BOOK III

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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 Kate 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.

Kate 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.

Kate 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 Kate 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 Kate! 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 Kate 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 Kate 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

anaemic, 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.

Kate 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 Kate 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. Kate 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. Kate 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.

Kate 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." Kate 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, Kate." 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, Kate?" He hurried after her, terrified. She ran

so quickly that he could not overtake her at once. "Kate, you'll fall.

Wait, I say. Kate, 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!" Kate 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?" Kate 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 Kate 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!" Kate 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 Kate

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! Kate 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.]

Kate 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 Kate 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 Kate

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.

Kate 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.

Kate 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 Kate 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, Kate 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.

Kate 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 Kate, 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 Kate, 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. Kate 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. Kate 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?

Kate 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.

Kate 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. Kate 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? Kate 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. Kate 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?

Kate 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 Kate 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? Kate 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 Kate 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."

Kate 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

Kate's eyes--"Three hundred thalers is not worth talking about for the

boy, is it, ma'am?"

Kate 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 a 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. Kate'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.

Kate, 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 Kate 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. Kate 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.

Kate 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.

Kate 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. Kate 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! Kate 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. Kate 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--Kate 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 "Woelfchen"--if they made

that the diminutive of Wolf--sound extremely affectionate?

"Woelfchen"--the young mother said it about a hundred times every

day.

The young mother? Oh yes, Kate 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 Woelfchen'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 Kate 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. Kate 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 Woelfchen 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.

Woelfchen 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.

Kate'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 Woelfchen'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?" Kate 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." Kate 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 Kate'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 Kate 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 Woelfchen, 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. Kate 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 Woelfchen," 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.

Kate 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: "Kate, 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, Kate; 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. "Woelfchen, my Woelfchen, 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 Kate 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?

Kate 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, Woelfchen 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 Woelfchen really made of such different

material? No, Paul must not say "peasant." Woelfchen 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--Kate 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 Woelfchen 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.

"Woelfchen!" Kate'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?"

Kate 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; Woelfchen 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.

"Woelfchen," she called softly. And then "Woelfchen, 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 Woelfchen 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 Kate

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--Kate 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.

Kate, 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. "Woelfchen, Woelfchen, 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 Kate'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 Kate 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 Kate 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 Kate 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, Kate,

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 Kate 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 Kate 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 Kate 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 Kate 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 Kate 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 Kate'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 Woelfchen had given them. It had been charming to watch his

first steps, to listen to his first connected words. And had not Kate

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--Kate

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 Laemke'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 Laemkes 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 Laemkes. "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 Woelfchen. 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--Kate 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 Woelfchen 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?

Kate 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 Kate 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 Laemkes? 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 Laemkes that day.

"Well then, go," said Kate. 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 Kate's face; she left the window.

Wolfgang was happy. He was sitting with the Laemkes, 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 Laemke 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

Laemke 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.

Laemke pushed a second one to him, the guest of honour, he took it with

radiant eyes.

Frau Laemke 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,

Laemke"--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, Laemke, 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 Laemke 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 Laemkes 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 Laemke'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 Laemke 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 Laemke

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 Laemke?"

"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 Laemke 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.

Kate 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.

"Woelfchen," 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, Woelfchen. 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 Laemke 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 Laemke loves her Frida."

She did not love him?--she did not love him?--Kate 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?

"Woelfchen," she said in a soft tremulous voice, "my dear

Woelfchen," 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

Laemke 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 Laemkes was restricted. Her boy should

never go there again. In a manner Kate had grown jealous of the woman

who spoke of such improper things and did not mind what she said when

children were present.

Frau Laemke 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. Laemke'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, Woelfchen. 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 Laemke. 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.

Kate had no easy time. However much she fought against Woelfchen

having any intercourse with the Laemkes--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 Woelfchen permission to invite the Laemkes 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

Laemkes 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," Kate 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. Kate

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.

Kate 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, Kate 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 Woelfchen 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 Kate 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 Kate 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. Woelfchen

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 Laemke'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 Kate 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 Kate 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

Kate.

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

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 Kate 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, Kate, 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. Kate 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.

Kate 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 Kate 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 Kate 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, Kate, 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 Woelfchen 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 Woelfchen

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

Kate 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 Laemkes, 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 Kate

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!

"Woelfchen--what's Woelfchen 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. "Woelfchen 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 Woelfchen?"

"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 Woelfchen 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 Woelfchen 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 Kate 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.

Kate 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! Woelfchen!" His mother stretched out her arms to him,

but he buried his head in the girl's lap.

Kate 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, Woelfchen? 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,

Kate, 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.

Kate 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

Woelfchen 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 Kate 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.

Kate 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 Laemkes

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 Laemkes looked almost starved when compared with him; they

had not recovered from the effects of scarlet fever very long. If only

Woelfchen did not get it too. His mother had a great dread of it. She

had kept him away from the Laemkes 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. Kate 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,

Woelfchen?" 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?" Kate 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; Kate, 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.

Kate 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 Kate 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 Laemke? Oh, they

were all one.

Tears of anguish rolled down Kate'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 Laemke

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 Laemke 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 Laemke

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. Kate had clung to him: "Help! Help my child!" Now he

was sitting with Paul Schlieben downstairs in his study; Kate 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.

Kate 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.

"Woelfchen, my Woelfchen!"

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 Laemke. "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 Kate 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. Kate 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 Kate 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

Woelfchen about her home.

"What's your home to him? He is to mind his own business and

you yours." Kate 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 Laemke 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 Kate 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, Kate, 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?" Kate

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."

Kate 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,

Haulaender. 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 naively. "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.

Kate 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.

"Woelfchen," she said persuasively, "why, Woelfchen. 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.

"Woelfchen--Woelfchen--you with your Woelfchen! 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 saecula saeculorum._ 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. Kate 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. Kate 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. Kate 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,

Kate 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 Kate 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 Lamke 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 Laemke 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, Woelfchen!" 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,

Woelfchen, 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, Woelfchen," 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 Kate 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.

Kate 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.

Kate 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 Kate, 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 Kate 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.

Kate 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.

Kate 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 Woelfchen. 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,

Kate 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 Kate. 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 Laemke 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 Laemke 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. Kate 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. Kate'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 Kate 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 Laemke 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 Laemke now, and Wolfgang missed her. Well,

that afternoon as soon as he could get free he would go to the

Laemkes.

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 Braumueller, 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 Laemkes. 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 Laemke 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 Laemke 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 Laemkes. 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 Laemke 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 Laemke 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 Laemke 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 Laemke pressed him down into

the chair again, quite terrified. "Laemke 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 Laemke 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 Laemke 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

Laemke 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 Kate'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 Kate in its monotony.

Now it became a little louder: "Give me an answer--I will--I must

know it."

Kate 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. Kate

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?" Kate 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!----"

"Kate!" Her husband looked at her very gravely, and there was a

reproach in his voice and a warning. "Kate!"

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!" Kate 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--Woelfchen!" She used the old pet name from his childhood again

for the first time for months. "Woelfchen, don't you love us any more?

Woelfchen, 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.

"Woelfchen, 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 Laemke 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!" Kate 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