," he said somewhat annoyed, and the
vexation he felt at his son's absence gave his voice a certain
sharpness, "and I'm hungry and tired. It's already eight o'clock--we'll
have our supper. And you've not even a friendly face to show me?"

She got up quickly to ring for supper, and tried to smile. But it
was no real smile.

He saw it, and that put him still more out of humour. "Never mind,
don't try. Don't force yourself to smile." He sat down at the table
with a weary movement. But his hunger did not seem to be so great,
after all, as he only helped himself in a spiritless manner
when the steaming dishes were brought in and placed in front of him,
and ate in the same manner without knowing what he was eating.

The dining-room was much too large for the two lonely people; the
handsome room looked uncomfortably empty on that cool evening in
autumn. The woman shivered with cold.

"We shall have to start heating the house," said the man.

That was all that was said during the meal. After it was over he got
up to go across to his study. He wanted to smoke there, the room was
smaller and cosier; he did not notice that his wife's eyes had never
left him.

If Paul would only tell her what he thought of Wolfgang staying
away! Where could Wolfgang be now? She became entirely absorbed in her
wandering thoughts, and hardly noticed that she was alone in the cold
empty room.

She had a book in front of her, a book the whole world found
interesting--an acquaintance had said to her: "I could not stop reading
it; I had so much to think about, but I forgot everything owing to the
book"--but it did not make her forget anything. She felt as though she
were in great trouble, and that that was making her dull. Even duller,
more indifferent to outward things than at the time of her father's and
mother's deaths. She had read so much in those years of mourning, and
with special interest, as though the old poems had been given to her
anew and the new ones were a cheering revelation. She could not read
anything now, could not follow another's thoughts. She clung to her own
thoughts. True, her eyes flew over the page, but when she got to the
bottom she did not know what she had read. It was an intolerable
condition. Oh, owh much she would have liked to have taken an
interest in something. What would she not have given only to be able to
laugh heartily for once; she had never experienced a similar longing
for cheerfulness, gaiety and humour before. Oh, what a relief it would
have been for her if she could have laughed and cried. Now she could
not laugh, but--alas!--not cry either, and that was the worst: her eyes
remained dry. But the tears of sorrow she had not wept burnt her heart
and wore out her life with their unshed salty moisture.

No, death was not the most terrible that could happen. There were
more terrible things than that. It was terrible when one had to say to
oneself: "You have brought all your suffering on yourself. Why were
you not satisfied? Why must you take by force what nature had refused?"
It was more terrible when one felt how one's domestic happiness, one's
married happiness, love, faith, unity, how all that intimately unites
two people was beginning to totter--for did she not feel every day how
her husband was getting colder and colder, and that she also treated
him with more indifference? Oh, the son, that third person, it was he
who parted them. How miserably all her theories about training,
influence, about being born in the spirit had been overthrown. Wolfgang
was not the child in which she and her husband were united in body and
soul--he was and would remain of alien blood. And he had an alien soul.
Poor son!

All at once a discerning compassion shot up in the heart of the
woman, who for days, weeks, months, even years, had felt nothing but
bitterness and mortification, ay, many a time even something like
revolt against the one who thus disturbed her days. How could she be so
very angry with him, who was not bound to his parents' house by a
hundred ties? It was not _his_ parents' house, that was just
the point. Maybe he unconsciously felt that the soil there was not his
native soil--and now he was seeking, wandering.

Käte pondered, her head resting heavily in her hand: what was she to
do first? Should she confess to him where he came from? Tell him
everything? Perhaps things would be better then. But oh, it was so
difficult. But it must be done. She must not remain silent any longer.
She felt her trembling heart grow stronger, as she made the firm
resolve to speak to him when he returned home. What she had kept as the
greatest secret, what she had guarded with trembling, what nothing
could have torn from her, as she thought, she was now prepared to
reveal of her own free will. She must do so. Otherwise how could things
ever be better? How could they ever end happily, or ever end at
all?

Her eyes wandered about seeking something fervently; there was a
terrified expression in them. But there was no other way out. Käte
Schlieben prepared herself for the confession with a resoluteness that
she would not have been capable of a year ago. For one moment the wish
came to her to call Paul to help her. But she rejected the thought
quickly--had he ever loved Wolfgang as she had done? Perhaps it would
be a matter of no moment to him--no, perhaps it would be a triumph to
him, he had always been of a different opinion to her. And then another
thing. He might perhaps forestall her, tell Wolfgang himself, and he
must not do that. She, she alone must do that, with all the love of
which she was still capable, so that it might be told him in a
forbearing, merciful and tender manner.

She ran hastily across to her sitting-room. She kept the certificate
of his baptism and the deed of surrender they had got from his native
village in her writing-desk there; she had not even trusted
the papers to her husband. Now she brought them out and put them ready.
She would have to show him that everything was as she said.

The papers rustled in her trembling hands, but she repressed her
agitation. She must be calm, quite calm and sensible; she must throw
down the castle in the air she had built for herself and that had not
turned out as in her dreams, knowing fully what she was doing. But even
if this castle in the air collapsed, could not something be saved from
the ruins? Something good rise from them? He would be grateful to her,
he must be grateful to her. And that was the good that would rise.

She folded her hands over the common paper on which the evidence was
written, and quivering sighs escaped from her breast that were like
prayers. O God, help me! O God, help me!

But if he did not understand her property, if she did not find the
words that must be found? If she should lose him thereby? She was
overcome with terror, she turned pale, and stretched out her hands
gropingly like one who requires a support. But she remained erect. Then
rather lose him than that he should be lost.

For--and tears such as she had not been able to weep for a long,
long time, dropped from her eyes and relieved her--she still loved him,
after all, loved him more than she had considered possible.

So she waited for him. And even if she had to wait until dawn and if
he came home drunk again--more drunk than the first time--she would
still wait for him. She must tell him that day. She was burning to tell
him.

Paul Schlieben had gone to bed long ago. He was vexed with his wife,
had only stuck his head into the room and given a little nod: "Good
night," and gone upstairs. But she walked up and down the room
downstairs with slow steps. That tired her physically, but gave her
mind rest and thereby strength.

When she went to meet Wolfgang in the hall on hearing him close the
door, her delicate figure looked as though it had grown, it was so
straight and erect. The house slept with all in it, only he and she
were still awake. They were never so alone, so undisturbed nowadays.
The time had come.

And she held out her hand to him, which she would not have done
on any other occasion had he come so late--thank God, he was not
drunk!--and approached her face to his and kissed him on the cheek:
"Good evening, my son."

He was no doubt somewhat taken aback at this reception, but his
sunken eyes with the black lines under them looked past her
indifferently.

He was terribly tired--one could see--or was he ill? But all that
would soon be better now. Käte seized hold of his hand once more full
of the joyful hope that had been awakened in her, and drew him after
her into her room.

He allowed himself to be drawn without resisting, he only asked with
a yawn: "What's the matter?"

"I must tell you something." And then quickly, as though he
might escape her or she might lose courage, she added: "Something
important--that concerns you your that concerns your--your birth."

What would he say--she had stopped involuntarily--what would he say
now? The secret of his birth for which he had fought full of longing,
fought strenuously--oh, what scenes those had been!--would now be
revealed to him.

She leant towards him involuntarily, ready to support him.

Then he yawned again: "Must it really be now, mater? There's plenty
of time to-morrow. The fact is, I am dead beat. Good night." And he
wheeled round, leaving her where she was, and went out of the room and
up the stairs to his bedroom.

She stood there quite rigid. Then she put her hand up to her head:
what, what was it? She must not have understood him properly, she must
be deaf, blind or beside herself. Or he must be deaf, blind or beside
himself. She had gone up to him with her heart in her mouth, she had
held out her hand, she had wanted to speak to him about his birth--and
he? He had yawned--had gone away, it evidently did not interest him in
the slightest. And here, here, in this very room--it was not yet four
years ago--he had stood almost on the same spot in the black clothes he
had worn at his confirmation--almost as tall as he was now, only with a
rounder, more childish face--and had screamed aloud: "Mother, mother,
where is my mother?" And now he no longer wanted to know anything?

It was impossible, she could not have understood him aright or he
not her. She must follow him, at once, without delay. It seemed to her
that she must not neglect a moment.

She hurried noiselessly up the stairs in her grey dress. She saw her
shadow gliding along in the dull light the electric bulb cast on the
staircase-wall, but she smiled: no, she was not sorrow personified
gliding along like a ghost any longer. Her heart was filled with
nothing but joy, hope and confidence, for she was bringing him
something good, nothing but good.

She went into his room without knocking, in great haste and without
reflecting on what she was doing. He was already in bed, he was just
going to put out the light. She sat down on the edge of his bed.

"Wolfgang," she said gently. And as he gazed at her in surprise with
a look that was almost unfriendly, her voice sounded still softer: "My
son."

"Yes--what's the matter now?"

He was really annoyed, she noticed it in the impatient tone of his
voice, and then she suddenly lost courage. Oh, if he looked at her like
that, so coldly, and if his voice sounded so repellent, how difficult
it was to find the right word. But it must be done, he looked so pale
and was so thin, his round face had positively become long. What had
struck her before struck her with double force now, and she got a great
fright. "Wolfgang," she said hastily, avoiding his glance almost with
fear--oh, how he would accuse her, how reproachful he would be, and
justifiably reproachful--"I must tell you at last--it's better--it
won't surprise you much either. Do you still remember that Sunday it
was the day of your confirmation--you--you asked us then----"

Oh, what along introduction it was. She called herself a coward; but
it was so difficult, so unspeakably difficult.

He did not interrupt her with a single sound, he asked no questions,
he did not sigh, he did not even move.

She did not venture to turn her eyes, which were fixed on one point
straight in front of her, to look at him. His silence was terrible,
more terrible than his passion. And she called out with the courage of
despair: "You are not our son, not our own son."

He still did not say anything; did not make a single sound, did not
move. Then she turned her eyes on him. And she saw how the lids fell
over his tired, already glassy eyes, how he tore them open again with
difficulty and how they closed once more, in short, how he fought with
sleep.

He could sleep whilst she told him this--this? A terrible feeling of
disillusion came over her, but still she seized hold of his
arm and shook him, whilst her own limbs trembled as though with fever:
"Don't you hear--don't you hear me? You are not our son--not our own
son."

"Yes, I know," he said in a weary voice. "Leave me, leave me." He
made a gesture as if to thrust her away.

"And it--" her complete want of comprehension made her stammer like
a child--"it does not affect you? It--it leaves you so cold?"

"Cold? Cold?" He shrugged his shoulders, and his tired, dull eyes
began to gleam a little. "Cold? Who says it leaves me cold--has left me
cold?" he amended hastily. "But you two have not asked about that. Now
_I_ won't hear anything more about it. I'm tired now. I want to sleep."
He turned his back on her, turned his face to the wall and did not move
any more.

There she stood--he was already asleep, or at least seemed to be so.
She waited anxiously a few minutes longer--would he, would he not have
to turn once more to her and say: "Tell me, I'm listening now." But he
did not turn.

Then she crept out of the room like a condemned criminal. Too late,
too late. She had spoken too late, and now he did not want to hear
anything more about it, nothing more whatever.

In her dull wretchedness the words "too late" hurt her soul as if
they had been branded on it.

           *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

Käte had no longer the courage to revert again to what she had
wanted to confess to Wolfgang that night. Besides, what was the good?
She had the vivid feeling that there was no getting at him any more,
that he could not be helped any more. But she felt weighed down as
though she had committed a terrible crime. And the feeling of this
great crime made her gentler towards him than she would
otherwise have been; she felt called upon to make excuses for his
actions both to herself and her husband.

Paul Schlieben was very dissatisfied with Wolfgang. "If only I
knew where he's always wandering about. I suppose he's at home at
night--eh?"

An involuntary sound from his wife had interrupted him, now he
looked at her inquiringly. But she did not change countenance in the
slightest, she only gave an affirmative nod. So the husband relied upon
his wife.

And now the last days of autumn had come, which are often so warm
and beautiful, more beautiful than summer. Everybody streamed out into
the Grunewald, to bathe themselves once more in the sun and air ere
winter set in. The people came in crowds to Hundekehle and Paulsborn,
to Uncle Tom and the Old Fisherman's Hut as though it were Sunday every
day. There was laughter everywhere, often music too, and young girls in
light dresses, in last summer's dresses that were not yet quite worn
out. Children made less noise in the woods now than in summer; it grew
dark too early now, but there were all the more couples wandering
about, whom the early but still warm dusk gave an excellent opportunity
to exchange caresses, and old people, who wanted to enjoy the sun once
more ere the night perhaps came that is followed by no morning.

Formerly Paul Schlieben had always detested leaving his house and
garden on such days, when the Grunewald was overrun with people. He had
always disliked swallowing the dust the crowd raised. But now he was
broader-minded. Why should the people, who were shut up in cramped
rooms on all the other days, not be out there too for once in a way,
and inhale the smell of the pines for some hours, at any rate, which
they, the privileged ones, enjoyed every day. It did one good
to see how happy people could be.

He ordered a carriage, a comfortable landau, both to give himself a
pleasure and also to distract his wife, who seemed to him to be graver
and more lost in thought than ever, and went for a drive with her. They
drove along the well-known roads through the Grunewald, and also got
out now and then when the carriage forced its way more slowly through
the sand, and walked beside it for a bit along the foot-path, which the
fallen pine-needles had made smooth and firm.

They came to Schildhorn. The red glow of evening lay across the
water; the sun could no longer be seen in all its splendour, a dusky,
melancholy peace lay over the Havel and the pines. Käte had never
thought the wood was so large. All at once she shivered: ah, the
cemetery where they buried the suicides lay over there. She did
not like to look in that direction, she pressed her eyes together
nervously. All at once a young lad moved across her mental
vision--young and fresh and yet ruined already--many a mother's son.

She shuddered and wanted to hurry past, and still something drew her
feet irresistibly to the spot in the loose sand that had been enclosed.
She could not help it, she had to stop. Her eyes rested thoughtfully on
the ugly, uncared-for graves: had those who rested there found peace? A
couple of branches covered with leaves and a few flowers that she had
plucked on the way fell out of her hand. The evening wind blew them on
to the nearest grave; she let them lie there. Her heart felt extremely
sad.

"Käte, do come," Paul called. "The carriage has been waiting for us
quite a long time."

She felt very depressed. Fears and suspicions, that she could
not speak of to anybody, crowded upon her. Wolfgang was
unsteady--but was he bad? No, not bad--not yet. O God, no, she would
not think that! Not bad! But what would happen? How would it end?
Things could never be right again--how could they? A miracle would have
to happen then, and miracles do not happen nowadays.

A gay laugh made her start. All the tables were occupied in the
restaurant garden; there were so many young people there and so much
light-heartedness, and so many lovers. They had got into their carriage
again and were now driving slowly past the garden, so they saw all the
light-coloured blouses and the gaily trimmed hats, all the finery of
the lower middle-class.

Hark, there was that gay laugh again. A girl's loud laugh, a real
hearty one, and now: "Aha, catch her, catch her!" on hearing which Käte
held her breath as though frozen. She felt quite weak, all the blood
left her heart. That was Wolfgang! Her Wolfgang!

Then he bounded after a girl who, with a cry of delight, flew across
the road in front of him and into the wood on the other side among the
tree-trunks. He rushed after her. For a moment the girl's light dress
and Wolfgang's flying shadow were seen whisking round the pines, and
then nothing more. But he must have reached her, for her shrill scream
and his laugh were heard; both drove the blood into Käte's cheeks. It
sounded so offensive to her, so vulgar. So he had got so far? He
wandered about there with such, such--persons? Ah, a couple of others
were following them, they belonged to the party, too. A hulking fellow
with a very hot and red face and chubby cheeks followed the couple that
had disappeared noisily shouting hallo, and the slender rascal who came
last laughed so knowingly and slyly.

"Paul, Paul!" Käte wanted to call out, "Paul, just look, look!" But
then she did not call, and did not move. There was nothing
more to be done. She leant back in her corner of the carriage quite
silent: she had wanted the boy, she must not complain. Oh, if only she
had left him where he was. Now she must be silent, close both her eyes
firmly and pretend she had not seen anything.

But everything was spoilt for her. And when her husband pointed out
the moon swimming in the light grey ether in an opening between the
tops of two pines, and the bright, quietly gleaming star to the right
of it, she had only an indifferent "Oh yes," in answer to his
delighted: "Isn't that beautiful?"

That depressed him. She had taken such pleasure in nature formerly,
the greatest, purest pleasure--now she no longer did so. Was that over
too? Everything was over. He sighed.

And both remained silent, each leaning in a corner of the carriage.
They gazed into the twilight that was growing deeper and deeper with
sad eyes. Evening was coming on, the day--their day too--was over.

           *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

Wolfgang had gone on an excursion into the country, with Frida
Lämke, her brother, and Hans Flebbe, which had been planned a long
time. Frida was not going back to business that afternoon; she had
succeeded in getting away as an exception, and because she pleaded an
extremely urgent reason for her absence. And now she was almost beside
herself with glee: oh, how splendid it was, oh, what a fine time they
would have. Wolfgang had gone to the expense of taking a cab; he and
Frida sat on the front seat, the two others opposite them on the back
seat, and they had driven round the green, green wood, had paid a visit
to this and that place of amusement, had gone on a roundabout and in
a boat and into the booth where they were playing with dice. Wolfgang
was very polite, Frida always got leave to throw them again and
again; a butter dish of blue glass, a glazed paper-bag full of
gingerbread nuts, but above all a little dicky-bird in a tiny wooden
cage made her extremely happy. Hans was allowed to carry it all, whilst
she and Wolfgang rushed along on the walk home from Schildhorn,
chaffing each other. Her sweetheart did not disturb them. Hans had
foregone the pleasure of having his Frida on his arm from the
commencement; everybody might easily have thought the well-dressed
young gentleman was her lover. But when she lost her breath entirely
and was red and dishevelled, and the dusk, which came on somewhat
earlier in the wood among the trees that stood so close together, made
her shudder a little and filled her with a delicious fear, she hung on
her Hans's arm as a matter of course. They remained a little behind the
others.

Then Wolfgang was alone, for he did not count Artur, although he
walked beside him stumbling over the roots and whistling shrilly. And
Wolfgang envied fat Hans at whom they had all laughed so much, the girl
he was engaged to more than anyone else. He also wanted to have a girl
hanging on his arm. It need not even be such a nice-looking girl as
Frida--as long as it was a girl. The dusk of the wood, which was so
nice and quiet, seemed positively to hold out inviting arms to him. And
a smell of satiation, an abundant fulfilment, rose out of the earth
that evening, although it was so poor--nothing but sand. Wolfgang felt
a wish to live and love, an eager desire for pleasure and enjoyment. If
he had had Frida near him now, he would have seized hold of her, have
clasped her in his arms, have quickly closed her mouth with kisses and
not let her go again.

He could not contain himself any longer, he had to seize hold of
Artur, at any rate, and waltz with him along the sandy path
through the wood, so that the lanky youth, who had already run to so
many customers to shave them that day, could neither see nor hear. All
the other people stopped; such sights were nothing new to them on
excursions, not to speak of worse. It amused them, and, when Wolfgang
lifted his partner high up into the air with a loud shout of triumph
and swung him several times round his head, they clapped their
hands.

Wolfgang was very much out of breath by this time. When they got out
of the wood they had to proceed more slowly; they might have trodden
some of the people to death in the more inhabited parts, for the fine
villas were already commencing. What a crowd! People were pushing and
squeezing each other at the place where the electric cars started.
Wolfgang and Artur posted themselves there too: what a joke it was to
see how the people who wanted to go by them elbowed each other. It was
still pretty light and as warm as summer, but it would soon be quite
dark, and the later it was the larger the crowd would be. The two stood
there laughing, looking quietly on at the throng. What did it matter to
them if they did not get a seat? They could run that short bit to their
homes.

Wolfgang felt how his heart thumped against his side--it had been
great fun to dance with Frida. He had swung her round several times in
the booth adjoining a restaurant, in which a man sat strumming on a
piano, and had done the same to a couple of other girls, who had looked
longingly at the boisterous dancer. What a pleasure it had been. He
still felt the effects of it, his chest rose and fell tumultuously--oh,
what a pleasure it was to swing a girl round in his arm like that.
Wonderful! Everything was wonderful.

Wolfgang trembled inwardly with untamed animal spirits, and
clenched his teeth so as not to draw people's attention to him by means
of a loud, triumphant shout. Oh, how splendid it would be, oh, how he
would love to do something foolish now. He thought it over: what on
earth could he do?

At that moment a cough disturbed him. How hollow it sounded--as if
everything inside were loose. The young fellow who was standing behind
his broad back might have been coughing like that for some time--only
he had not noticed it; now he felt disgusted at his spitting. He
stepped aside involuntarily: faugh, how the man coughed!

"Oh, how wretched it is that there isn't a cab to be had!" Wolfgang
now heard the older man say, on whose arm the young fellow who was
coughing was leaning. "Are you quite knocked up? Can you still stand
it?" There was such an anxiety expressed in that: "Can you still stand
it?"

"Oh, pretty well," the young fellow answered in a hoarse voice.
Wolfgang pricked up his ears: he surely knew that voice? And now he
also recognised the face. Wasn't that Kullrich? Good gracious, how he
had changed. He raised his hat involuntarily: "Good evening,
Kullrich."

And now the latter also recognised him. "Schlieben!" Kullrich
smiled, so that all his teeth, which were long and white, could be seen
behind his bloodless lips. And then he held out his hand to his former
schoolfellow: "You aren't at school either? I've left as well. It's a
long time since we've seen each other."

The hand Wolfgang held had a disagreeable, moist, cold feeling, and
a shudder passed through him. He had forgotten long ago that he had
once heard that Kullrich had consumption; all at once he remembered it
again. But that was quite impossible, surely you could not die
so young? Everything in him strove against the conviction.

"Have you been ill?" he asked quickly. "But now you're all right
again, aren't you?" It was quite difficult for him to remember that he
was speaking to his old schoolfellow; this Kullrich was quite a
stranger to him.

"Oh yes, pretty fair," said Kullrich, smiling once more. Quite a
peculiar smile, which even struck the careless youth. Kullrich had
never been nice-looking, he had a lump at the end of his nose; but now
Wolfgang could not take his eyes off him. How much more refined his
face had grown and so--he could not contain himself any longer, all at
once he blurted it out: "How different you look now. I hardly
recognised you."

"My son is soon going away," his father said quickly, drawing his
son's arm more closely through his own as he spoke. "Then I hope he
will come back quite well. But he has tried to do too much to-day. The
weather was so fine--plenty of fresh air and the smell of the pines,
the doctor said--but we have remained out too long. It won't do you any
harm, I trust?" There was again such a terrible anxiety expressed in
his voice. "Are you cold? Would you not like to sit down until we can
start?" The father put a camp-stool, which he had carried under his
arm, on the ground, and opened it: "Sit down a little, Fritz."

Poor fellow! The father's voice, which trembled with such loving
anxiety, touched Wolfgang strangely. Poor fellow, he really must be
very ill. How terrible! He was overcome with dread, and stepped back
involuntarily for fear the sick boy's breath should reach him. He was
full of the egotism of youth and health; how unfortunate he should meet
him there to-day, just to-day.

"May I get you a carriage?" he inquired hastily--only
let Kullrich get away, it was too awful to have to listen to that
cough--"I'm acquainted with this neighbourhood; I shall be able to get
one."

"Oh yes, oh yes, a cab, a closed one if possible," said Kullrich's
father, drawing a deep breath as though relieved of a great anxiety.
"We shall not possibly be able to go by train. And it's getting so
late. Are you really not cold, Fritz?" A cool wind had suddenly risen,
and the old man took off his overcoat and hung it round his son's
shoulders.

How awful it must be for him to see his son like that, thought
Wolfgang. To die, to die at all, how terrible. And how the man loved
his son. You could hear that in his voice, see it in his looks.

Wolfgang was pleased to be able to run about for a cab. It was
difficult to get one now, and he ran about until he was quite out of
breath. At last he got one. When he reached the place where the
electric cars started, Herr Kullrich was in great despair. He had given
up all hope and his son had coughed a good deal.

He did not know what to say, he was so grateful. The unpretentious
man--he was a subordinate official in one of the government offices and
probably could not afford it--promised the driver a good tip if he
would only drive them quickly to their home in Berlin. He enveloped his
son in the rug that lay on the back seat; the driver also gave them a
horse-cloth, and Wolfgang wrapped it round his schoolfellow's legs.

"Thanks, thanks," said Fritz Kullrich faintly; he was quite knocked
up now.

"Come and see us some time, Herr Schlieben," said the father,
pressing his hand. "Fritz would be pleased. And I am so grateful to you
for helping us."

"But come soon," said the son, smiling again in that peculiar
manner. "Good-bye."

"Good-bye." Wolfgang stood staring after the carriage as it
disappeared quickly; there drove Kullrich--after his mother.

Wolfgang's good spirits had flown. When his companions with whom he
had spent the afternoon sought him with loud hallos--Hans must have
given his Frida many hearty kisses, her hat was awry, her eyes gleamed
amorously--he got rid of them without delay. He said good-bye to them
quickly and went on alone. Death had touched his elbow. And one of the
old songs he had sung with Cilia, the girl from his childhood, suddenly
darted through his mind. Now he understood its deeper meaning for the
first time:

            Art thou now with fair cheeks prancing,
            Cheeks milk-white, through rose-light glancing?
            Roses wither soon, alas!

He went home at once, he had no wish to loaf about out of doors
any longer. And as he sauntered along with unsteady gait down
out-of-the-way roads, something rose up before him in the dusk of the
autumn evening and placed itself in his path--it was a question:

"And you? Where are you going?"

He entered his parents' house in a mood that was strangely soft and
conciliatory. But when he stepped into the room, his parents were
sitting there as though to pass sentence on him.

Käte had not been able to keep it to herself after all, it had
weighed on her mind, she had to tell somebody what she had seen. And it
had irritated her husband more than his wife had expected. So the boy
had got into such company!

"Where have you been wandering about?" he said to his son
angrily.

The boy stopped short: why that voice? It was not so late.
He raised his head with the feeling that they were treating him
unjustly.

"Don't look at me so impudently." His father lost control of
himself. "Where is that woman you were wandering about with?"

Wandering about--woman? The hot blood surged to the boy's head.
Frida Lämke a woman--how mad. "She isn't a woman," he flared up. And
then: "I haven't been wandering about."

"Come, come, I've----" the man broke off quickly; he could not say:
"I've seen you"--so he said: "We've seen you."

Wolfgang got very red. Oh!--they had spied on him--no doubt
to-day--had crept after him? He was not even safe from their prying
looks so far away. He was furious. "How can you say 'that woman.' She
isn't a woman."

"Well--what is she then, may I ask?"

"My friend."

"Your friend?" His father gave a short angry laugh. "Friend--very
well, but it's rather early for you to have such a friend. I forbid you
to have friends of such doubtful, such more than doubtful
character."

"She isn't doubtful." Wolfgang's eyes sparkled. How right Frau Lämke
was when she said the other day to him when he went to see them again:
"Although I'm very pleased to see you, don't come too often, Wolfgang.
Frida is only a poor girl, and such a one gets talked about at
once."

No, there was nothing doubtful about her. The son looked his father
full in the face, pale with fury. "She's as respectable a girl as any.
How can you speak of her like that? How d----" He faltered, he was in
such a fury that his voice failed.

"Dare--only say it straight out, dare." The man had more
control over himself now, he had become quieter, for what he saw in his
boy's face seemed to him to be honest indignation. No, he was not quite
ruined yet, he had only been led astray, such women prefer to hang on
to quite young people. And he said persuasively, meaning well: "Get
away from the whole thing as quickly as possible. You'll save yourself
much unpleasantness. I'll help you with it."

"Thanks." The young fellow stuck his hands into his trouser pockets
and stood there with an arrogant expression on his face.

His soft mood had disappeared long ago, it had flown as soon as he
took the first step into the room; now he was in the mood not to stand
anything whatever. They had insulted Frida.

"Where does she live?" his father asked.

"You would like to know that, I daresay." His son laughed
scornfully; it gave him a certain satisfaction to withhold her address,
they were so curious. They should never find it out. It was not at all
necessary to tell them. He threw his head back insolently, and did not
answer.

O God, what had happened to the boy! Käte stared at him quite
terrified. He had changed completely, had become quite a different
being. But then came the memory--she had loved him so much once--and
the pain of knowing that she had lost him entirely and for ever.
"Wolfgang, don't be like that, I beseech you. You know we have your
welfare at heart, Wolfgang."

He measured her with an inexplicable look. And then he looked past
her into space.

"It would be better if I were out of it all!" he jerked out
suddenly, spontaneously. It was meant to sound defiant, but the
defiance was swallowed up in the sudden recognition of a painful
truth.



CHAPTER XVI


They had agreed that Wolfgang should not live at the villa with them
any longer. True, he was still very young, but the time for
independence had come, his parents realised. Two prettily furnished
rooms were taken in the neighbourhood of the office--Wolfgang was to
take a much more active part in the business now--otherwise he would be
left to himself. This coming home so late at night, this responsible
control--no, it would not do for Käte to worry herself to death. Paul
Schlieben had taken this step resignedly.

And it seemed as though the days at the Schliebens' villa were
really to be quieter, more peaceful. It was winter, and the snow was
such a soft protecting cover for many a buried hope.

Wolfgang used to come and visit them, but not too often; besides, he
saw his father every day at the office. It never seemed to enter his
head that his mother would have liked to see him more frequently. She
did not let him perceive it. Was she perhaps to beg him to come more
frequently? No, she had already begged much too much--for many years,
almost eighteen years--and she told herself bitterly that it had been
lost labour.

When he came to them, they were on quite friendly terms with each
other; his mother still continued to see that his clothes were the best
that could be bought, his shirts as well got up as they could
be, and that he had fine cambric night shirts and high collars. That he
frequently did not look as he ought to have done was not her fault; nor
was it perhaps the fault of his clothes, but rather on account of his
tired expression, his weary eyes and the indifferent way in which he
carried himself. He let himself go, he looked dissipated.

But the husband and wife did not speak about it to each other. If he
could only serve his time as a soldier, thought Paul Schlieben to
himself. He hoped the restraint and the severe regulations in force in
the army would regulate his whole life; what they, his parents, had not
been able to effect with all their care, the drill would be able to do.
Wolfgang was to appear before the commissioners in April. At present,
during the winter, he certainly kept to the office hours more regularly
and more conscientiously, but oh, how wretched he often looked in the
morning. Terribly pale, positively ashen. "Dissipation." The father
settled that with a shake of his head, but he said nothing to his son
about it; why should he? An unpleasant scene would be the only result,
which would not lead to anything, and would probably do more harm. For
they no longer met on common ground.

And thus things went on without any special disturbance, but all
three suffered nevertheless; the son too.

Frida thought she noticed that Wolfgang was often depressed.
Sometimes he went to the theatre with her, she was so fond of
"something to laugh at." But he did not join in her laughter, did not
even laugh when the tears rolled down her cheeks with laughing. She
could really get very vexed that lie had so little sense of what was
amusing.

"Aren't you enjoying yourself?"

"Hm, moderately."

"Are you ill?" she asked, quite frightened.

"No."

"Well, what's the matter with you then?"

Then he shrugged his shoulders and looked so forbidding that she did
not question him any more, but only pressed his hand and assured him
she was amusing herself splendidly.

Gradually these invitations to the theatre, which had mostly ended
so pleasantly in a little intimate talk in some café or other, ceased.
Frida saw her friend very rarely at all now; he no longer fetched her
from business, and did not turn up at her home.

"Who knows?" said Frau Lämke, "perhaps he'll soon get engaged. He
has probably somebody in his mind's eye."

Frida pouted. She was put out that Wolfgang never came. What could
be the matter with him? She commenced to spy on him; but not only out
of curiosity.

And somebody else made inquiries about his doings too--that was his
mother. At least, she tried to find out what he was doing. But she only
discovered that he had once been seen in a small theatre with a pretty
person, a blonde, whose hair was done in a very conspicuous manner. Oh,
that was the one at Schildhorn. She still saw that fair hair gleam in
the dusk--that was the one who was doing all the mischief.

The mother made inquiries about her son's doings with a sagacity
that would have done credit to a policeman. Had her husband had any
idea of how often--at any time of the day or evening--his wife wandered
round the house where Wolfgang had his rooms, he would have opposed it
most strenuously. Her burning desire to hear from Wolfgang, to know
something about him, made Käte forget her own dignity. When she knew he
was absent she had gone up to his rooms more than once,
nominally to bring him this or that; but when she found herself alone
there--she knew how to get rid of his garrulous landlady--she would
rush about in both his rooms inspecting everything, would examine the
things on his writing-table, even turn over every bit of paper. She was
never conscious of what she was doing as long as she was there, but on
going down the stairs again she felt how she had humiliated herself;
she turned scarlet and felt demeaned in her own eyes, and promised
herself faithfully never, never to do it again. And still she did it
again. It was torture to her, and yet she could not leave it off.

It was a cold day in winter--already evening, not late according to
Berlin notions, but still time for closing the shops, and the theatres
and concerts had commenced long ago--and Käte was still sitting in her
son's rooms. He had not been to the villa to see her for a week--why
not? A great anxiety had suddenly taken possession of her that day, she
had felt obliged to go to him. Her husband imagined she had gone to see
one of Hauptmann's pieces played for the first time--and she could
also go there later on, for surely Wolfgang must soon come home now. In
answer to her letter of inquiry he had written that he had a cold, and
stopped at home in the evenings. Well, she certainly did not want him
to come out to her and catch fresh cold, but it was surely natural that
she should go to see him. She made excuses to herself.

And so she waited and waited. The time passed very slowly. She had
come towards seven o'clock, now it was already nine. She had carefully
inspected both rooms a good many times, had stood at the window looking
down absently at the throng in the streets, had sat down, got up and
sat down again. Now she walked up and down restlessly, anxiously. The
landlady had already come in several times and found something
to do; her inquisitive scrutinising glances would have annoyed Käte at
any other time, but now she took no notice of them. She could not make
up her mind to go yet--if he were ill why did he not come home? Her
anxiety increased. Something weighed on her mind like a premonition of
coming evil. She would really have to ask the landlady now--it was
already ten o'clock--if he always came home so late in spite of his
cold. She rang for the woman.

She came, inwardly much annoyed. Why had Frau Schlieben not confided
in her long ago? Hm, she would have to wait now, the stuck-up
person.

"I suppose my son always comes home late?" Käte inquired. Her voice
sounded quite calm, she must not let such a woman notice how anxious
she really was.

"Hm," said the landlady, "sometimes he does, sometimes he
doesn't."

"I'm only surprised that he conies so late as he has a cold."

"Oh, has the young gentleman a cold?"

What, the woman with whom Wolfgang had lived almost three months
knew so little about him? And she had promised to take such exceedingly
good care of him. "You must give him a hot bottle at night. This room
is cold." Käte shivered and rubbed her hands. "And bring him a glass of
hot milk with some Ems salts in it before he gets up."

The landlady heard the reproach in her voice at once, although
nothing further was said, and became still more annoyed. "Hm, if he
doesn't come home at all, I can't give him a hot bottle at night or hot
milk in the morning."

"What--does not come home at all?" Käte thought she could
not have understood aright. She stared at the woman. "Does not come
home at all?"

The woman nodded: "I can tell you, ma'am, it's no joke letting
furnished rooms, you have to put up with a good deal. Such a young
gentleman--oh my!" She laughed half-angrily, half-amused. "I once had
one who remained away eight days--it was about the first of the month.
I was terrified about my rent--I had to go to the police."

"Where was he then? Where was he then?" Käte's voice quivered.

The woman laughed. "Well, then he turned up again." She saw the
mother's terror, and her good-nature gained the victory over her
malice. "He'll be sure to come again, ma'am," she said consolingly.
"They all come again. Don't fear. And Herr Schlieben has only been two
days away as yet."

Two days away--two days? It was two days since he had written, in
reply to her letter, that he had a cold and must remain at home. Käte
gazed around her as though she had lost her senses, her eyes looked
quite dazed. Where had he been the whole of those two days? Not there
and not at home--oh, he had not been to see her for a whole week. But
he must have been at the office or Paul would have mentioned it. But
where was he all the rest of the time? That was only a couple of hours.
And a day is long. And the nights, the nights! Good God, the nights,
where was he during the nights?

Käte would have liked to have screamed aloud, but the landlady was
watching her with such inquisitive eyes, that she pressed the nails of
one hand into the palm of the other and controlled herself. But her
voice was nothing but a whisper now: "Hasn't he been here at all for
the last two days?"

"No, not at all. But wait a moment." Her love of a gossip
was stronger than the reserve she had meant to show. Drawing near to
the lady who had sunk down in a chair, and dragging a chair forward for
herself, she began to chatter to her, giving her all the details: "It
was Sunday--no, Saturday that I began to notice there was something the
matter with him. Ay, he's one of the dashing sort. He was quite
mad."

"What do you mean? 'Mad' do you say?"

The landlady laughed. "Oh, I don't mean in that way at all, you
mustn't take it so literally, ma'am. Well, he was--well, what am I to
call it?--well, as they all are. Well, and in the evening he went away
as usual--well, and then he did not come back again."

"And how--how was he?" The mother could only get the words out in
jerks, she could no longer speak connectedly, a sudden terror had
overwhelmed her, almost paralysing her tongue. "Did he--seem strange?"
As in a vision his livid face and the place in the sand near
Schildhorn, where the wind was always blowing, appeared before her many
a mother's son, many a mother's son--O God, O God, if he had made away
with himself! She trembled as the leaves do in a storm, and broke down
altogether.

The landlady guessed the mother's thoughts instinctively, and she
assured her in a calm good-natured voice: "No, don't imagine that
for a moment. He wasn't sad--and not exactly happy either--well,
like--like--well, just in the right mood."

"And--oh, could you not give me a--a hint of--where--where he might
be?"

The woman shook her head doubtfully. "Who could know that? You see,
ma'am, there are so many temptations. But wait a moment." She shut her
eyes tightly and pondered. "Some time ago such a pretty girl used to
come here, she used to fetch him to go to the theatre, she
said--well, it may have been true. She often came, very often--once a
week at least. She was fair, really a pretty girl."

"Fair--quite light-coloured hair--a good deal of it and waved over
the ears?"

"Yes, yes, it was done like that, combed over the ears, a large knot
behind you could not help noticing it, it was so fair. And they were on
very friendly terms with each other."

Fair hair--extremely fair. Ah, she had known it at once when she saw
him at Schildhorn with that fair-haired girl. Everything seemed to be
clear to her now. "You--do not know, I suppose--oh, do you happen to
know her name?"

"He called her Frida."

"Frida?"

"Yes, Frida. I know that for certain. But she does not come here any
more now. But perhaps he's got a letter from her. I'll look, just you
wait." And the woman bent down, drew out the paper-basket from under
the writing-table and began to rummage in it.

"He throws everything into the paper-basket, you see," she said in
an explanatory tone of voice.

She had certainly never sought there. Käte looked on with staring
eyes, whilst the woman turned over every scrap of paper with practised
ringers. All at once she cried out: "There, we've got it." And she
placed some bits of paper triumphantly on the table. "Here's a letter
from her. Do you see? I know the writing. Now we'll see."

Laying their heads together the two women tried to piece together
the separate bits of the letter that had been torn up. But they were
not successful, too much was wanting, they could only put a very few
sentences together:

           "not come any more--
           "angry with me--
           "soon come to you some evening--
           "always your"

But wait, here was the signature. That had not been torn, here it
stood large and connected at the bottom of the sheet of paper:

           "always your"
                             "FRIDA LÄMKE."

"Frida Lämke?" Käte gave a loud cry of surprise. Frida Lämke--no,
she had never thought that--or were there perhaps two of the same name?
That fair-haired child that used to play in the garden in former years?
Why yes, yes, she had always had bold eyes.

"You know her, I suppose?" asked the landlady, her eyes gleaming
with curiosity.

Käte did not answer. She stared at the carpet in deep thought. Was
this worse--or was it not so bad? Could it not still be hindered now
that she was on the track, or was everything lost? She did not know;
her head was no longer clear enough for her to consider the matter from
a sensible point of view, she could not even think any more. She only
had the feeling that she must go to the Lämkes. Only go there, go there
as quickly as possible. Jumping up she said hastily: "That's all right,
quite all right--thanks. Oh, it's all right." And hastening past the
disconcerted woman she hurried to the door and down the stairs.
Somebody happened to unlock the door from outside at that moment; thus
she got out.

Now she was in the street. She had never stood in Friedrichstrasse
so quite alone at that time of night before; her husband had always
accompanied her, and if she happened to go to the theatre or a concert
alone for once in a way, he had always fetched her himself or
made Friedrich fetch her, at any rate. All at once she was seized with
something that resembled fear, although the beautiful street was as
light as day.

Such a quantity of men, such a quantity of women. They flowed past
her like a stream, and she was carried with them. Figures surged round
her like waves--rustling dresses that smelt strongly of scent, and
gentlemen, men, young and old, old men and youths, some of whom were
hardly more than boys. It was like a corso there--what were they all
seeking? So this was Berlin's much-talked-of and amusing life at night?
It was awful, oh, unspeakably horrible.

Suddenly Käte saw everything from one point of view only. Hitherto
she had been blind, as unsuspicious as a child. A policeman's helmet
came into sight. She flew away as though somebody were in pursuit of
her: the man could not see that she had grey hairs and that she was a
lady. Perhaps he, too, looked upon her as one of those. Let her only
get away, away.

She threw herself into a cab, she fell rather than got into it. She
gave the driver her address in a trembling voice. A burning longing
came over her all at once: home, only home. Home to her clean,
well-regulated house, to those walls that surrounded her like a
shelter. No, he must not come into her clean house any more, not carry
his filth into those rooms.

She drove the whole way huddled up in a corner, her trembling
eyelids closed convulsively; the road seemed endless to her to-day. How
slowly the cab drove. Oh, what would Paul say? He would be getting
anxious, she was so late.

All at once Käte longed to fly to her husband's arms and find
shelter on his breast. She had quite forgotten she had wanted to go to
the Lämkes straight away. Besides, how could she? It was
almost midnight, and who knows, perhaps she would only find a mother
there, who was just as unhappy as she? Lost children--alas, one does
not know which is more terrible, a lost son or a lost daughter!

Käte cried bitterly. But when the tears stole from under her closed
lids and ran down her cheeks, she became calmer. Now that she no longer
saw the long procession in the street, did not see what went on there
every night, her fear disappeared. Her courage rose again; and as it
rose the knowledge came to her, that she was only a weak and timid
woman, but he a robust youth, who was to be a man, a strong swimmer.
There was no need to lose all hope yet.

By the time the first pines in the quiet colony glided past to the
right and left of her and the moonshine showed pure white on their
branches, Käte had made up her mind. She would go to the Lämkes next
day and speak to the mother, and she would not say anything to her
husband about it beforehand. The same fear that now so often made her
mute in his presence took possession of her once more: he would never
feel as she felt. He would perhaps seize the boy with a rough hand, and
that must not be. She was still there, and it was her duty to help the
stumbling lad with gentle hand.

Käte went up to her husband quite quietly, so calmly that he did not
notice anything. But when she took the road to the Lämkes next day, her
heart trembled and beat as spasmodically as it had done before. She had
fought against her fear and faint-heartedness the whole morning; now it
was almost noon on that account, Paul had told her at breakfast that
Wolfgang had not been to the office the day before and only for quite a
short time the preceding day. "I don't know what's the matter with the
boy," he had said. "I'm really too angry with him. But I
suppose we ought to find out what's happened to him." "I'll do so," she
had answered.

Her feet hardly carried her as she slowly crept along, but at last
she almost ran: he had been her child for many, many years, and she
shared the responsibility. She no longer asked herself how she was to
begin the conversation with Frau Lämke, she hoped the right word would
be given her when the time came.

So she groped her way down the dark steps to the cellar where the
Lämkes lived, knocked at the door and walked in without waiting for an
answer.

Frau Lämke was just washing the floor, the brush fell from her hand
and she quickly let down the dress that she had turned up: Frau
Schlieben? What did she want at her house? The pale woman with the
innocent-looking face that had grown so thin gazed at the lady with the
utmost astonishment.

"How do you do, Frau Lämke," said Käte, in quite a friendly voice.
"Is your daughter Frida at home? I want to speak to her."

"No, Frida isn't at home." The woman looked still more perturbed:
what did the lady want with Frida? She had never troubled about her
before. "Frida is at business."

"Is she? Do you know that for certain?"

There was something offensive in her way of questioning, but Frau
Lämke did not notice anything in her innocence. "Frida is never back
from business at this time of day, but she is due in less than half an
hour. She has two hours off at dinner-time; in the evening she does not
come in until about ten, as they only close at nine. But if you would
like her to come to you after her dinner"--Frau Lämke was very curious,
what could she want with Frida?--"she'll be pleased to do so."

"She'll be here in half an hour, you say?"

"Yes, certainly. She's always in a hurry to come home to her
mother--and she's always hungry too."

"I will wait for her if I may," said Käte.

"Please sit down." Frau Lämke hastily wiped a chair with her apron:
after all, it was an honour that Wolfgang's mother came to see Frida in
the cellar. And in a voice full of cordial sympathy she said: "How is
the young gentleman? if I may ask. Is he quite well?"

Käte did not answer her: that was really too great an impertinence,
quite an unheard-of impertinence. How could she ask so boldly? But all
at once she was filled with doubt: did she know anything about it? She
looked into her innocent eyes. This woman had probably been deceived as
she had been. She had not the heart to explain matters--poor mother! So
she only nodded and said evasively: "Quite well, thanks."

They were silent, both feeling a certain embarrassment. Frau Lämke
peeled the potatoes for dinner and put them on, now and then casting a
furtive look at the lady who sat waiting. Käte was pale and tried to
hide her yawns; her agitation had been followed by a feeling of great
exhaustion. For was she not waiting in vain? And this mother would also
wait in vain to-day. The girl, that hypocrite, was not coming. Käte was
seized with something akin to fury when she thought of the girl's
fair hair. That was what had led her boy astray, that had bewitched
him--perhaps he could not throw her off now. "Always your--your Frida
Lämke"--she had sulked in that letter, he had probably wanted to draw
back but--"if you don't come I shall come to you,"--oh, she would no
doubt take care not to let him go, she held him fast.

Käte did not believe that Frida Lämke would come home. It
was getting on for two o'clock. Her mother had lied, perhaps she was
acting in concert with the girl all the time.

But now Käte gave a start, a step was heard on the cellar steps, and
on hearing it her mother said, delighted: "That's Frida."

Someone hummed a tune outside--then the door opened.

Frida Lämke was wearing a dark fur toque on her fair hair now,
instead of the little sailor hat; it was imitation fur, but two pigeon
wings were stuck in on one side, and the hat suited her pert little
face well.

Käte was standing in the greatest agitation; she had jumped up and
was looking at the girl with burning eyes. So she had really come. She
was there but Wolfgang, where was he? She quite shouted at the girl as
she said: "Do you know where my son is--Wolfgang--Wolfgang
Schlieben?"

Frida's rosy face turned white in her surprise. She wanted to say
something, stammered, hesitated, bit her lips and got scarlet. "How
should I know? I don't know."

"You know very well. Don't tell a lie." Käte seized hold of Frida
violently by both her slender arms. She would have liked to catch hold
of her fair hair and scream aloud whilst tearing it out: "My boy! Give
me back my boy!" But she had not the strength to go on shaking her
until she had forced her to confess.

Frida's blue eyes looked at her quite openly, quite frankly, even if
there seemed to be a slight anxiety in her glance. "I've not seen him
for a long time, ma'am," she said honestly. And then her voice grew
softer and there was a certain anxiety in it: "He used to come here
formerly, but he never does now--does he, mother?"

Frau Lämke shook her head: "No, never." She did not feel at all at
her ease, everything seemed so strange to her: Frau Schlieben in their
cellar, and what did she want with Frida? Something had happened, there
was something wrong. But whatever it was her Frida was innocent, Frau
Schlieben must know that. And so she took courage: "If you think that
my Frida has anything to do with it, ma'am, you're very much mistaken.
My Frida has walked out a long time with Flebbe--Hans Flebbe, the
coachman's son, he's a grocer--and besides, Frida is a respectable
girl. What are you thinking about my daughter? But it's always like
that, a girl of our class cannot be respectable, oh no!" The insulted
mother got quite aggressive now. "My Frida was a very good friend of
your Wolfgang, and I am also quite fond of him when I felt so wretched
last summer he sent me fifty marks that I might go to Fangschleuse for
three weeks and get better--but let him try to come here again now,
I'll turn him out, the rascal!" Her pale face grew hot and red in her
vague fear that something might be said against her Frida.

Frida rushed up to her and threw her arm round her shoulders: "Oh,
don't get angry, mother. You're not to excite yourself, or you'll get
that pain in your stomach again."

Frida became quite energetic now. With her arm still round her
mother's shoulders she turned her fair head to Käte: "You'll have to go
somewhere else, ma'am, I can't tell you anything about your son. Mother
and I were speaking quite lately about his never coming here now. And I
wrote him a note the other day, telling him to come and see us--because
I had not seen him for ever so long, and--and--well, because he always
liked to be with me. But he hasn't answered it. I've certainly
not done anything to him. But he has changed greatly." She put on a
knowing look: "I think it would be better if he still lived at home,
ma'am."

Käte stared at her. What did she suspect? What did she know? Did she
really know anything? Doubts rose in her mind, and then came the
certainty: this girl was innocent, otherwise she would not have been
able to speak like that. Even the most artful person could not look so
ingenuous. And she had also confessed quite of her own accord that she
had lately written to Wolfgang--no, this girl was not so bad, it
must be another one with fair hair. But where was she to look for
her?--where find Wolfgang?

And holding out both her hands to the girl as though she were
begging her pardon, she said in a voice full of misery: "But don't you
know anything? Have you no idea whatever where he might be? It was two
days yesterday since he went away--since he disappeared--disappeared
entirely, his landlady does not know where."

"Disappeared entirely--two days ago?" Frida opened her eyes
wide.

"Yes, I've just told you so. That's why I am asking you. He has
disappeared, quite disappeared."

A furious impatience took possession of his mother and at the same
time the full understanding of her painful position. She put her hands
before her face and groaned aloud.

Frau Lämke and her daughter exchanged glances full of compassion.
Frida turned pale, then red, it seemed as if she were about to say
something, but she kept silent nevertheless.

"But he's not bad, no, he's not bad," whispered Frau Lämke.

"Who says that he's bad?" Käte started up, letting her hands fall
from before her face. All the misery she had endured during
those long years and the hopelessness of it all lay in her voice as she
added: "He's been led astray, he has gone astray--he's lost, lost!"

Frida wept aloud. "Oh, don't say that," she cried. "He'll come back
again, he's sure to come back. If only I--" she hesitated and frowned
as she pondered--"knew for certain."

"Help me! Oh, can't you help me?"

Frau Lämke clasped her hands when she heard the poor woman's cry of
"Help me!" and trembled with excitement: how terrible if a mother has
to live to see her child do such things, the child she has brought into
the world with such pain. Forgetting the respect with which she always
regarded Käte she tottered up to her and grasped her cold hand as it
hung at her side: "Oh dear, oh dear, I am so grieved, so terribly
grieved. But calm yourself. You know a mother has still such power,
quite special power, her child never forgets her quite." And she smiled
with a certain security.

"But he isn't my son--not my own son--I'm not his real mother." Käte
confessed now what she had never confessed before. Her fear dragged it
out of her and the hope that the woman would say: "He won't forget such
a mother either, certainly not."

But Frau Lämke did not say it. There was doubt written on her face
and she shook her head. She had not thought of her not being Wolfgang's
real mother at that moment.

There was a troubled silence in the room. All that could be heard
was a sound of heavy breathing, until at last Frida broke the
paralysing stillness in her clear voice. "Have you been to see the
landlady to-day?" she asked. Käte shook her head in silence. "Well
then, ma'am, you say it was two days ago yesterday, then he
may have come back to-day. We shall have to make inquiries. Shall I run
there quickly?"

And she was already at the door, and did not hear her mother call
after her: "Frida, Frida, you must eat a mouthful first, you haven't
eaten any dinner yet," but ran up the cellar steps in her good-natured
haste and compassionate sympathy.

Käte ran after her.

But they got no further news in Friedrichstrasse. There were fires
in the rooms, they had been dusted, the breakfast table had even been
laid as if the young gentleman was expected to come any moment--the
landlady hoped to receive special praise for her thoughtfulness--but
the young gentleman had not returned.

           *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

Käte Schlieben was ill in bed. The doctor shrugged his shoulders: there
was not much to be done, it was a question of complete apathy. If only
something would happen that would rouse her, something for which it
would repay her to make an effort, she would be all right again. At
present he prescribed strengthening food--her pulse was so bad--every
hour a spoonful of puro, essence of beef, eggs, milk, oysters and such
like.

Paul Schlieben was sitting near his wife's bed; he had just come
home from town. He was sitting there with bent head and knit brows.

"Still nothing about him? What did the woman say--nothing at all
about him?" Käte had just whispered in a feeble voice.

His only answer was: "We shall have to communicate with the police
after all now."

"No, no, not with the police. Should we have him sought as though he
were a criminal? You're terrible, Paul. Be quiet, Paul." Her
voice that had been so feeble at first had almost become a scream.

He shrugged his shoulders. "There's nothing left for us to do but
that," and he looked at her anxiously and then lowered his head.

It seemed to him as though he could not realise the calamity that
had overtaken him, as though it were too great. It was now a week since
Wolfgang had gone away--the misery that fellow had brought on them was
terrible, terrible. But his wife's condition made him still more
uneasy. How would it end? Her increased nervousness was dangerous; and
then there was her complete loss of strength. Käte had never been a
robust woman, but now she was getting so thin, so very thin; the hand
that lay so languidly on the coverlet had become quite transparent
during the last week. Oh, and her hair so grey.

The man sought for the traces of former beauty in his wife's face
with sad eyes: too many wrinkles, too many lines graven on it, furrows
that the plough of grief had made there. He had to weep; it seemed too
hard to see her like that. Turning his head aside he shaded his eyes
with his hand.

He sat thus in silence without moving, and she did not move either,
but lay as though asleep.

Then somebody knocked. The man glanced at his wife in dismay: had it
disturbed her? But she did not raise her eyelids.

He went to the door on tip-toe and opened it. Friedrich brought the
post, all sorts of letters and papers. Paul only held out his hand to
take them from habit, he took so little interest in anything now.
During the first days after Wolfgang's disappearance Käte had always
trembled for fear there should be something about him in the newspaper,
she had been tortured by the most terrible fears; now she no
longer asked. But it was the man's turn to tremble, although he tried
to harden himself: what would they still have to bear? He never took up
a paper without a certain dread.

"Don't rustle the paper so horribly, I can't bear it," said the
feeble woman irritably. Then he got up to creep out of the room--it was
better he went, she did not like him near her. But his glance fell on
one of the letters. Whose unformed, copy-book handwriting was that?
Probably a begging letter. It was addressed to his wife, but she did
not open any letters at present; and he positively longed to open just
that letter. It was not curiosity, he felt as if he must do it.

He opened the letter more quickly than he was in the habit of doing.
A woman had written it, no doubt a girl the letters were carefully
formed, with no character in them. And the person had evidently
endeavoured to disguise her writing.

"If you wish to find out anything about your son, you must go to
140, Puttkammerstrasse, and watch the third storey in the back
building, left side wing, where 'Knappe' is written above the bell.
There she lives."

No name had been signed underneath it; "A Good Friend" was all that
was written below.

Paul Schlieben had a feeling as if the paper were burning his
fingers--common paper, but pink and smelling of cheap perfumed soap--an
anonymous letter, faugh! What had this trash to do with them? He was
about to crumple it up when Käte's voice called to him from the bed:
"What have you got there, Paul? A letter? Show me it."

And as he approached her, but only slowly, hesitatingly, she raised
herself up and tore the letter out of his hand. She read it and cried
out in a loud voice: "Frida Lämke has written that. I'm sure it's from
her. She was going to look for him--and her brother and the man she's
engaged to--they will have found him. Puttkammerstrasse--where is that?
140, we shall have to go there. Immediately, without delay. Ring for
the maid. My shoes, my things--oh, I can't find anything. For goodness'
sake do ring. She must do my hair--oh, never mind, I can do it all
myself."

She had jumped out of bed in trembling haste; she was sitting in
front of her dressing-table now, combing her long hair herself. It was
tangled from lying in bed, but she combed it through with merciless
haste.

"If only we don't arrive too late. We shall have to make haste. He's
sure to be there, quite sure to be there. Why do you stand there
looking at me like that? Do get ready. I shall be ready directly, we
shall be able to go directly. Paul, dear Paul, we are sure to find him
there--oh God!" She threw out her arms, her weakness made her dizzy,
but her will conquered the weakness. Now she stood quite firmly on her
feet.

Nobody would have believed that she had just been lying in her bed
perfectly helpless. Her husband had not the courage to oppose her
wishes, besides, how could things be worse than they were? They could
never be worse than they were, and at all events she would never be
able to reproach him any more that he had not loved the boy.

When, barely half an hour later, they got into the carriage
Friedrich had telephoned for, she was less pale than, and did not look
so old as, he.



CHAPTER XVII


Whenever Frida Lämke met Wolfgang Schlieben now, she cast down her eyes
and he pretended not to see her. He was angry with her: the confounded
little minx to betray him. She was the only one who could have put his
parents on his track. How should they otherwise have ever guessed it?
He could have kicked himself for having once given that viper hints
about his acquaintance in Puttkammerstrasse. Frida and her friendship,
just let her try to talk to him again about friendship. Pooh, women on
the whole were not worth anything.

A fierce contempt for women had taken possession of the young
fellow. He would have liked to spit in their faces--all venal
creatures--he knew quite enough about them now, ay, and loathed
them.

The boy, who was not yet nineteen, felt tired and old; strangely
tired. When Wolfgang thought of the time that had just passed, it
seemed to him like a dream; now that the rooms in Friedrichstrasse had
been given up and he was living with his parents again, even like a bad
dream. And when he met Frida Lämke--that could not be avoided as he
drove to and fro regularly in office hours now--he felt a bitter pang
every time. He did not even say how do you do to her, he could not
bring himself to say even that.

If only he could throw of! the oppression that weighed him down.
They were not unkind to him--no, they were even very good--but still he
had always the feeling that they only tolerated him. That irritated him
and made him sad at the same time. They had not reproached him, would
probably not do so either, but his father was always grave, reserved,
and his mother's glance had something that simply tortured him. He was
filled with a morbid distrust: why did they not tell him straight out
they despised him?

Something that was almost remorse troubled him during the nights
when he could not sleep. At such times his heart would throb,
positively flutter, he had to sit up in bed--he could not bear to lie
down--and fight for breath. Then he stared into the dark, his eyes
distended with terror. Oh, what a horrible condition that was. In the
morning when the attack was over--this "moral sickness"--as he used to
call it scornfully--he was vexed at his sentimentality. What wrong had
he done? Nothing different from what hundreds of other young fellows
do, only they were not so idiotic as he. That Frida, that confounded
gossip. He would have liked to wring her neck.

After those bad nights Wolfgang was still more unamiable, more
taciturn, more sulky, more reserved than ever. And he looked more
wretched.

"He's run down," said Paul Schlieben to himself. He did not say so
to his wife--why agitate her still more?--for he could see that she was
uneasy from the way she took care of him. She did not make use of words
or of caresses--those days were over--but she paid special attention to
his food; he was positively pampered. A man of his age ought to be much
stronger. His back no longer seemed to be so broad, his chest was less
arched, his black eyes lay deep in their sockets and had dark
lines under them. He held himself badly and he was always in very bad
spirits. His spirits, yes, his spirits, those were at the root of all
the evil, but no care could alter them and no medicine. The young
fellow was dissatisfied with himself, that was it, and was it any
wonder? He felt ashamed of himself.

And the situation in which he had found him rose up before his
father's mental vision with terrible distinctness.

He had let his wife wait downstairs for him--true, she had made a
point of going up with him, but he had insisted on her staying down in
the court-yard, that narrow, dark yard which smelt of fustiness and
dust--he had gone up alone. Three flights of stairs. They had seemed
terribly steep to him, his knees had never felt so tired before when
mounting any stairs. There was the name "Knappe." He had touched the
bell--ugh, what a start he had given when he heard the shrill peal.
What did he really want there? As the result of an anonymous letter he,
Paul Schlieben, was forcing his way in on strange people, into a
strange house? The blood surged to his head--and at that moment the
person opened the door in a light blue dressing-gown, no longer young,
but buxom, and with good-natured eyes. And by the gleam of a miserable
kitchen lamp, which lighted up the pitch-dark passage even at noon, he
had seen a smart top-coat and a fine felt hat hanging in the entrance,
and had recognised Wolfgang's things. So he was really there? There? So
the anonymous letter had not lied after all.

He did not know exactly what he had done after that; he only knew he
had got rid of some money. And then he had led the young man down the
stairs by the arm--that is to say, dragged him more than led him. Käte
had met them halfway. She had found the time too long downstairs,
open-mouthed children had gathered round her, and women had
watched her from the windows. She was almost in despair: why did Paul
remain upstairs such a terribly long time? She had had no idea, of
course, that he had first to wake his son out of a leaden sleep in an
untidy bed. And she must never, never know.

Now they had got him home again, but was it a pleasure? To that Paul
Schlieben had to give a curt "no" as answer, even if he had felt ever
so disposed to forgive, ever so placable. No joy came to them from that
quarter now. Perhaps they might have some later, much later. For the
time being it would be best for the young man to serve his time as a
soldier.

Wolfgang was to present himself on the first of April. Schlieben
pinned his last hope to that.

Wolfgang had always wished to serve with the Rathenow Hussars, but
after their last experiences his father deemed it more advisable to let
him join the more sedate infantry.

Formerly Wolfgang would have opposed this plan very strenuously--in
any case it must be cavalry--now it did not enter his head to do so. If
he had to serve as a soldier, it was quite immaterial to him where; he
was dead tired. His only wish was to sleep his fill for once. Kullrich
was dead--his sorrowing father had sent him the announcement from
Görbersdorf towards Christmas--and he? He had wasted too many nights in
dissipation.

It was a blow to Paul Schlieben that Wolfgang was not accepted as a
soldier. "Disqualified"--a hard word--and why disqualified?

"Serious organic defect of the heart"--his parents read it with eyes
that thought they had made a mistake and that still read correctly.

Wolfgang was very exhausted when he came home after the
examination, but he did not seem to mind much that he was disqualified.
He did not show it--but was he not, all the same?

The doctor tried to put everything in as favourable a light as he
could after he, too, had examined him. "Defect of the heart, good
gracious, defect of the heart, there isn't a single person who has a
perfectly normal heart. If you take a little care of yourself,
Wolfgang, and live a regular life, you can grow to be a very old man
with it."

The young fellow did not say a word.

The Schliebens overwhelmed their doctor with reproaches. Why had he
not told them it long ago? He must surely have known. Why had he left
them in such ignorance?

Dr. Hofmann defended himself: had he not again and again exhorted
them to be careful? He had been anxious about the boy's heart ever
since he had had scarlet fever, and had not concealed his fears. All
the same, he had not thought matters would get worse so quickly. The
boy had lived too gay a life.

"Serious organic defect of the heart"--that was like a sentence of
death. Wolfgang laid down his arms. All at once he felt he had no
longer the strength to fight against those attacks in the night. What
he had fought out all alone in his bed, even without lighting his
candle, before he knew that, now drove him to his feet. It drove him to
the window--he tore it open--drove him round the room, until he at
last, completely exhausted, found rest in the arm-chair. It drove him
even to knock at his parents' door: "Are you asleep? I am so
frightened. Sit up with me."

           *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

They had had bad nights for weeks. Wolfgang had suffered and his mother
with him. How could she sleep when she knew that somebody in
the next room was in torture?

Now he was better again. Their old friend's medicines had had a good
effect, and Wolfgang had gone through a regular cure: baths, friction,
massage, special diet. Now they could be quite satisfied with the
result. It was especially the strictly regular life that had done him
good; his weight had increased, his eyes were brighter, his complexion
fresher. They were all full of hope--all except one. That one had no
wish to live any longer.

The month of April was raw and stormy, quite exceptionally cold. It
was impossible for the convalescent to be as much in the open air as
was desirable, especially as any exercise that would warm him, such as
tennis, cycling, riding, was still too tiring for him. The doctor
proposed to send him to the Riviera. Even if there were only a few
weeks left before it would be too hot there, that would suffice.

His father was at once willing for the young fellow to go. If it
would do him good of course he must go. Käte offered to accompany
him.

"But why, my dear lady? The youngster can quite well go alone," the
doctor assured her.

However, she insisted on it, she would go with him. It was not
because she still feared she might lose him; it was her duty to do so,
she must accompany him even if she had not wished to. And at the same
time a faint desire began to stir in her, too, unknown to herself. She
was so well acquainted with the south--should they go to Sestri, for
example? She looked inquiringly at her husband. Had they not once spent
some perfectly delightful days on the coast near Spezia? There, near
the blue sea, where the large stone pines are greener and give more
shade than the palms further south, where there is something crisp and
refreshing in the air in spite of its mildness, where there is
nothing relaxing in the climate but everything is vivifying.

He smiled; of course they could go there. He was so pleased that his
wife's enthusiasm was not quite a thing of the past.

Wolfgang rummaged about in his room for a long time on the afternoon
before their departure. Käte, who feared he might exert himself too
much whilst packing, had sent Friedrich to assist him. But the latter
soon came downstairs again: "The young gentleman wishes to do it
alone."

When Wolfgang had put the last things into his trunk he looked round
his room thoughtfully. He had grown up there, he had so often looked
upon the room as a cage, would he ever return to it?

_Here have we no continuing city, but we seek one to come._

The text he had received at his confirmation hung on the wall
opposite him in a beautiful frame. He had not read it for a long time.
Now he read it again, smiling slightly, a little scornfully and a
little sadly. Yes, he would flutter back into it. He had got used to
the cage.

And now he resolved to do something more as the very last thing--to
go to Frida.

Frau Lämke was speechless with astonishment, almost frightened, when
she saw young Heir Schlieben step into her room about the time her
Frida generally came home. She stammered with embarrassment: "No, Frida
isn't at home yet--and Artur isn't either--and father is up in the
lodge--but if you will put up with my company until--until--they
come"--she pushed him a chair with a good deal of noise.

He drew his chair close to the table at which she had been sewing.
Now he was sitting where he used to sit. And he remembered his first
invitation to the Lämkes' quite distinctly--it had been
Frida's tenth birthday--he had sat there with the children, and the
coffee and the cakes had tasted so excellent.

And a host of other memories came back to him--nothing but pleasant
memories--but still he and Frau Lämke did not seem able to start a
proper conversation. Did he feel oppressed at the thought of meeting
Frida again? Or what made him so restless there? Yes, that was it, he
did not feel at home there now.

There was something sad in his voice when he said to Frau Lämke as
he held out his hand to her on leaving: "Well--good-bye."

"Well, I hope you'll have a real good time--good bye for the
present."

He nodded in reply and shook her hand once more, and then he went.
He preferred to go and meet Frida, that was better than sitting in that
room. His heart was throbbing. Then he saw her coming towards him.

Although it was dark and the street lamps not so good as in the
town, he recognised her already far off. She was wearing the same
sailor hat with the blue band she had had the summer before; it was
certainly rather early in the year, but it suited her--so fresh and
springlike.

A feeling surged up in Wolfgang, as she stood before him, that he
had never known in the presence of any woman: a brotherly feeling of
great tenderness.

He greeted her in silence, but she said in a glad voice: "Oh, is it
you, Wolfgang?" and held out her hand to him.

He strolled along beside her as he had done before; she had
slackened her pace involuntarily. She did not know exactly on what
footing they were with each other, but still she thought she could feel
that he was no longer angry.

"We are going away to-morrow," he said.

"Well, I never! Where?"

And he told her.

She interrupted him in the middle. "Are you angry with me?" she
asked in a low voice.

He shook his head in the negative, but he did not say anything
further about it.

All she had intended saying to him, that she had not been able to do
anything else, that Hans had found him out, that she had promised his
mother and that she herself had been so extremely anxious about him,
remained unsaid. It was not necessary. It was as if the past were dead
and buried now, as if he had entirely forgotten it.

When he told the girl, who was listening with much interest, about
the Riviera where he was going, something like a new pleasure in life
seemed to creep into his heart again. Oh, all he wanted was to get away
from his present surroundings. When he got to the Riviera everything
would be better. He had not got an exact impression of what it would be
like there; he had only half listened, no, he had not listened at all
when his mother told him about the south, it had all been so
immaterial to him. Now he felt himself that it was a good thing to take
an interest in things again. He drew a deep breath.

"Are you going to send me a pretty picture post-card from there,
too?" she asked.

"Of course, many." And then he laid his arm round her narrow
shoulders and drew her towards him. And she let him draw her.

They stood in the public street, where the bushes that grew on both
sides of it were already in bud and the elder was swelling with the
first sap, and clung to each other.

"Come back quite well," she sobbed.

And he kissed her tenderly on her cheek: "Frida, I really have to
thank you."

When Frida went to business next morning--it was half past
seven--she said to her mother: "Now he's gone," and she remained
thoughtful the whole day. She had not spoken to Wolfgang for many weeks
and she had not minded it at all during the time but since the evening
before she had felt sad. She had thought much of him, she could not
forget him at all.



CHAPTER XVIII


Käte was alone with her son. Now she had him all to herself. What she
had striven for jealously before had now been given to her. Not even
nature that looked in at the windows with such alluring eyes could
attract him. It surprised her--nay, it almost saddened her now--that he
did not show more interest. They travelled through Switzerland--he saw
it for the first time--but those high mountains, whose summits were
lost in the snow and the clouds and that moved her to tears of adoring
admiration the first time she saw them, hardly wrung a glance from him.
Now and then he looked out of the carriage window, but he mostly leant
back in his corner reading, or dreaming with open eyes.

"Are you tired?"

"No," he said; nothing but "no," but without the surly abruptness
which had been peculiar to him. His tone was no longer unpleasant and
repellent.

Käte looked at her son with anxious eyes: was the journey tiring
him? It was fortunate that she was with him. It seemed to her that she
was indispensable, and a feeling of heartfelt satisfaction made her
insensible to the fatigue of the long journey.

Wolfgang was not much interested in the cathedral at Milan. "Yes,
grand," he said when she grew enthusiastic about the marvellous
structure. But he would not go up to the platform with her,
from which they would have a magnificent view all round as far as the
distant Alps, as the weather was so clear. "You go alone, leave me
here."

At first it seemed ridiculous to her that she, the old woman, should
go up whilst he, the young man, remained below. But at last she could
not resist the desire to see all those marvellous things again that she
had already once enjoyed. She took a ticket for the platform, and he
opened one of the camp stools that stand about in the enormous empty
cathedral and sat down, his back against a marble pillar.

Oh, it was nice to rest here. After the market outside, with its
noise and the buzzing of voices and all the gaudy colours, he found a
twilight here filled with the perfume of incense. It did not disturb
him that doors opened and closed, that people came in and out in
crowds. That here a guide gave the visitors the information he had
learnt by heart, drawling it quite loudly in a cracked voice without
heeding that he meanwhile almost stumbled over the feet of those who
were kneeling on low benches, confessing their sins in a whisper to a
priest seated there. That there someone was celebrating mass--the
priests were curtsying and ringing their bells--whilst here a cook
chattered to a friend of hers, the fowls that were tied together by
their legs lying beside her.

All that did not disturb him, he did not notice it even. The
delicious twilight filled his senses, he was so sleepy, felt such a
blessed fatigue. All the saints smiled before his closing eyes, sweet
Marys and chubby little angels resembling cupids. He felt at his ease
there. Milan Cathedral, that wonder of the world, lost its embarrassing
grandeur; the wide walls moved together, became narrow and home-like,
and still they enfolded the world a peaceful world in which
sinners kneel down and rise again pure. Wolfgang was seized with a
great longing to kneel down there also. Oh, there it was again, the
longing he had had in his boyhood. How he had loved the church their
maid Cilia had taken him to. He still loved it, he loved it anew, he
loved it now with a more ardent love than in those days. He felt at
home in this church, he had the warm feeling of belonging to it. _Qui
vivis et regnas in sæcula sæculorum._ The golden monstrance gleamed as
it was raised on high, those who were praying bowed low, blissful
harmonies floated under the high arched dome, ever more and more
beautiful--more and more softly. His eyelids closed.

And he saw Cilia--as fresh, as beautiful as life itself. Oh, how
very beautiful. Surely she had not looked like that before? He knew
that he was dreaming, but he was not able to shake off the dream. And
she came quite close to him--oh, so close. And she made the sign of the
cross--over him the organ played softly--hark, what was she saying,
what was she whispering above him? He wanted to seize hold of her hand,
question her, then he heard another voice:

"Wolfgang, are you asleep?"

Käte had laid her hand lightly on his hands, which were folded on
his knees. "I suppose I was a long time up there? You have felt
bored?"

"Oh no, no." He said it enthusiastically.

They went out of the cathedral together, whilst the organ sounded
behind them until they reached the market-place. Käte was in ecstasies
about the view she had had, so did not notice the mysterious radiance
in Wolfgang's eyes. He was quiet, and seemed to agree to
everything.

           *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

His manner began to cause his mother some uneasiness. What would
have made her happy before--oh, how she had longed for a more docile
child in bygone days!--saddened her now. Was he, after all, worse than
they had any idea of?

They had now reached the coast, had got to Sestri. Those were the
same stone pines under which she had sat and painted as a younger woman
eighteen years ago. But another hotel had come into existence since
then, quite a German hotel, German landlord, German waiters, German
food, German society, all the comfort the Germans like. Käte had wanted
to live a retired life, to devote herself to Wolfgang; but now
she felt she needed a chat with this one or that one at times,
for even if she and Wolfgang were together, she felt alone all the
same. What was he thinking of? His brow and his eyes showed that
he was thinking of something, but he did not express his thoughts. Was
he low-spirited--bright? Happy--sad? Were there many things he repented
of and did he ponder over them, or did he feel bored here? She did not
know.

He kept away from everybody else with a certain obstinacy. It was in
vain that Käte encouraged him to play tennis with young girls who were
on the look-out for a partner; if he did not overdo it he might
certainly try to play. He was also invited to go out sailing, but he
did not seem to care for that sport any longer.

Wolfgang lay right out on the mole for the most part, against the
rocky point of which the blue sea flings itself restlessly until it is
a mass of white foam, and looked across at the coast near San Remo
swimming in a ruddy violet vapour or back at the naked heights of the
Apennines, in whose semi-circle the white and red houses of Sestri
nestle.

When the fishing boats glided into the harbour with slack
sails like weary birds, he got up and sauntered along to meet them at
the landing-place. Then he would stand there with his hands in his
trouser pockets, to see what fish they brought ashore. The catches were
not large. Then he took his hands out of his pockets and gave the
fishermen what money he had with him.

If his mother had known what her son was thinking of! If she had
guessed that his soul flew away with weary wings like a gull drifting
over a boundless sea!

Wolfgang was suffering from home-sickness. He did not like being
there. Everything was much too soft, much too beautiful there; he felt
bored. The stone pines with their pungent smell were the only things he
liked; they were even better than the pines in the Grunewald. But he
was not really longing for the Grunewald either. It was always the
same, whether he was here or there he was always racked with longing.
For what? For what place? That was what he pondered over. But he would
not have liked to say it to his mother, for he saw now that she did all
she could for him. And he found an affectionate word to say to her more
frequently than he had ever done before in his life.

So at last, at last I Käte often gave him a covert side-glance: was
this the same boy who had resisted her so defiantly as a child, had
refused her love, all her great love? This boy whose face had moved her
so strangely in Milan Cathedral, was he the same who had lain on the
doorstep drunk?--ugh, so drunk! The same who had sunk, sunk so low,
that he--oh, she would not think of it any more.

Käte wanted to forget; she honestly tried to do so. When she found
him in the cathedral sitting near the pillar, his hands folded, his
eyelids closed dreamily, he had seemed to her so young, still
touchingly young; his forehead had been smooth, as though all the lines
on it had been wiped away. And she had to think: had they not
expected too much of him? Had they always been just to him? Had they
understood him as they ought to have understood him? Doubts arose in
her mind. She had always deemed herself a good mother; since that day
in the cathedral she felt as though she had failed in something. She
herself could not say in what. But sadness and a large amount of
self-torturing pain were mingled with the satisfaction that her son had
now come to her. Ah, now he was good, now he was at least something
like what she had wished him to be--softer, more tractable--but
now--what pleasure had she from it now?

"Wolfgang still causes me uneasiness," she wrote to her husband.
"It's beautiful here, but he does not see it. I am often
frightened."

When her husband had offered to go with them he had done so because
he wished to save her in many ways--Käte had opposed it almost
anxiously: no, no, it was not at all necessary. She would much prefer
to be alone with Wolfgang, she considered it so much more beneficial
both for him and for herself. But now she often thought of her husband,
and wrote to him almost every day. And even if it were only a few lines
on a postcard, she felt the need of sending him a word. He, yes he
would find it just as beautiful there as she found it. As they had both
found it in the old days. They had once climbed that path over the
rocks together, he had given her his hand, had led her so that she
should not feel dizzy, and she had eyed the blue glassy sea far below
her and far above her the grey rocky promontory with the deep green
stone pines that kissed the blue of the sky with a blissful shudder.
Had she grown so old in those eighteen years that she dared not go
along that path any more? She had tried but it was of no use, she had
been seized with a sudden dizziness. That was because the hand
was not there that had supported her so firmly, so securely. Oh yes,
those had been better days, happier.

Käte entirely forgot that she had coveted something so ardently in
those days, that she had saddened many an hour for herself and him,
embittered every enjoyment. Now she looked past the son who was
strolling along by her side, looked into the distance with tender eyes
in which a gleam of her lost youth still shone--her good husband, he
was so alone. Did he think of her as she of him?

That evening when Wolfgang had retired to his room--what he did
there, whether he still sat up reading or writing or had already gone
to bed she did not know--she wrote to her husband.

It was not the length and the full particulars she gave in the
letter that pleased Paul Schlieben so much--she had also written long
detailed letters to him from Franzensbad at the time--but he read
something between the lines. It was an unexpressed wish, a longing, a
craving for him. And he resolved to go to the south. After all, they
had lived so many years together, that it was quite comprehensible that
the one felt lonely without the other.

He settled the business he had in hand with energetic eagerness. He
hoped to be ready to start in a week at the latest. But he would not
write to her beforehand, would not write anything whatever about it, it
was to be a surprise for once in a way.

           *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

The midday sun at Sestri was hot, but in spite of its gleaming power
the air became agreeable and refreshing just a little before sunset. A
sweet odour poured forth from every plant then, and this streaming
wealth of perfume was so soothing, so delicious. Käte felt her
heart overflow. Thank God, she was still not quite exhausted, not quite
worn-out yet, she still possessed the faculty of enjoying what was
beautiful. If Paul had only been there.

High up, quite at the edge of the outermost promontory on that coast
and surrounded by the white foam of the ardent sea that longs to climb
up to the cypresses and pines, the holm-oaks and the strawberry-trees,
the many sweet-smelling roses, lies the garden of a rich marchese. The
mother and her son were sitting there. They were looking in silence at
the gigantic sun, which hung red, deep purple just above the sea that,
quiet and devout, solemn and expectant in the holy conception of the
light, shone with the splendid reflection of it. It was one of those
hours, those marvellous rare hours in which even mute things become
eloquent, when the hidden becomes revealed, the stones cry aloud.

The woman felt quite startled as she gazed and gazed: oh, there it
was, the same gigantic red sun that she had once seen disappear into
the waves of the wild Venn.

Alas, that that thought should come even now and torture her. She
turned quickly and looked at Wolfgang with timid apprehension--if he
should guess it. But he was sitting on a stone, taking no interest in
his surroundings; he had crossed his legs and his eyes were half
closed. Of what was he dreaming? She had to rouse him.

"Isn't that splendid, grand, sublime?"

"Oh yes."

"It's setting--look how it's setting." Käte had jumped up from the
ivy-clad pine-stump and was pointing at it. Her cheeks were flushed and
she was full of enthusiasm at the sight of the purple sea, the radiant
light that was disappearing in such splendour. The tears came to her
eyes; they were dazzled. When she looked again it struck her
that Wolfgang was very pale.

"Are you cold?" A sudden coolness blew from the sea.

"No. But I"--suddenly he opened his dark eyes wide and looked at her
firmly--"I should like to know something about my mother. Now you can
speak--I'm listening."

"Of your--your"--she stammered, it came so unexpectedly. Alas, the
sun, the Venn sun. She would have preferred to have been silent now;
now she had not the courage she had had before.

But he urged her. "Tell me." There was something imperious in his
voice. "What is her name?--Where does she live?--Is she still
alive?"

Käte looked around with terrified eyes. "Is she still alive?"--she
could not even answer that. Oh yes, yes, surely--of course--she was
still alive.

And she told him all. Told him how they had got him away from the
Venn, had fled with him as though he had been stolen.

As she told him it she turned pale and then red and then pale
again--oh, what a passion he would fly into. How he would excite
himself. And how angry he would be with her. For they had never
troubled about his mother since they left the Venn, never again. She
could not tell him any more.

He did not ask any other questions. But he did not fly into a
passion as she had feared; she need not have defended her action when
he remained silent for some time, positively make excuses for it. He
gave her a friendly glance and only said: "You meant well, I feel sure
of that."

As they went down the steps leading from the park to the town he
offered her his arm. He led her, to all appearances, but still
she had the feeling as if he were the one who needed a support--he
tottered.

The cemetery at Sestri lies behind the marchese's garden. The white
marble monuments gleamed through the grey of evening; the white wings
of an enormous angel rose just above the wall that encircles the park.
Käte looked back: did not something like a presentiment seem to be
wafted to them from there--or was it a hope? She did not know whether
Wolfgang felt as she did or whether he felt anything, but she pressed
his arm more closely and he pressed hers slightly in return.

She heard him walking restlessly up and down his room during the
night that followed the evening they had spent in the garden of Villa
Piuma. She had really made up her mind to leave him alone--she had
looked after him much too much formerly--but then she thought he was
still a patient, and that the agitation he must have felt on hearing
her story might be injurious to him. She wanted to go to him, but found
his door locked. He only opened it after she had repeatedly knocked and
implored him to let her come in.

"What do you want?" There was again something of the old repellent
sound in his voice.

But she would not allow herself to be deterred. "I thought you might
perhaps like to--well, talk a little more about it," she said
tenderly.

"What am I to do?" he cried, and he wrung his hands and started to
stride restlessly up and down the room again. "If only somebody would
tell me what I'm to do now. But nobody knows. Nobody can know. What am
I to do--what am I to do?"

Käte stood there dismayed: oh, now he had such thoughts. She saw it,
he had wept. She clung to him full of grieved sympathy. She did what
she had not done for a long time, for an exceedingly long time, she
kissed him. And shaken in the depths of her being by his "What am I to
do?" as by a just reproach, she said contritely: "Don't torture
yourself. Don't fret. If you like we'll go there--we'll look for
her--we shall no doubt find her."

But he shook his head vehemently and groaned. "That's too late
now--much too late. What am I to do there now? I am no use for that or
for this"--he threw out his hands--"no use for anything. Mother,
mother!" Throwing both his arms round the woman he fell down heavily in
front of her and pressed his face against her dress.

She felt he was sobbing by the convulsive movement of his body, by
the tight grasp of his hot hands round her waist.

"If only I knew--my mother--mother--oh, mother, what am I to
do?"

He wept aloud, and she wept with him in compassionate sympathy. If
only Paul had been there. She could not find any comforting words to
say to him, she felt so deserving of blame herself, she believed there
was no longer any comfort to be found. Before her eyes stood the _one_
agonising, torturing question: "How is it to end?" engraved in large
letters, like the inscriptions over cemetery gates.

           *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

Käte took counsel with herself: should she write to her husband
"Come"? Wolfgang was certainly not well again. He did not complain, he
only said he could not sleep at night and that made him so tired. She
did not know whether it was moral suffering that deprived him of his
sleep or physical. She was in great trouble, but she still put off the
letter to her husband. Why should she make him hasten to them, take
that long journey? It would not be of any use. It was still not clear
to her that she wanted him for herself, for her own sake. She even
omitted writing to him for a few days.

Wolfgang lay a great deal on the couch in his room with the shutters
closed; he did not even read. She often went in to keep him company--he
must not feel lonely--but it seemed almost as though he were just as
pleased to be alone.

When she looked at him furtively over the top of her book in the
semi-obscurity of the room, she could not think he was so ill. It was
probably a disinclination to do anything more than anything else--a
slackness of will-power that made him so apathetic also physically. If
only she could rouse him. She proposed all manner of things, drives
along the coast to all the beautifully situated places in the
neighbourhood, excursions into the mountains--they were so near the
highest summits in the Alps, and it was indescribably beautiful to look
down into the fruitful valleys of the _cinque terre_ that were full of
vineyards--sails in the gulf, during which the boat carries you so
smoothly under the regular strokes of practised boatmen, that you
hardly notice the distance from the shore and still are very soon
swimming far out on the open sea, on that heavenly clear, blue sea,
whose breath liberates the soul. Did he want to fish--there were such
exquisite little gaily-coloured fish there, that are so stupid and
greedy they grab at every bait--would he not shoot ospreys as well? She
positively worried him.

But he always gave her an evasive reply; he did not want to. "I'm
really too tired to-day."

Then she sent for the Italian doctor. But Wolfgang was angry: what
did he want with that quack? He was so disagreeable to the old man that
Käte felt quite ashamed of him. Then she left him alone. Why should she
try to show him kindness if he would not be shown kindness?
She despaired about him. It made her very depressed to think that their
journey also seemed a failure--yes, it was, she saw that more every
day. The charm of novelty that had stirred him up during the first days
had disappeared; now it was as it had been before--worse.

For now the air no longer seemed to agree with him. When they walked
together he frequently stood still and panted, like one who has
difficulty in breathing. She often felt quite terrified when that
happened. "Let us turn round, I know you don't feel well." But this
difficulty in breathing passed away so quickly that she scolded herself
for the excessive anxiety she always felt on his account, an anxiety
that had embittered so many years of her life.

But one night he had another attack, worse than the others he had
already had at home.

It might have been about midnight when Käte, who was sleeping
softly, rocked to sleep by the constant roar of the sea, was startled
by a knocking at the door between their two rooms, and by a cry
of "Mother, oh mother!" Was not that a child moaning? She sat up
drowsily--then she recognised his voice.

"Wolfgang, yes, what's the matter?" She threw on her morning-gown in
a fright, pushed her feet into her velvet shoes, opened the door--there
he stood outside in his shirt and with bare feet, trembling and
stammering: "I feel--so bad." He looked at her imploringly with eyes
full of terror, and fell down before she had time to catch hold of
him.

Käte almost pulled the bell down in her terror. The porter and
chambermaid came running. "Telegraph 'Come' to my husband--to my
husband. Quickly, at once."

When the scared proprietor of the hotel also appeared, they
laid the sick lad on his untidy bed again; the porter rushed to the
telegraph station and for the doctor, the chambermaid sobbed. The
landlord himself hurried down into his cellar to fetch some of the
oldest brandy and the best champagne. They were all so extremely sorry
for the young gentleman; he seemed to be lying in a deep swoon.

Käte did not weep like the good-natured person the chambermaid,
whose tears ran down her cheeks the whole time. She had too much to
think of, she had to do her duty until the last. Until the last--now
she knew it. It was not necessary for the doctor to shake his head nor
to whisper mysteriously to the proprietor of the hotel--she knew it.
Restoratives were brought from the chemist's; the sick lad's head was
lowered, his feet raised, they gave him camphor injections--the heart
would not be whipped on any more.

Käte did not leave him; she stood close to his bed. The golden,
invincible, eternal light was just rising gloriously out of the waves
when he stammered something once more. She bent over him as closely as
she had once done over the sleeping boy, when she had longed to give
him breath of her breath, to mould him anew for herself, to give him
life of her life. She had not that wish any longer. She let him go now.
And if she bent over him so closely now, hung on his lips so
affectionately, it was only to hear his last wish.

"Mo-ther?" There was such a question in his voice. He said nothing
further. He only opened his eyes once more, looked round searchingly,
sighed and then expired.

           *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

The sun laughed in at the windows. And the woman, who, with dry
eyes, was now standing at one of them looking out at the splendour, at
the refreshing, glorious morning that was more sparkling than
ever before, felt vanquished by the power of nature. It was too great,
too sublime, too irresistible--she must bend the knee admiringly before
nature, however veiled her eyes were. Käte stood a long time in deep
thought. Outside was life, here in the room was death. But death is not
the greatest evil. She turned round with a trembling sigh and stepped
back to the bed: "Thank God!"

Then she sank on her knees before the dead boy, folded his cold
hands and kissed him.

She did not hear that someone tapped softly at the door.

"Madame." The chambermaid stuck her head in. And a man's head was
visible above the chambermaid's.

"Madame."

Käte did not hear.

"Here is somebody--the gentleman--the gentleman has arrived."

"My husband?"

Paul Schlieben had pushed the girl aside and had entered, pale,
hurriedly, in great agitation. His wife, his poor wife. What a lot she
had had to go through alone. The lad dead! They had met him with the
news as he arrived unsuspectingly to surprise them at their
breakfast.

"Paul!" It was a cry of the most joyful surprise, the utmost relief.
She fled from the cold dead into his warm arms. "Paul, Paul--Wolfgang
is dead!" Now she found tears. Streaming tears that would not cease and
that were still so beneficial.

All the bitterness she had felt whilst her son was still alive
disappeared with them. "Poor boy--our poor dear boy." These tears
washed him clean, so clean that he again became the little innocent boy
that had lain in the blooming heather and laughed at the bright sun
with transparent eyes. Oh, if she had only left him there. She would
always reproach herself for not having done so.

"Paul, Paul," she sobbed aloud. "Thank God, you are here. Had you
any idea of it? Yes, you had. You know how miserable, how unhappy I
feel." The elderly woman clasped her arms round the elderly man with
almost youthful fervour: "If I had not you--oh, the child, the poor
child."

"Don't cry so much." He wanted to console her, but the tears rolled
down his lined face too. He had travelled there as quickly as he could,
urged on by a sudden anxiety--he had had no letters from her--he had
come full of joy to surprise them, and now he found things like this.
He strove for composure.

"If only I had left him there--oh, if only I had left him
there!"

The man entered into his wife's feelings of torture and
self-reproach, but he pointed to the dead boy, whose face above the
white shirt looked peculiarly refined, almost perfect, young and smooth
and quite peaceful, and then drew her more closely towards him with the
other hand. "Don't cry. You were the one to make a man of him--don't
forget that."

"Do you think so?--Oh Paul!"--she bowed the face that was covered
with tears in deep pain--"I did not make him any happier by it."

She had to weep, weep unceasingly in deep acknowledgment of worldly
error. She grasped her husband's hands tremulously and drew him down
with her at the side of the bed.

The hands of husband and wife were clasped together over the son
they had lost. They whispered, deeply repentant and as though it came
from one mouth:

"_Forgive us our trespasses._"





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Son of His Mother" ***

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