Whenever Frida Laemke met Wolfgang Schlieben now, she cast down her eyes
and he pretended not to see her. He was angry with her: the confounded
little minx to betray him. She was the only one who could have put his
parents on his track. How should they otherwise have ever guessed it?
He could have kicked himself for having once given that viper hints
about his acquaintance in Puttkammerstrasse. Frida and her friendship,
just let her try to talk to him again about friendship. Pooh, women on
the whole were not worth anything.
A fierce contempt for women had taken possession of the young
fellow. He would have liked to spit in their faces--all venal
creatures--he knew quite enough about them now, ay, and loathed
them.
The boy, who was not yet nineteen, felt tired and old; strangely
tired. When Wolfgang thought of the time that had just passed, it
seemed to him like a dream; now that the rooms in Friedrichstrasse had
been given up and he was living with his parents again, even like a bad
dream. And when he met Frida Laemke--that could not be avoided as he
drove to and fro regularly in office hours now--he felt a bitter pang
every time. He did not even say how do you do to her, he could not
bring himself to say even that.
If only he could throw of! the oppression that weighed him down.
They were not unkind to him--no, they were even very good--but still he
had always the feeling that they only tolerated him. That irritated him
and made him sad at the same time. They had not reproached him, would
probably not do so either, but his father was always grave, reserved,
and his mother's glance had something that simply tortured him. He was
filled with a morbid distrust: why did they not tell him straight out
they despised him?
Something that was almost remorse troubled him during the nights
when he could not sleep. At such times his heart would throb,
positively flutter, he had to sit up in bed--he could not bear to lie
down--and fight for breath. Then he stared into the dark, his eyes
distended with terror. Oh, what a horrible condition that was. In the
morning when the attack was over--this "moral sickness"--as he used to
call it scornfully--he was vexed at his sentimentality. What wrong had
he done? Nothing different from what hundreds of other young fellows
do, only they were not so idiotic as he. That Frida, that confounded
gossip. He would have liked to wring her neck.
After those bad nights Wolfgang was still more unamiable, more
taciturn, more sulky, more reserved than ever. And he looked more
wretched.
"He's run down," said Paul Schlieben to himself. He did not say so
to his wife--why agitate her still more?--for he could see that she was
uneasy from the way she took care of him. She did not make use of words
or of caresses--those days were over--but she paid special attention to
his food; he was positively pampered. A man of his age ought to be much
stronger. His back no longer seemed to be so broad, his chest was less
arched, his black eyes lay deep in their sockets and had dark
lines under them. He held himself badly and he was always in very bad
spirits. His spirits, yes, his spirits, those were at the root of all
the evil, but no care could alter them and no medicine. The young
fellow was dissatisfied with himself, that was it, and was it any
wonder? He felt ashamed of himself.
And the situation in which he had found him rose up before his
father's mental vision with terrible distinctness.
He had let his wife wait downstairs for him--true, she had made a
point of going up with him, but he had insisted on her staying down in
the court-yard, that narrow, dark yard which smelt of fustiness and
dust--he had gone up alone. Three flights of stairs. They had seemed
terribly steep to him, his knees had never felt so tired before when
mounting any stairs. There was the name "Knappe." He had touched the
bell--ugh, what a start he had given when he heard the shrill peal.
What did he really want there? As the result of an anonymous letter he,
Paul Schlieben, was forcing his way in on strange people, into a
strange house? The blood surged to his head--and at that moment the
person opened the door in a light blue dressing-gown, no longer young,
but buxom, and with good-natured eyes. And by the gleam of a miserable
kitchen lamp, which lighted up the pitch-dark passage even at noon, he
had seen a smart top-coat and a fine felt hat hanging in the entrance,
and had recognised Wolfgang's things. So he was really there? There? So
the anonymous letter had not lied after all.
He did not know exactly what he had done after that; he only knew he
had got rid of some money. And then he had led the young man down the
stairs by the arm--that is to say, dragged him more than led him. Kate
had met them halfway. She had found the time too long downstairs,
open-mouthed children had gathered round her, and women had
watched her from the windows. She was almost in despair: why did Paul
remain upstairs such a terribly long time? She had had no idea, of
course, that he had first to wake his son out of a leaden sleep in an
untidy bed. And she must never, never know.
Now they had got him home again, but was it a pleasure? To that Paul
Schlieben had to give a curt "no" as answer, even if he had felt ever
so disposed to forgive, ever so placable. No joy came to them from that
quarter now. Perhaps they might have some later, much later. For the
time being it would be best for the young man to serve his time as a
soldier.
Wolfgang was to present himself on the first of April. Schlieben
pinned his last hope to that.
Wolfgang had always wished to serve with the Rathenow Hussars, but
after their last experiences his father deemed it more advisable to let
him join the more sedate infantry.
Formerly Wolfgang would have opposed this plan very strenuously--in
any case it must be cavalry--now it did not enter his head to do so. If
he had to serve as a soldier, it was quite immaterial to him where; he
was dead tired. His only wish was to sleep his fill for once. Kullrich
was dead--his sorrowing father had sent him the announcement from
Goerbersdorf towards Christmas--and he? He had wasted too many nights in
dissipation.
It was a blow to Paul Schlieben that Wolfgang was not accepted as a
soldier. "Disqualified"--a hard word--and why disqualified?
"Serious organic defect of the heart"--his parents read it with eyes
that thought they had made a mistake and that still read correctly.
Wolfgang was very exhausted when he came home after the
examination, but he did not seem to mind much that he was disqualified.
He did not show it--but was he not, all the same?
The doctor tried to put everything in as favourable a light as he
could after he, too, had examined him. "Defect of the heart, good
gracious, defect of the heart, there isn't a single person who has a
perfectly normal heart. If you take a little care of yourself,
Wolfgang, and live a regular life, you can grow to be a very old man
with it."
The young fellow did not say a word.
The Schliebens overwhelmed their doctor with reproaches. Why had he
not told them it long ago? He must surely have known. Why had he left
them in such ignorance?
Dr. Hofmann defended himself: had he not again and again exhorted
them to be careful? He had been anxious about the boy's heart ever
since he had had scarlet fever, and had not concealed his fears. All
the same, he had not thought matters would get worse so quickly. The
boy had lived too gay a life.
"Serious organic defect of the heart"--that was like a sentence of
death. Wolfgang laid down his arms. All at once he felt he had no
longer the strength to fight against those attacks in the night. What
he had fought out all alone in his bed, even without lighting his
candle, before he knew that, now drove him to his feet. It drove him to
the window--he tore it open--drove him round the room, until he at
last, completely exhausted, found rest in the arm-chair. It drove him
even to knock at his parents' door: "Are you asleep? I am so
frightened. Sit up with me."
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
They had had bad nights for weeks. Wolfgang had suffered and his mother
with him. How could she sleep when she knew that somebody in
the next room was in torture?
Now he was better again. Their old friend's medicines had had a good
effect, and Wolfgang had gone through a regular cure: baths, friction,
massage, special diet. Now they could be quite satisfied with the
result. It was especially the strictly regular life that had done him
good; his weight had increased, his eyes were brighter, his complexion
fresher. They were all full of hope--all except one. That one had no
wish to live any longer.
The month of April was raw and stormy, quite exceptionally cold. It
was impossible for the convalescent to be as much in the open air as
was desirable, especially as any exercise that would warm him, such as
tennis, cycling, riding, was still too tiring for him. The doctor
proposed to send him to the Riviera. Even if there were only a few
weeks left before it would be too hot there, that would suffice.
His father was at once willing for the young fellow to go. If it
would do him good of course he must go. Kate offered to accompany
him.
"But why, my dear lady? The youngster can quite well go alone," the
doctor assured her.
However, she insisted on it, she would go with him. It was not
because she still feared she might lose him; it was her duty to do so,
she must accompany him even if she had not wished to. And at the same
time a faint desire began to stir in her, too, unknown to herself. She
was so well acquainted with the south--should they go to Sestri, for
example? She looked inquiringly at her husband. Had they not once spent
some perfectly delightful days on the coast near Spezia? There, near
the blue sea, where the large stone pines are greener and give more
shade than the palms further south, where there is something crisp and
refreshing in the air in spite of its mildness, where there is
nothing relaxing in the climate but everything is vivifying.
He smiled; of course they could go there. He was so pleased that his
wife's enthusiasm was not quite a thing of the past.
Wolfgang rummaged about in his room for a long time on the afternoon
before their departure. Kate, who feared he might exert himself too
much whilst packing, had sent Friedrich to assist him. But the latter
soon came downstairs again: "The young gentleman wishes to do it
alone."
When Wolfgang had put the last things into his trunk he looked round
his room thoughtfully. He had grown up there, he had so often looked
upon the room as a cage, would he ever return to it?
_Here have we no continuing city, but we seek one to come._
The text he had received at his confirmation hung on the wall
opposite him in a beautiful frame. He had not read it for a long time.
Now he read it again, smiling slightly, a little scornfully and a
little sadly. Yes, he would flutter back into it. He had got used to
the cage.
And now he resolved to do something more as the very last thing--to
go to Frida.
Frau Laemke was speechless with astonishment, almost frightened, when
she saw young Heir Schlieben step into her room about the time her
Frida generally came home. She stammered with embarrassment: "No, Frida
isn't at home yet--and Artur isn't either--and father is up in the
lodge--but if you will put up with my company until--until--they
come"--she pushed him a chair with a good deal of noise.
He drew his chair close to the table at which she had been sewing.
Now he was sitting where he used to sit. And he remembered his first
invitation to the Laemkes' quite distinctly--it had been
Frida's tenth birthday--he had sat there with the children, and the
coffee and the cakes had tasted so excellent.
And a host of other memories came back to him--nothing but pleasant
memories--but still he and Frau Laemke did not seem able to start a
proper conversation. Did he feel oppressed at the thought of meeting
Frida again? Or what made him so restless there? Yes, that was it, he
did not feel at home there now.
There was something sad in his voice when he said to Frau Laemke as
he held out his hand to her on leaving: "Well--good-bye."
"Well, I hope you'll have a real good time--good bye for the
present."
He nodded in reply and shook her hand once more, and then he went.
He preferred to go and meet Frida, that was better than sitting in that
room. His heart was throbbing. Then he saw her coming towards him.
Although it was dark and the street lamps not so good as in the
town, he recognised her already far off. She was wearing the same
sailor hat with the blue band she had had the summer before; it was
certainly rather early in the year, but it suited her--so fresh and
springlike.
A feeling surged up in Wolfgang, as she stood before him, that he
had never known in the presence of any woman: a brotherly feeling of
great tenderness.
He greeted her in silence, but she said in a glad voice: "Oh, is it
you, Wolfgang?" and held out her hand to him.
He strolled along beside her as he had done before; she had
slackened her pace involuntarily. She did not know exactly on what
footing they were with each other, but still she thought she could feel
that he was no longer angry.
"We are going away to-morrow," he said.
"Well, I never! Where?"
And he told her.
She interrupted him in the middle. "Are you angry with me?" she
asked in a low voice.
He shook his head in the negative, but he did not say anything
further about it.
All she had intended saying to him, that she had not been able to do
anything else, that Hans had found him out, that she had promised his
mother and that she herself had been so extremely anxious about him,
remained unsaid. It was not necessary. It was as if the past were dead
and buried now, as if he had entirely forgotten it.
When he told the girl, who was listening with much interest, about
the Riviera where he was going, something like a new pleasure in life
seemed to creep into his heart again. Oh, all he wanted was to get away
from his present surroundings. When he got to the Riviera everything
would be better. He had not got an exact impression of what it would be
like there; he had only half listened, no, he had not listened at all
when his mother told him about the south, it had all been so
immaterial to him. Now he felt himself that it was a good thing to take
an interest in things again. He drew a deep breath.
"Are you going to send me a pretty picture post-card from there,
too?" she asked.
"Of course, many." And then he laid his arm round her narrow
shoulders and drew her towards him. And she let him draw her.
They stood in the public street, where the bushes that grew on both
sides of it were already in bud and the elder was swelling with the
first sap, and clung to each other.
"Come back quite well," she sobbed.
And he kissed her tenderly on her cheek: "Frida, I really have to
thank you."
When Frida went to business next morning--it was half past
seven--she said to her mother: "Now he's gone," and she remained
thoughtful the whole day. She had not spoken to Wolfgang for many weeks
and she had not minded it at all during the time but since the evening
before she had felt sad. She had thought much of him, she could not
forget him at all.