They had agreed that Wolfgang should not live at the villa with them
any longer. True, he was still very young, but the time for
independence had come, his parents realised. Two prettily furnished
rooms were taken in the neighbourhood of the office--Wolfgang was to
take a much more active part in the business now--otherwise he would be
left to himself. This coming home so late at night, this responsible
control--no, it would not do for Kate to worry herself to death. Paul
Schlieben had taken this step resignedly.
And it seemed as though the days at the Schliebens' villa were
really to be quieter, more peaceful. It was winter, and the snow was
such a soft protecting cover for many a buried hope.
Wolfgang used to come and visit them, but not too often; besides, he
saw his father every day at the office. It never seemed to enter his
head that his mother would have liked to see him more frequently. She
did not let him perceive it. Was she perhaps to beg him to come more
frequently? No, she had already begged much too much--for many years,
almost eighteen years--and she told herself bitterly that it had been
lost labour.
When he came to them, they were on quite friendly terms with each
other; his mother still continued to see that his clothes were the best
that could be bought, his shirts as well got up as they could
be, and that he had fine cambric night shirts and high collars. That he
frequently did not look as he ought to have done was not her fault; nor
was it perhaps the fault of his clothes, but rather on account of his
tired expression, his weary eyes and the indifferent way in which he
carried himself. He let himself go, he looked dissipated.
But the husband and wife did not speak about it to each other. If he
could only serve his time as a soldier, thought Paul Schlieben to
himself. He hoped the restraint and the severe regulations in force in
the army would regulate his whole life; what they, his parents, had not
been able to effect with all their care, the drill would be able to do.
Wolfgang was to appear before the commissioners in April. At present,
during the winter, he certainly kept to the office hours more regularly
and more conscientiously, but oh, how wretched he often looked in the
morning. Terribly pale, positively ashen. "Dissipation." The father
settled that with a shake of his head, but he said nothing to his son
about it; why should he? An unpleasant scene would be the only result,
which would not lead to anything, and would probably do more harm. For
they no longer met on common ground.
And thus things went on without any special disturbance, but all
three suffered nevertheless; the son too.
Frida thought she noticed that Wolfgang was often depressed.
Sometimes he went to the theatre with her, she was so fond of
"something to laugh at." But he did not join in her laughter, did not
even laugh when the tears rolled down her cheeks with laughing. She
could really get very vexed that lie had so little sense of what was
amusing.
"Aren't you enjoying yourself?"
"Hm, moderately."
"Are you ill?" she asked, quite frightened.
"No."
"Well, what's the matter with you then?"
Then he shrugged his shoulders and looked so forbidding that she did
not question him any more, but only pressed his hand and assured him
she was amusing herself splendidly.
Gradually these invitations to the theatre, which had mostly ended
so pleasantly in a little intimate talk in some cafe or other, ceased.
Frida saw her friend very rarely at all now; he no longer fetched her
from business, and did not turn up at her home.
"Who knows?" said Frau Laemke, "perhaps he'll soon get engaged. He
has probably somebody in his mind's eye."
Frida pouted. She was put out that Wolfgang never came. What could
be the matter with him? She commenced to spy on him; but not only out
of curiosity.
And somebody else made inquiries about his doings too--that was his
mother. At least, she tried to find out what he was doing. But she only
discovered that he had once been seen in a small theatre with a pretty
person, a blonde, whose hair was done in a very conspicuous manner. Oh,
that was the one at Schildhorn. She still saw that fair hair gleam in
the dusk--that was the one who was doing all the mischief.
The mother made inquiries about her son's doings with a sagacity
that would have done credit to a policeman. Had her husband had any
idea of how often--at any time of the day or evening--his wife wandered
round the house where Wolfgang had his rooms, he would have opposed it
most strenuously. Her burning desire to hear from Wolfgang, to know
something about him, made Kate forget her own dignity. When she knew he
was absent she had gone up to his rooms more than once,
nominally to bring him this or that; but when she found herself alone
there--she knew how to get rid of his garrulous landlady--she would
rush about in both his rooms inspecting everything, would examine the
things on his writing-table, even turn over every bit of paper. She was
never conscious of what she was doing as long as she was there, but on
going down the stairs again she felt how she had humiliated herself;
she turned scarlet and felt demeaned in her own eyes, and promised
herself faithfully never, never to do it again. And still she did it
again. It was torture to her, and yet she could not leave it off.
It was a cold day in winter--already evening, not late according to
Berlin notions, but still time for closing the shops, and the theatres
and concerts had commenced long ago--and Kate was still sitting in her
son's rooms. He had not been to the villa to see her for a week--why
not? A great anxiety had suddenly taken possession of her that day, she
had felt obliged to go to him. Her husband imagined she had gone to see
one of Hauptmann's pieces played for the first time--and she could
also go there later on, for surely Wolfgang must soon come home now. In
answer to her letter of inquiry he had written that he had a cold, and
stopped at home in the evenings. Well, she certainly did not want him
to come out to her and catch fresh cold, but it was surely natural that
she should go to see him. She made excuses to herself.
And so she waited and waited. The time passed very slowly. She had
come towards seven o'clock, now it was already nine. She had carefully
inspected both rooms a good many times, had stood at the window looking
down absently at the throng in the streets, had sat down, got up and
sat down again. Now she walked up and down restlessly, anxiously. The
landlady had already come in several times and found something
to do; her inquisitive scrutinising glances would have annoyed Kate at
any other time, but now she took no notice of them. She could not make
up her mind to go yet--if he were ill why did he not come home? Her
anxiety increased. Something weighed on her mind like a premonition of
coming evil. She would really have to ask the landlady now--it was
already ten o'clock--if he always came home so late in spite of his
cold. She rang for the woman.
She came, inwardly much annoyed. Why had Frau Schlieben not confided
in her long ago? Hm, she would have to wait now, the stuck-up
person.
"I suppose my son always comes home late?" Kate inquired. Her voice
sounded quite calm, she must not let such a woman notice how anxious
she really was.
"Hm," said the landlady, "sometimes he does, sometimes he
doesn't."
"I'm only surprised that he conies so late as he has a cold."
"Oh, has the young gentleman a cold?"
What, the woman with whom Wolfgang had lived almost three months
knew so little about him? And she had promised to take such exceedingly
good care of him. "You must give him a hot bottle at night. This room
is cold." Kate shivered and rubbed her hands. "And bring him a glass of
hot milk with some Ems salts in it before he gets up."
The landlady heard the reproach in her voice at once, although
nothing further was said, and became still more annoyed. "Hm, if he
doesn't come home at all, I can't give him a hot bottle at night or hot
milk in the morning."
"What--does not come home at all?" Kate thought she could
not have understood aright. She stared at the woman. "Does not come
home at all?"
The woman nodded: "I can tell you, ma'am, it's no joke letting
furnished rooms, you have to put up with a good deal. Such a young
gentleman--oh my!" She laughed half-angrily, half-amused. "I once had
one who remained away eight days--it was about the first of the month.
I was terrified about my rent--I had to go to the police."
"Where was he then? Where was he then?" Kate's voice quivered.
The woman laughed. "Well, then he turned up again." She saw the
mother's terror, and her good-nature gained the victory over her
malice. "He'll be sure to come again, ma'am," she said consolingly.
"They all come again. Don't fear. And Herr Schlieben has only been two
days away as yet."
Two days away--two days? It was two days since he had written, in
reply to her letter, that he had a cold and must remain at home. Kate
gazed around her as though she had lost her senses, her eyes looked
quite dazed. Where had he been the whole of those two days? Not there
and not at home--oh, he had not been to see her for a whole week. But
he must have been at the office or Paul would have mentioned it. But
where was he all the rest of the time? That was only a couple of hours.
And a day is long. And the nights, the nights! Good God, the nights,
where was he during the nights?
Kate would have liked to have screamed aloud, but the landlady was
watching her with such inquisitive eyes, that she pressed the nails of
one hand into the palm of the other and controlled herself. But her
voice was nothing but a whisper now: "Hasn't he been here at all for
the last two days?"
"No, not at all. But wait a moment." Her love of a gossip
was stronger than the reserve she had meant to show. Drawing near to
the lady who had sunk down in a chair, and dragging a chair forward for
herself, she began to chatter to her, giving her all the details: "It
was Sunday--no, Saturday that I began to notice there was something the
matter with him. Ay, he's one of the dashing sort. He was quite
mad."
"What do you mean? 'Mad' do you say?"
The landlady laughed. "Oh, I don't mean in that way at all, you
mustn't take it so literally, ma'am. Well, he was--well, what am I to
call it?--well, as they all are. Well, and in the evening he went away
as usual--well, and then he did not come back again."
"And how--how was he?" The mother could only get the words out in
jerks, she could no longer speak connectedly, a sudden terror had
overwhelmed her, almost paralysing her tongue. "Did he--seem strange?"
As in a vision his livid face and the place in the sand near
Schildhorn, where the wind was always blowing, appeared before her many
a mother's son, many a mother's son--O God, O God, if he had made away
with himself! She trembled as the leaves do in a storm, and broke down
altogether.
The landlady guessed the mother's thoughts instinctively, and she
assured her in a calm good-natured voice: "No, don't imagine that
for a moment. He wasn't sad--and not exactly happy either--well,
like--like--well, just in the right mood."
"And--oh, could you not give me a--a hint of--where--where he might
be?"
The woman shook her head doubtfully. "Who could know that? You see,
ma'am, there are so many temptations. But wait a moment." She shut her
eyes tightly and pondered. "Some time ago such a pretty girl used to
come here, she used to fetch him to go to the theatre, she
said--well, it may have been true. She often came, very often--once a
week at least. She was fair, really a pretty girl."
"Fair--quite light-coloured hair--a good deal of it and waved over
the ears?"
"Yes, yes, it was done like that, combed over the ears, a large knot
behind you could not help noticing it, it was so fair. And they were on
very friendly terms with each other."
Fair hair--extremely fair. Ah, she had known it at once when she saw
him at Schildhorn with that fair-haired girl. Everything seemed to be
clear to her now. "You--do not know, I suppose--oh, do you happen to
know her name?"
"He called her Frida."
"Frida?"
"Yes, Frida. I know that for certain. But she does not come here any
more now. But perhaps he's got a letter from her. I'll look, just you
wait." And the woman bent down, drew out the paper-basket from under
the writing-table and began to rummage in it.
"He throws everything into the paper-basket, you see," she said in
an explanatory tone of voice.
She had certainly never sought there. Kate looked on with staring
eyes, whilst the woman turned over every scrap of paper with practised
ringers. All at once she cried out: "There, we've got it." And she
placed some bits of paper triumphantly on the table. "Here's a letter
from her. Do you see? I know the writing. Now we'll see."
Laying their heads together the two women tried to piece together
the separate bits of the letter that had been torn up. But they were
not successful, too much was wanting, they could only put a very few
sentences together:
"not come any more--
"angry with me--
"soon come to you some evening--
"always your"
But wait, here was the signature. That had not been torn, here it
stood large and connected at the bottom of the sheet of paper:
"always your"
"FRIDA LAEMKE."
"Frida Laemke?" Kate gave a loud cry of surprise. Frida Laemke--no,
she had never thought that--or were there perhaps two of the same name?
That fair-haired child that used to play in the garden in former years?
Why yes, yes, she had always had bold eyes.
"You know her, I suppose?" asked the landlady, her eyes gleaming
with curiosity.
Kate did not answer. She stared at the carpet in deep thought. Was
this worse--or was it not so bad? Could it not still be hindered now
that she was on the track, or was everything lost? She did not know;
her head was no longer clear enough for her to consider the matter from
a sensible point of view, she could not even think any more. She only
had the feeling that she must go to the Laemkes. Only go there, go there
as quickly as possible. Jumping up she said hastily: "That's all right,
quite all right--thanks. Oh, it's all right." And hastening past the
disconcerted woman she hurried to the door and down the stairs.
Somebody happened to unlock the door from outside at that moment; thus
she got out.
Now she was in the street. She had never stood in Friedrichstrasse
so quite alone at that time of night before; her husband had always
accompanied her, and if she happened to go to the theatre or a concert
alone for once in a way, he had always fetched her himself or
made Friedrich fetch her, at any rate. All at once she was seized with
something that resembled fear, although the beautiful street was as
light as day.
Such a quantity of men, such a quantity of women. They flowed past
her like a stream, and she was carried with them. Figures surged round
her like waves--rustling dresses that smelt strongly of scent, and
gentlemen, men, young and old, old men and youths, some of whom were
hardly more than boys. It was like a corso there--what were they all
seeking? So this was Berlin's much-talked-of and amusing life at night?
It was awful, oh, unspeakably horrible.
Suddenly Kate saw everything from one point of view only. Hitherto
she had been blind, as unsuspicious as a child. A policeman's helmet
came into sight. She flew away as though somebody were in pursuit of
her: the man could not see that she had grey hairs and that she was a
lady. Perhaps he, too, looked upon her as one of those. Let her only
get away, away.
She threw herself into a cab, she fell rather than got into it. She
gave the driver her address in a trembling voice. A burning longing
came over her all at once: home, only home. Home to her clean,
well-regulated house, to those walls that surrounded her like a
shelter. No, he must not come into her clean house any more, not carry
his filth into those rooms.
She drove the whole way huddled up in a corner, her trembling
eyelids closed convulsively; the road seemed endless to her to-day. How
slowly the cab drove. Oh, what would Paul say? He would be getting
anxious, she was so late.
All at once Kate longed to fly to her husband's arms and find
shelter on his breast. She had quite forgotten she had wanted to go to
the Laemkes straight away. Besides, how could she? It was
almost midnight, and who knows, perhaps she would only find a mother
there, who was just as unhappy as she? Lost children--alas, one does
not know which is more terrible, a lost son or a lost daughter!
Kate cried bitterly. But when the tears stole from under her closed
lids and ran down her cheeks, she became calmer. Now that she no longer
saw the long procession in the street, did not see what went on there
every night, her fear disappeared. Her courage rose again; and as it
rose the knowledge came to her, that she was only a weak and timid
woman, but he a robust youth, who was to be a man, a strong swimmer.
There was no need to lose all hope yet.
By the time the first pines in the quiet colony glided past to the
right and left of her and the moonshine showed pure white on their
branches, Kate had made up her mind. She would go to the Laemkes next
day and speak to the mother, and she would not say anything to her
husband about it beforehand. The same fear that now so often made her
mute in his presence took possession of her once more: he would never
feel as she felt. He would perhaps seize the boy with a rough hand, and
that must not be. She was still there, and it was her duty to help the
stumbling lad with gentle hand.
Kate went up to her husband quite quietly, so calmly that he did not
notice anything. But when she took the road to the Laemkes next day, her
heart trembled and beat as spasmodically as it had done before. She had
fought against her fear and faint-heartedness the whole morning; now it
was almost noon on that account, Paul had told her at breakfast that
Wolfgang had not been to the office the day before and only for quite a
short time the preceding day. "I don't know what's the matter with the
boy," he had said. "I'm really too angry with him. But I
suppose we ought to find out what's happened to him." "I'll do so," she
had answered.
Her feet hardly carried her as she slowly crept along, but at last
she almost ran: he had been her child for many, many years, and she
shared the responsibility. She no longer asked herself how she was to
begin the conversation with Frau Laemke, she hoped the right word would
be given her when the time came.
So she groped her way down the dark steps to the cellar where the
Laemkes lived, knocked at the door and walked in without waiting for an
answer.
Frau Laemke was just washing the floor, the brush fell from her hand
and she quickly let down the dress that she had turned up: Frau
Schlieben? What did she want at her house? The pale woman with the
innocent-looking face that had grown so thin gazed at the lady with the
utmost astonishment.
"How do you do, Frau Laemke," said Kate, in quite a friendly voice.
"Is your daughter Frida at home? I want to speak to her."
"No, Frida isn't at home." The woman looked still more perturbed:
what did the lady want with Frida? She had never troubled about her
before. "Frida is at business."
"Is she? Do you know that for certain?"
There was something offensive in her way of questioning, but Frau
Laemke did not notice anything in her innocence. "Frida is never back
from business at this time of day, but she is due in less than half an
hour. She has two hours off at dinner-time; in the evening she does not
come in until about ten, as they only close at nine. But if you would
like her to come to you after her dinner"--Frau Laemke was very curious,
what could she want with Frida?--"she'll be pleased to do so."
"She'll be here in half an hour, you say?"
"Yes, certainly. She's always in a hurry to come home to her
mother--and she's always hungry too."
"I will wait for her if I may," said Kate.
"Please sit down." Frau Laemke hastily wiped a chair with her apron:
after all, it was an honour that Wolfgang's mother came to see Frida in
the cellar. And in a voice full of cordial sympathy she said: "How is
the young gentleman? if I may ask. Is he quite well?"
Kate did not answer her: that was really too great an impertinence,
quite an unheard-of impertinence. How could she ask so boldly? But all
at once she was filled with doubt: did she know anything about it? She
looked into her innocent eyes. This woman had probably been deceived as
she had been. She had not the heart to explain matters--poor mother! So
she only nodded and said evasively: "Quite well, thanks."
They were silent, both feeling a certain embarrassment. Frau Laemke
peeled the potatoes for dinner and put them on, now and then casting a
furtive look at the lady who sat waiting. Kate was pale and tried to
hide her yawns; her agitation had been followed by a feeling of great
exhaustion. For was she not waiting in vain? And this mother would also
wait in vain to-day. The girl, that hypocrite, was not coming. Kate was
seized with something akin to fury when she thought of the girl's
fair hair. That was what had led her boy astray, that had bewitched
him--perhaps he could not throw her off now. "Always your--your Frida
Laemke"--she had sulked in that letter, he had probably wanted to draw
back but--"if you don't come I shall come to you,"--oh, she would no
doubt take care not to let him go, she held him fast.
Kate did not believe that Frida Laemke would come home. It
was getting on for two o'clock. Her mother had lied, perhaps she was
acting in concert with the girl all the time.
But now Kate gave a start, a step was heard on the cellar steps, and
on hearing it her mother said, delighted: "That's Frida."
Someone hummed a tune outside--then the door opened.
Frida Laemke was wearing a dark fur toque on her fair hair now,
instead of the little sailor hat; it was imitation fur, but two pigeon
wings were stuck in on one side, and the hat suited her pert little
face well.
Kate was standing in the greatest agitation; she had jumped up and
was looking at the girl with burning eyes. So she had really come. She
was there but Wolfgang, where was he? She quite shouted at the girl as
she said: "Do you know where my son is--Wolfgang--Wolfgang
Schlieben?"
Frida's rosy face turned white in her surprise. She wanted to say
something, stammered, hesitated, bit her lips and got scarlet. "How
should I know? I don't know."
"You know very well. Don't tell a lie." Kate seized hold of Frida
violently by both her slender arms. She would have liked to catch hold
of her fair hair and scream aloud whilst tearing it out: "My boy! Give
me back my boy!" But she had not the strength to go on shaking her
until she had forced her to confess.
Frida's blue eyes looked at her quite openly, quite frankly, even if
there seemed to be a slight anxiety in her glance. "I've not seen him
for a long time, ma'am," she said honestly. And then her voice grew
softer and there was a certain anxiety in it: "He used to come here
formerly, but he never does now--does he, mother?"
Frau Laemke shook her head: "No, never." She did not feel at all at
her ease, everything seemed so strange to her: Frau Schlieben in their
cellar, and what did she want with Frida? Something had happened, there
was something wrong. But whatever it was her Frida was innocent, Frau
Schlieben must know that. And so she took courage: "If you think that
my Frida has anything to do with it, ma'am, you're very much mistaken.
My Frida has walked out a long time with Flebbe--Hans Flebbe, the
coachman's son, he's a grocer--and besides, Frida is a respectable
girl. What are you thinking about my daughter? But it's always like
that, a girl of our class cannot be respectable, oh no!" The insulted
mother got quite aggressive now. "My Frida was a very good friend of
your Wolfgang, and I am also quite fond of him when I felt so wretched
last summer he sent me fifty marks that I might go to Fangschleuse for
three weeks and get better--but let him try to come here again now,
I'll turn him out, the rascal!" Her pale face grew hot and red in her
vague fear that something might be said against her Frida.
Frida rushed up to her and threw her arm round her shoulders: "Oh,
don't get angry, mother. You're not to excite yourself, or you'll get
that pain in your stomach again."
Frida became quite energetic now. With her arm still round her
mother's shoulders she turned her fair head to Kate: "You'll have to go
somewhere else, ma'am, I can't tell you anything about your son. Mother
and I were speaking quite lately about his never coming here now. And I
wrote him a note the other day, telling him to come and see us--because
I had not seen him for ever so long, and--and--well, because he always
liked to be with me. But he hasn't answered it. I've certainly
not done anything to him. But he has changed greatly." She put on a
knowing look: "I think it would be better if he still lived at home,
ma'am."
Kate stared at her. What did she suspect? What did she know? Did she
really know anything? Doubts rose in her mind, and then came the
certainty: this girl was innocent, otherwise she would not have been
able to speak like that. Even the most artful person could not look so
ingenuous. And she had also confessed quite of her own accord that she
had lately written to Wolfgang--no, this girl was not so bad, it
must be another one with fair hair. But where was she to look for
her?--where find Wolfgang?
And holding out both her hands to the girl as though she were
begging her pardon, she said in a voice full of misery: "But don't you
know anything? Have you no idea whatever where he might be? It was two
days yesterday since he went away--since he disappeared--disappeared
entirely, his landlady does not know where."
"Disappeared entirely--two days ago?" Frida opened her eyes
wide.
"Yes, I've just told you so. That's why I am asking you. He has
disappeared, quite disappeared."
A furious impatience took possession of his mother and at the same
time the full understanding of her painful position. She put her hands
before her face and groaned aloud.
Frau Laemke and her daughter exchanged glances full of compassion.
Frida turned pale, then red, it seemed as if she were about to say
something, but she kept silent nevertheless.
"But he's not bad, no, he's not bad," whispered Frau Laemke.
"Who says that he's bad?" Kate started up, letting her hands fall
from before her face. All the misery she had endured during
those long years and the hopelessness of it all lay in her voice as she
added: "He's been led astray, he has gone astray--he's lost, lost!"
Frida wept aloud. "Oh, don't say that," she cried. "He'll come back
again, he's sure to come back. If only I--" she hesitated and frowned
as she pondered--"knew for certain."
"Help me! Oh, can't you help me?"
Frau Laemke clasped her hands when she heard the poor woman's cry of
"Help me!" and trembled with excitement: how terrible if a mother has
to live to see her child do such things, the child she has brought into
the world with such pain. Forgetting the respect with which she always
regarded Kate she tottered up to her and grasped her cold hand as it
hung at her side: "Oh dear, oh dear, I am so grieved, so terribly
grieved. But calm yourself. You know a mother has still such power,
quite special power, her child never forgets her quite." And she smiled
with a certain security.
"But he isn't my son--not my own son--I'm not his real mother." Kate
confessed now what she had never confessed before. Her fear dragged it
out of her and the hope that the woman would say: "He won't forget such
a mother either, certainly not."
But Frau Laemke did not say it. There was doubt written on her face
and she shook her head. She had not thought of her not being Wolfgang's
real mother at that moment.
There was a troubled silence in the room. All that could be heard
was a sound of heavy breathing, until at last Frida broke the
paralysing stillness in her clear voice. "Have you been to see the
landlady to-day?" she asked. Kate shook her head in silence. "Well
then, ma'am, you say it was two days ago yesterday, then he
may have come back to-day. We shall have to make inquiries. Shall I run
there quickly?"
And she was already at the door, and did not hear her mother call
after her: "Frida, Frida, you must eat a mouthful first, you haven't
eaten any dinner yet," but ran up the cellar steps in her good-natured
haste and compassionate sympathy.
Kate ran after her.
But they got no further news in Friedrichstrasse. There were fires
in the rooms, they had been dusted, the breakfast table had even been
laid as if the young gentleman was expected to come any moment--the
landlady hoped to receive special praise for her thoughtfulness--but
the young gentleman had not returned.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kate Schlieben was ill in bed. The doctor shrugged his shoulders: there
was not much to be done, it was a question of complete apathy. If only
something would happen that would rouse her, something for which it
would repay her to make an effort, she would be all right again. At
present he prescribed strengthening food--her pulse was so bad--every
hour a spoonful of puro, essence of beef, eggs, milk, oysters and such
like.
Paul Schlieben was sitting near his wife's bed; he had just come
home from town. He was sitting there with bent head and knit brows.
"Still nothing about him? What did the woman say--nothing at all
about him?" Kate had just whispered in a feeble voice.
His only answer was: "We shall have to communicate with the police
after all now."
"No, no, not with the police. Should we have him sought as though he
were a criminal? You're terrible, Paul. Be quiet, Paul." Her
voice that had been so feeble at first had almost become a scream.
He shrugged his shoulders. "There's nothing left for us to do but
that," and he looked at her anxiously and then lowered his head.
It seemed to him as though he could not realise the calamity that
had overtaken him, as though it were too great. It was now a week since
Wolfgang had gone away--the misery that fellow had brought on them was
terrible, terrible. But his wife's condition made him still more
uneasy. How would it end? Her increased nervousness was dangerous; and
then there was her complete loss of strength. Kate had never been a
robust woman, but now she was getting so thin, so very thin; the hand
that lay so languidly on the coverlet had become quite transparent
during the last week. Oh, and her hair so grey.
The man sought for the traces of former beauty in his wife's face
with sad eyes: too many wrinkles, too many lines graven on it, furrows
that the plough of grief had made there. He had to weep; it seemed too
hard to see her like that. Turning his head aside he shaded his eyes
with his hand.
He sat thus in silence without moving, and she did not move either,
but lay as though asleep.
Then somebody knocked. The man glanced at his wife in dismay: had it
disturbed her? But she did not raise her eyelids.
He went to the door on tip-toe and opened it. Friedrich brought the
post, all sorts of letters and papers. Paul only held out his hand to
take them from habit, he took so little interest in anything now.
During the first days after Wolfgang's disappearance Kate had always
trembled for fear there should be something about him in the newspaper,
she had been tortured by the most terrible fears; now she no
longer asked. But it was the man's turn to tremble, although he tried
to harden himself: what would they still have to bear? He never took up
a paper without a certain dread.
"Don't rustle the paper so horribly, I can't bear it," said the
feeble woman irritably. Then he got up to creep out of the room--it was
better he went, she did not like him near her. But his glance fell on
one of the letters. Whose unformed, copy-book handwriting was that?
Probably a begging letter. It was addressed to his wife, but she did
not open any letters at present; and he positively longed to open just
that letter. It was not curiosity, he felt as if he must do it.
He opened the letter more quickly than he was in the habit of doing.
A woman had written it, no doubt a girl the letters were carefully
formed, with no character in them. And the person had evidently
endeavoured to disguise her writing.
"If you wish to find out anything about your son, you must go to
140, Puttkammerstrasse, and watch the third storey in the back
building, left side wing, where 'Knappe' is written above the bell.
There she lives."
No name had been signed underneath it; "A Good Friend" was all that
was written below.
Paul Schlieben had a feeling as if the paper were burning his
fingers--common paper, but pink and smelling of cheap perfumed soap--an
anonymous letter, faugh! What had this trash to do with them? He was
about to crumple it up when Kate's voice called to him from the bed:
"What have you got there, Paul? A letter? Show me it."
And as he approached her, but only slowly, hesitatingly, she raised
herself up and tore the letter out of his hand. She read it and cried
out in a loud voice: "Frida Laemke has written that. I'm sure it's from
her. She was going to look for him--and her brother and the man she's
engaged to--they will have found him. Puttkammerstrasse--where is that?
140, we shall have to go there. Immediately, without delay. Ring for
the maid. My shoes, my things--oh, I can't find anything. For goodness'
sake do ring. She must do my hair--oh, never mind, I can do it all
myself."
She had jumped out of bed in trembling haste; she was sitting in
front of her dressing-table now, combing her long hair herself. It was
tangled from lying in bed, but she combed it through with merciless
haste.
"If only we don't arrive too late. We shall have to make haste. He's
sure to be there, quite sure to be there. Why do you stand there
looking at me like that? Do get ready. I shall be ready directly, we
shall be able to go directly. Paul, dear Paul, we are sure to find him
there--oh God!" She threw out her arms, her weakness made her dizzy,
but her will conquered the weakness. Now she stood quite firmly on her
feet.
Nobody would have believed that she had just been lying in her bed
perfectly helpless. Her husband had not the courage to oppose her
wishes, besides, how could things be worse than they were? They could
never be worse than they were, and at all events she would never be
able to reproach him any more that he had not loved the boy.
When, barely half an hour later, they got into the carriage
Friedrich had telephoned for, she was less pale than, and did not look
so old as, he.