"Wolfgang not here again?" said Paul Schlieben as he joined his wife in
her room. "He comes so little to the office too. They always assure me
that he has just been--but why doesn't he keep the same office-hours as
I? Where is he?" He looked inquiringly and impatiently at his wife.
She shrugged her shoulders, and the evening sun, which was casting a
last gleam through the tall window as it set, touched her cheek with
red for a moment. "I don't know," she said in a low voice. And then she
looked so lost as she gazed out into the autumn evening, that her
husband felt that her thoughts were far away, looking for something
outside.
"I've just come from town, Kate," he said somewhat annoyed, and the
vexation he felt at his son's absence gave his voice a certain
sharpness, "and I'm hungry and tired. It's already eight o'clock--we'll
have our supper. And you've not even a friendly face to show me?"
She got up quickly to ring for supper, and tried to smile. But it
was no real smile.
He saw it, and that put him still more out of humour. "Never mind,
don't try. Don't force yourself to smile." He sat down at the table
with a weary movement. But his hunger did not seem to be so great,
after all, as he only helped himself in a spiritless manner
when the steaming dishes were brought in and placed in front of him,
and ate in the same manner without knowing what he was eating.
The dining-room was much too large for the two lonely people; the
handsome room looked uncomfortably empty on that cool evening in
autumn. The woman shivered with cold.
"We shall have to start heating the house," said the man.
That was all that was said during the meal. After it was over he got
up to go across to his study. He wanted to smoke there, the room was
smaller and cosier; he did not notice that his wife's eyes had never
left him.
If Paul would only tell her what he thought of Wolfgang staying
away! Where could Wolfgang be now? She became entirely absorbed in her
wandering thoughts, and hardly noticed that she was alone in the cold
empty room.
She had a book in front of her, a book the whole world found
interesting--an acquaintance had said to her: "I could not stop reading
it; I had so much to think about, but I forgot everything owing to the
book"--but it did not make her forget anything. She felt as though she
were in great trouble, and that that was making her dull. Even duller,
more indifferent to outward things than at the time of her father's and
mother's deaths. She had read so much in those years of mourning, and
with special interest, as though the old poems had been given to her
anew and the new ones were a cheering revelation. She could not read
anything now, could not follow another's thoughts. She clung to her own
thoughts. True, her eyes flew over the page, but when she got to the
bottom she did not know what she had read. It was an intolerable
condition. Oh, owh much she would have liked to have taken an
interest in something. What would she not have given only to be able to
laugh heartily for once; she had never experienced a similar longing
for cheerfulness, gaiety and humour before. Oh, what a relief it would
have been for her if she could have laughed and cried. Now she could
not laugh, but--alas!--not cry either, and that was the worst: her eyes
remained dry. But the tears of sorrow she had not wept burnt her heart
and wore out her life with their unshed salty moisture.
No, death was not the most terrible that could happen. There were
more terrible things than that. It was terrible when one had to say to
oneself: "You have brought all your suffering on yourself. Why were
you not satisfied? Why must you take by force what nature had refused?"
It was more terrible when one felt how one's domestic happiness, one's
married happiness, love, faith, unity, how all that intimately unites
two people was beginning to totter--for did she not feel every day how
her husband was getting colder and colder, and that she also treated
him with more indifference? Oh, the son, that third person, it was he
who parted them. How miserably all her theories about training,
influence, about being born in the spirit had been overthrown. Wolfgang
was not the child in which she and her husband were united in body and
soul--he was and would remain of alien blood. And he had an alien soul.
Poor son!
All at once a discerning compassion shot up in the heart of the
woman, who for days, weeks, months, even years, had felt nothing but
bitterness and mortification, ay, many a time even something like
revolt against the one who thus disturbed her days. How could she be so
very angry with him, who was not bound to his parents' house by a
hundred ties? It was not _his_ parents' house, that was just
the point. Maybe he unconsciously felt that the soil there was not his
native soil--and now he was seeking, wandering.
Kate pondered, her head resting heavily in her hand: what was she to
do first? Should she confess to him where he came from? Tell him
everything? Perhaps things would be better then. But oh, it was so
difficult. But it must be done. She must not remain silent any longer.
She felt her trembling heart grow stronger, as she made the firm
resolve to speak to him when he returned home. What she had kept as the
greatest secret, what she had guarded with trembling, what nothing
could have torn from her, as she thought, she was now prepared to
reveal of her own free will. She must do so. Otherwise how could things
ever be better? How could they ever end happily, or ever end at
all?
Her eyes wandered about seeking something fervently; there was a
terrified expression in them. But there was no other way out. Kate
Schlieben prepared herself for the confession with a resoluteness that
she would not have been capable of a year ago. For one moment the wish
came to her to call Paul to help her. But she rejected the thought
quickly--had he ever loved Wolfgang as she had done? Perhaps it would
be a matter of no moment to him--no, perhaps it would be a triumph to
him, he had always been of a different opinion to her. And then another
thing. He might perhaps forestall her, tell Wolfgang himself, and he
must not do that. She, she alone must do that, with all the love of
which she was still capable, so that it might be told him in a
forbearing, merciful and tender manner.
She ran hastily across to her sitting-room. She kept the certificate
of his baptism and the deed of surrender they had got from his native
village in her writing-desk there; she had not even trusted
the papers to her husband. Now she brought them out and put them ready.
She would have to show him that everything was as she said.
The papers rustled in her trembling hands, but she repressed her
agitation. She must be calm, quite calm and sensible; she must throw
down the castle in the air she had built for herself and that had not
turned out as in her dreams, knowing fully what she was doing. But even
if this castle in the air collapsed, could not something be saved from
the ruins? Something good rise from them? He would be grateful to her,
he must be grateful to her. And that was the good that would rise.
She folded her hands over the common paper on which the evidence was
written, and quivering sighs escaped from her breast that were like
prayers. O God, help me! O God, help me!
But if he did not understand her property, if she did not find the
words that must be found? If she should lose him thereby? She was
overcome with terror, she turned pale, and stretched out her hands
gropingly like one who requires a support. But she remained erect. Then
rather lose him than that he should be lost.
For--and tears such as she had not been able to weep for a long,
long time, dropped from her eyes and relieved her--she still loved him,
after all, loved him more than she had considered possible.
So she waited for him. And even if she had to wait until dawn and if
he came home drunk again--more drunk than the first time--she would
still wait for him. She must tell him that day. She was burning to tell
him.
Paul Schlieben had gone to bed long ago. He was vexed with his wife,
had only stuck his head into the room and given a little nod: "Good
night," and gone upstairs. But she walked up and down the room
downstairs with slow steps. That tired her physically, but gave her
mind rest and thereby strength.
When she went to meet Wolfgang in the hall on hearing him close the
door, her delicate figure looked as though it had grown, it was so
straight and erect. The house slept with all in it, only he and she
were still awake. They were never so alone, so undisturbed nowadays.
The time had come.
And she held out her hand to him, which she would not have done
on any other occasion had he come so late--thank God, he was not
drunk!--and approached her face to his and kissed him on the cheek:
"Good evening, my son."
He was no doubt somewhat taken aback at this reception, but his
sunken eyes with the black lines under them looked past her
indifferently.
He was terribly tired--one could see--or was he ill? But all that
would soon be better now. Kate seized hold of his hand once more full
of the joyful hope that had been awakened in her, and drew him after
her into her room.
He allowed himself to be drawn without resisting, he only asked with
a yawn: "What's the matter?"
"I must tell you something." And then quickly, as though he
might escape her or she might lose courage, she added: "Something
important--that concerns you your that concerns your--your birth."
What would he say--she had stopped involuntarily--what would he say
now? The secret of his birth for which he had fought full of longing,
fought strenuously--oh, what scenes those had been!--would now be
revealed to him.
She leant towards him involuntarily, ready to support him.
Then he yawned again: "Must it really be now, mater? There's plenty
of time to-morrow. The fact is, I am dead beat. Good night." And he
wheeled round, leaving her where she was, and went out of the room and
up the stairs to his bedroom.
She stood there quite rigid. Then she put her hand up to her head:
what, what was it? She must not have understood him properly, she must
be deaf, blind or beside herself. Or he must be deaf, blind or beside
himself. She had gone up to him with her heart in her mouth, she had
held out her hand, she had wanted to speak to him about his birth--and
he? He had yawned--had gone away, it evidently did not interest him in
the slightest. And here, here, in this very room--it was not yet four
years ago--he had stood almost on the same spot in the black clothes he
had worn at his confirmation--almost as tall as he was now, only with a
rounder, more childish face--and had screamed aloud: "Mother, mother,
where is my mother?" And now he no longer wanted to know anything?
It was impossible, she could not have understood him aright or he
not her. She must follow him, at once, without delay. It seemed to her
that she must not neglect a moment.
She hurried noiselessly up the stairs in her grey dress. She saw her
shadow gliding along in the dull light the electric bulb cast on the
staircase-wall, but she smiled: no, she was not sorrow personified
gliding along like a ghost any longer. Her heart was filled with
nothing but joy, hope and confidence, for she was bringing him
something good, nothing but good.
She went into his room without knocking, in great haste and without
reflecting on what she was doing. He was already in bed, he was just
going to put out the light. She sat down on the edge of his bed.
"Wolfgang," she said gently. And as he gazed at her in surprise with
a look that was almost unfriendly, her voice sounded still softer: "My
son."
"Yes--what's the matter now?"
He was really annoyed, she noticed it in the impatient tone of his
voice, and then she suddenly lost courage. Oh, if he looked at her like
that, so coldly, and if his voice sounded so repellent, how difficult
it was to find the right word. But it must be done, he looked so pale
and was so thin, his round face had positively become long. What had
struck her before struck her with double force now, and she got a great
fright. "Wolfgang," she said hastily, avoiding his glance almost with
fear--oh, how he would accuse her, how reproachful he would be, and
justifiably reproachful--"I must tell you at last--it's better--it
won't surprise you much either. Do you still remember that Sunday it
was the day of your confirmation--you--you asked us then----"
Oh, what along introduction it was. She called herself a coward; but
it was so difficult, so unspeakably difficult.
He did not interrupt her with a single sound, he asked no questions,
he did not sigh, he did not even move.
She did not venture to turn her eyes, which were fixed on one point
straight in front of her, to look at him. His silence was terrible,
more terrible than his passion. And she called out with the courage of
despair: "You are not our son, not our own son."
He still did not say anything; did not make a single sound, did not
move. Then she turned her eyes on him. And she saw how the lids fell
over his tired, already glassy eyes, how he tore them open again with
difficulty and how they closed once more, in short, how he fought with
sleep.
He could sleep whilst she told him this--this? A terrible feeling of
disillusion came over her, but still she seized hold of his
arm and shook him, whilst her own limbs trembled as though with fever:
"Don't you hear--don't you hear me? You are not our son--not our own
son."
"Yes, I know," he said in a weary voice. "Leave me, leave me." He
made a gesture as if to thrust her away.
"And it--" her complete want of comprehension made her stammer like
a child--"it does not affect you? It--it leaves you so cold?"
"Cold? Cold?" He shrugged his shoulders, and his tired, dull eyes
began to gleam a little. "Cold? Who says it leaves me cold--has left me
cold?" he amended hastily. "But you two have not asked about that. Now
_I_ won't hear anything more about it. I'm tired now. I want to sleep."
He turned his back on her, turned his face to the wall and did not move
any more.
There she stood--he was already asleep, or at least seemed to be so.
She waited anxiously a few minutes longer--would he, would he not have
to turn once more to her and say: "Tell me, I'm listening now." But he
did not turn.
Then she crept out of the room like a condemned criminal. Too late,
too late. She had spoken too late, and now he did not want to hear
anything more about it, nothing more whatever.
In her dull wretchedness the words "too late" hurt her soul as if
they had been branded on it.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kate had no longer the courage to revert again to what she had
wanted to confess to Wolfgang that night. Besides, what was the good?
She had the vivid feeling that there was no getting at him any more,
that he could not be helped any more. But she felt weighed down as
though she had committed a terrible crime. And the feeling of this
great crime made her gentler towards him than she would
otherwise have been; she felt called upon to make excuses for his
actions both to herself and her husband.
Paul Schlieben was very dissatisfied with Wolfgang. "If only I
knew where he's always wandering about. I suppose he's at home at
night--eh?"
An involuntary sound from his wife had interrupted him, now he
looked at her inquiringly. But she did not change countenance in the
slightest, she only gave an affirmative nod. So the husband relied upon
his wife.
And now the last days of autumn had come, which are often so warm
and beautiful, more beautiful than summer. Everybody streamed out into
the Grunewald, to bathe themselves once more in the sun and air ere
winter set in. The people came in crowds to Hundekehle and Paulsborn,
to Uncle Tom and the Old Fisherman's Hut as though it were Sunday every
day. There was laughter everywhere, often music too, and young girls in
light dresses, in last summer's dresses that were not yet quite worn
out. Children made less noise in the woods now than in summer; it grew
dark too early now, but there were all the more couples wandering
about, whom the early but still warm dusk gave an excellent opportunity
to exchange caresses, and old people, who wanted to enjoy the sun once
more ere the night perhaps came that is followed by no morning.
Formerly Paul Schlieben had always detested leaving his house and
garden on such days, when the Grunewald was overrun with people. He had
always disliked swallowing the dust the crowd raised. But now he was
broader-minded. Why should the people, who were shut up in cramped
rooms on all the other days, not be out there too for once in a way,
and inhale the smell of the pines for some hours, at any rate, which
they, the privileged ones, enjoyed every day. It did one good
to see how happy people could be.
He ordered a carriage, a comfortable landau, both to give himself a
pleasure and also to distract his wife, who seemed to him to be graver
and more lost in thought than ever, and went for a drive with her. They
drove along the well-known roads through the Grunewald, and also got
out now and then when the carriage forced its way more slowly through
the sand, and walked beside it for a bit along the foot-path, which the
fallen pine-needles had made smooth and firm.
They came to Schildhorn. The red glow of evening lay across the
water; the sun could no longer be seen in all its splendour, a dusky,
melancholy peace lay over the Havel and the pines. Kate had never
thought the wood was so large. All at once she shivered: ah, the
cemetery where they buried the suicides lay over there. She did
not like to look in that direction, she pressed her eyes together
nervously. All at once a young lad moved across her mental
vision--young and fresh and yet ruined already--many a mother's son.
She shuddered and wanted to hurry past, and still something drew her
feet irresistibly to the spot in the loose sand that had been enclosed.
She could not help it, she had to stop. Her eyes rested thoughtfully on
the ugly, uncared-for graves: had those who rested there found peace? A
couple of branches covered with leaves and a few flowers that she had
plucked on the way fell out of her hand. The evening wind blew them on
to the nearest grave; she let them lie there. Her heart felt extremely
sad.
"Kate, do come," Paul called. "The carriage has been waiting for us
quite a long time."
She felt very depressed. Fears and suspicions, that she could
not speak of to anybody, crowded upon her. Wolfgang was
unsteady--but was he bad? No, not bad--not yet. O God, no, she would
not think that! Not bad! But what would happen? How would it end?
Things could never be right again--how could they? A miracle would have
to happen then, and miracles do not happen nowadays.
A gay laugh made her start. All the tables were occupied in the
restaurant garden; there were so many young people there and so much
light-heartedness, and so many lovers. They had got into their carriage
again and were now driving slowly past the garden, so they saw all the
light-coloured blouses and the gaily trimmed hats, all the finery of
the lower middle-class.
Hark, there was that gay laugh again. A girl's loud laugh, a real
hearty one, and now: "Aha, catch her, catch her!" on hearing which Kate
held her breath as though frozen. She felt quite weak, all the blood
left her heart. That was Wolfgang! Her Wolfgang!
Then he bounded after a girl who, with a cry of delight, flew across
the road in front of him and into the wood on the other side among the
tree-trunks. He rushed after her. For a moment the girl's light dress
and Wolfgang's flying shadow were seen whisking round the pines, and
then nothing more. But he must have reached her, for her shrill scream
and his laugh were heard; both drove the blood into Kate's cheeks. It
sounded so offensive to her, so vulgar. So he had got so far? He
wandered about there with such, such--persons? Ah, a couple of others
were following them, they belonged to the party, too. A hulking fellow
with a very hot and red face and chubby cheeks followed the couple that
had disappeared noisily shouting hallo, and the slender rascal who came
last laughed so knowingly and slyly.
"Paul, Paul!" Kate wanted to call out, "Paul, just look, look!" But
then she did not call, and did not move. There was nothing
more to be done. She leant back in her corner of the carriage quite
silent: she had wanted the boy, she must not complain. Oh, if only she
had left him where he was. Now she must be silent, close both her eyes
firmly and pretend she had not seen anything.
But everything was spoilt for her. And when her husband pointed out
the moon swimming in the light grey ether in an opening between the
tops of two pines, and the bright, quietly gleaming star to the right
of it, she had only an indifferent "Oh yes," in answer to his
delighted: "Isn't that beautiful?"
That depressed him. She had taken such pleasure in nature formerly,
the greatest, purest pleasure--now she no longer did so. Was that over
too? Everything was over. He sighed.
And both remained silent, each leaning in a corner of the carriage.
They gazed into the twilight that was growing deeper and deeper with
sad eyes. Evening was coming on, the day--their day too--was over.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Wolfgang had gone on an excursion into the country, with Frida
Laemke, her brother, and Hans Flebbe, which had been planned a long
time. Frida was not going back to business that afternoon; she had
succeeded in getting away as an exception, and because she pleaded an
extremely urgent reason for her absence. And now she was almost beside
herself with glee: oh, how splendid it was, oh, what a fine time they
would have. Wolfgang had gone to the expense of taking a cab; he and
Frida sat on the front seat, the two others opposite them on the back
seat, and they had driven round the green, green wood, had paid a visit
to this and that place of amusement, had gone on a roundabout and in
a boat and into the booth where they were playing with dice. Wolfgang
was very polite, Frida always got leave to throw them again and
again; a butter dish of blue glass, a glazed paper-bag full of
gingerbread nuts, but above all a little dicky-bird in a tiny wooden
cage made her extremely happy. Hans was allowed to carry it all, whilst
she and Wolfgang rushed along on the walk home from Schildhorn,
chaffing each other. Her sweetheart did not disturb them. Hans had
foregone the pleasure of having his Frida on his arm from the
commencement; everybody might easily have thought the well-dressed
young gentleman was her lover. But when she lost her breath entirely
and was red and dishevelled, and the dusk, which came on somewhat
earlier in the wood among the trees that stood so close together, made
her shudder a little and filled her with a delicious fear, she hung on
her Hans's arm as a matter of course. They remained a little behind the
others.
Then Wolfgang was alone, for he did not count Artur, although he
walked beside him stumbling over the roots and whistling shrilly. And
Wolfgang envied fat Hans at whom they had all laughed so much, the girl
he was engaged to more than anyone else. He also wanted to have a girl
hanging on his arm. It need not even be such a nice-looking girl as
Frida--as long as it was a girl. The dusk of the wood, which was so
nice and quiet, seemed positively to hold out inviting arms to him. And
a smell of satiation, an abundant fulfilment, rose out of the earth
that evening, although it was so poor--nothing but sand. Wolfgang felt
a wish to live and love, an eager desire for pleasure and enjoyment. If
he had had Frida near him now, he would have seized hold of her, have
clasped her in his arms, have quickly closed her mouth with kisses and
not let her go again.
He could not contain himself any longer, he had to seize hold of
Artur, at any rate, and waltz with him along the sandy path
through the wood, so that the lanky youth, who had already run to so
many customers to shave them that day, could neither see nor hear. All
the other people stopped; such sights were nothing new to them on
excursions, not to speak of worse. It amused them, and, when Wolfgang
lifted his partner high up into the air with a loud shout of triumph
and swung him several times round his head, they clapped their
hands.
Wolfgang was very much out of breath by this time. When they got out
of the wood they had to proceed more slowly; they might have trodden
some of the people to death in the more inhabited parts, for the fine
villas were already commencing. What a crowd! People were pushing and
squeezing each other at the place where the electric cars started.
Wolfgang and Artur posted themselves there too: what a joke it was to
see how the people who wanted to go by them elbowed each other. It was
still pretty light and as warm as summer, but it would soon be quite
dark, and the later it was the larger the crowd would be. The two stood
there laughing, looking quietly on at the throng. What did it matter to
them if they did not get a seat? They could run that short bit to their
homes.
Wolfgang felt how his heart thumped against his side--it had been
great fun to dance with Frida. He had swung her round several times in
the booth adjoining a restaurant, in which a man sat strumming on a
piano, and had done the same to a couple of other girls, who had looked
longingly at the boisterous dancer. What a pleasure it had been. He
still felt the effects of it, his chest rose and fell tumultuously--oh,
what a pleasure it was to swing a girl round in his arm like that.
Wonderful! Everything was wonderful.
Wolfgang trembled inwardly with untamed animal spirits, and
clenched his teeth so as not to draw people's attention to him by means
of a loud, triumphant shout. Oh, how splendid it would be, oh, how he
would love to do something foolish now. He thought it over: what on
earth could he do?
At that moment a cough disturbed him. How hollow it sounded--as if
everything inside were loose. The young fellow who was standing behind
his broad back might have been coughing like that for some time--only
he had not noticed it; now he felt disgusted at his spitting. He
stepped aside involuntarily: faugh, how the man coughed!
"Oh, how wretched it is that there isn't a cab to be had!" Wolfgang
now heard the older man say, on whose arm the young fellow who was
coughing was leaning. "Are you quite knocked up? Can you still stand
it?" There was such an anxiety expressed in that: "Can you still stand
it?"
"Oh, pretty well," the young fellow answered in a hoarse voice.
Wolfgang pricked up his ears: he surely knew that voice? And now he
also recognised the face. Wasn't that Kullrich? Good gracious, how he
had changed. He raised his hat involuntarily: "Good evening,
Kullrich."
And now the latter also recognised him. "Schlieben!" Kullrich
smiled, so that all his teeth, which were long and white, could be seen
behind his bloodless lips. And then he held out his hand to his former
schoolfellow: "You aren't at school either? I've left as well. It's a
long time since we've seen each other."
The hand Wolfgang held had a disagreeable, moist, cold feeling, and
a shudder passed through him. He had forgotten long ago that he had
once heard that Kullrich had consumption; all at once he remembered it
again. But that was quite impossible, surely you could not die
so young? Everything in him strove against the conviction.
"Have you been ill?" he asked quickly. "But now you're all right
again, aren't you?" It was quite difficult for him to remember that he
was speaking to his old schoolfellow; this Kullrich was quite a
stranger to him.
"Oh yes, pretty fair," said Kullrich, smiling once more. Quite a
peculiar smile, which even struck the careless youth. Kullrich had
never been nice-looking, he had a lump at the end of his nose; but now
Wolfgang could not take his eyes off him. How much more refined his
face had grown and so--he could not contain himself any longer, all at
once he blurted it out: "How different you look now. I hardly
recognised you."
"My son is soon going away," his father said quickly, drawing his
son's arm more closely through his own as he spoke. "Then I hope he
will come back quite well. But he has tried to do too much to-day. The
weather was so fine--plenty of fresh air and the smell of the pines,
the doctor said--but we have remained out too long. It won't do you any
harm, I trust?" There was again such a terrible anxiety expressed in
his voice. "Are you cold? Would you not like to sit down until we can
start?" The father put a camp-stool, which he had carried under his
arm, on the ground, and opened it: "Sit down a little, Fritz."
Poor fellow! The father's voice, which trembled with such loving
anxiety, touched Wolfgang strangely. Poor fellow, he really must be
very ill. How terrible! He was overcome with dread, and stepped back
involuntarily for fear the sick boy's breath should reach him. He was
full of the egotism of youth and health; how unfortunate he should meet
him there to-day, just to-day.
"May I get you a carriage?" he inquired hastily--only
let Kullrich get away, it was too awful to have to listen to that
cough--"I'm acquainted with this neighbourhood; I shall be able to get
one."
"Oh yes, oh yes, a cab, a closed one if possible," said Kullrich's
father, drawing a deep breath as though relieved of a great anxiety.
"We shall not possibly be able to go by train. And it's getting so
late. Are you really not cold, Fritz?" A cool wind had suddenly risen,
and the old man took off his overcoat and hung it round his son's
shoulders.
How awful it must be for him to see his son like that, thought
Wolfgang. To die, to die at all, how terrible. And how the man loved
his son. You could hear that in his voice, see it in his looks.
Wolfgang was pleased to be able to run about for a cab. It was
difficult to get one now, and he ran about until he was quite out of
breath. At last he got one. When he reached the place where the
electric cars started, Herr Kullrich was in great despair. He had given
up all hope and his son had coughed a good deal.
He did not know what to say, he was so grateful. The unpretentious
man--he was a subordinate official in one of the government offices and
probably could not afford it--promised the driver a good tip if he
would only drive them quickly to their home in Berlin. He enveloped his
son in the rug that lay on the back seat; the driver also gave them a
horse-cloth, and Wolfgang wrapped it round his schoolfellow's legs.
"Thanks, thanks," said Fritz Kullrich faintly; he was quite knocked
up now.
"Come and see us some time, Herr Schlieben," said the father,
pressing his hand. "Fritz would be pleased. And I am so grateful to you
for helping us."
"But come soon," said the son, smiling again in that peculiar
manner. "Good-bye."
"Good-bye." Wolfgang stood staring after the carriage as it
disappeared quickly; there drove Kullrich--after his mother.
Wolfgang's good spirits had flown. When his companions with whom he
had spent the afternoon sought him with loud hallos--Hans must have
given his Frida many hearty kisses, her hat was awry, her eyes gleamed
amorously--he got rid of them without delay. He said good-bye to them
quickly and went on alone. Death had touched his elbow. And one of the
old songs he had sung with Cilia, the girl from his childhood, suddenly
darted through his mind. Now he understood its deeper meaning for the
first time:
Art thou now with fair cheeks prancing,
Cheeks milk-white, through rose-light glancing?
Roses wither soon, alas!
He went home at once, he had no wish to loaf about out of doors
any longer. And as he sauntered along with unsteady gait down
out-of-the-way roads, something rose up before him in the dusk of the
autumn evening and placed itself in his path--it was a question:
"And you? Where are you going?"
He entered his parents' house in a mood that was strangely soft and
conciliatory. But when he stepped into the room, his parents were
sitting there as though to pass sentence on him.
Kate had not been able to keep it to herself after all, it had
weighed on her mind, she had to tell somebody what she had seen. And it
had irritated her husband more than his wife had expected. So the boy
had got into such company!
"Where have you been wandering about?" he said to his son
angrily.
The boy stopped short: why that voice? It was not so late.
He raised his head with the feeling that they were treating him
unjustly.
"Don't look at me so impudently." His father lost control of
himself. "Where is that woman you were wandering about with?"
Wandering about--woman? The hot blood surged to the boy's head.
Frida Laemke a woman--how mad. "She isn't a woman," he flared up. And
then: "I haven't been wandering about."
"Come, come, I've----" the man broke off quickly; he could not say:
"I've seen you"--so he said: "We've seen you."
Wolfgang got very red. Oh!--they had spied on him--no doubt
to-day--had crept after him? He was not even safe from their prying
looks so far away. He was furious. "How can you say 'that woman.' She
isn't a woman."
"Well--what is she then, may I ask?"
"My friend."
"Your friend?" His father gave a short angry laugh. "Friend--very
well, but it's rather early for you to have such a friend. I forbid you
to have friends of such doubtful, such more than doubtful
character."
"She isn't doubtful." Wolfgang's eyes sparkled. How right Frau Laemke
was when she said the other day to him when he went to see them again:
"Although I'm very pleased to see you, don't come too often, Wolfgang.
Frida is only a poor girl, and such a one gets talked about at
once."
No, there was nothing doubtful about her. The son looked his father
full in the face, pale with fury. "She's as respectable a girl as any.
How can you speak of her like that? How d----" He faltered, he was in
such a fury that his voice failed.
"Dare--only say it straight out, dare." The man had more
control over himself now, he had become quieter, for what he saw in his
boy's face seemed to him to be honest indignation. No, he was not quite
ruined yet, he had only been led astray, such women prefer to hang on
to quite young people. And he said persuasively, meaning well: "Get
away from the whole thing as quickly as possible. You'll save yourself
much unpleasantness. I'll help you with it."
"Thanks." The young fellow stuck his hands into his trouser pockets
and stood there with an arrogant expression on his face.
His soft mood had disappeared long ago, it had flown as soon as he
took the first step into the room; now he was in the mood not to stand
anything whatever. They had insulted Frida.
"Where does she live?" his father asked.
"You would like to know that, I daresay." His son laughed
scornfully; it gave him a certain satisfaction to withhold her address,
they were so curious. They should never find it out. It was not at all
necessary to tell them. He threw his head back insolently, and did not
answer.
O God, what had happened to the boy! Kate stared at him quite
terrified. He had changed completely, had become quite a different
being. But then came the memory--she had loved him so much once--and
the pain of knowing that she had lost him entirely and for ever.
"Wolfgang, don't be like that, I beseech you. You know we have your
welfare at heart, Wolfgang."
He measured her with an inexplicable look. And then he looked past
her into space.
"It would be better if I were out of it all!" he jerked out
suddenly, spontaneously. It was meant to sound defiant, but the
defiance was swallowed up in the sudden recognition of a painful
truth.