The elderly woman was seized with a great longing for the days when they loved each other. She felt ashamed of herself, but she could not help it, she stretched out her hand to the bed that stood next to hers: "Give me your hand, Paul."

And as she groped about in the dark, she found his hand that was searching for hers. They clasped hands.

"Good night, dear husband."

"Good night, dear wife."

They fell asleep thus.

Wolfgang stood at the window of his room, looking out into the obscurity that hid all the stars and listening to the roar of the distant wind. Was the night so sultry, or was it only he who was so unbearably hot? A thunder-storm seemed to be coming on. Or was it only an inward restlessness that weighed him down? What was it that tortured him?

He thought he had hardly ever felt so uncomfortable before. He was vexed with his father, vexed with his mother—if they had been different from what they were, if everything had been different from what it was, he would not have been obliged to tell lies, to dissemble. He was vexed with himself. Oh, then he would have felt easier now, much freer. He knit his brows angrily; a sudden longing for something he could not name made him tremble. What did he want, what was he longing for? If he only knew!

He gave a loud sigh, and stretched his arms with the strong hands out into the night. Everything was so narrow, so narrow. If he only were the boy again who had once climbed out of this window, yes, this window—he leant out and measured the height—who had run away, hurrah! without asking himself where he was going, simply on and on. That had been magnificent! A splendid run!

And he leant further and further out of the window. The night wind was whispering, it was like an alluring melody. He trembled with eagerness. He could not tear himself away, he had to remain there listening. The wind was rising, there was a rustling in the trees, it rose and rose, grew and grew. The rustling turned into a blustering.

He forgot he was in a room in a house, and that he had parents there who wanted to sleep. He gave a shout, a loud cry, half of triumph. How beautiful it was out there, ah!

A storm. The snorting wind, that had risen so suddenly, blew his hair about and ruffled it at the temples. Ah, how beautifully that cooled. It was unbearable in the house, so gloomy, so close. He felt so scared, so terrified. How his heart thumped. And he felt so out of temper: how unpleasant it had been that evening again. His father had said he ought to have confessed it to him—of course, it would have been better—but if he threatened him in that way after the thing was over in a manner, what would he have said before? This everlasting keeping him in leading strings was not to be borne. Was he still a child? Was he a grown-up man or was he not? Was he the son of rich parents or was he not? No, he was not. That was just what he was not.

The thunder rumbled afar in the dark night. Suddenly there was a brilliant flash—that was just what he was not, not the son, not the son of this house. Otherwise everything would have been different. He did not know in what way—but different, oh, quite different.

Wolfgang had not thought of these things for a long time—the days were so full of distractions but now in this dark stormy night, in which he would not be able to sleep, he had to think. What he had always driven back because it was not pleasant, what he thought he had quite forgotten—perhaps because he wished to forget it—he would have to consider now. What had been repressed for so long broke out forcibly now, like the stormy wind that suddenly came rushing along, bending the tops of the pines so that they cowered with terror. Wolfgang would have liked to have made his voice heard above the roar of the storm.

He was furious, quite absurdly furious, quite thoughtlessly furious. Oh, how it lightened, crashed, rumbled, roared and snorted. What a conflict—but it was beautiful nevertheless. He raised himself up on his toes and exposed his hammering breast to the strong wind. He had hardly ever felt such delight as when those gusts of wind struck his chest like blows from a fist. He flung himself against them, he regularly caught them on his broad chest.

And still there was torture mingled with the delight. Face to face with this great storm, that became an event in his life as it were, everything else seemed so pitifully small to him, and he too. There he stood now in coat and trousers, his hands in his pockets, rattling his loose money; he was annoyed because he had let them lecture him, and still he had not the courage to throw everything aside and do exactly as he liked.

The lad followed the yellow and blue flashes of lightning that clove the dark stormy sky in zigzag, and poured a dazzling magic light over the world, with sparkling eyes. Oh, to be able to rush along like that flash of lightning. It rushed out of the clouds down to the earth, tore her lap open and buried itself in it.

His young blood, whose unused vitality quivered in his clenched fists, his energy, which had not been spent on any work, groaned aloud. All at once Wolfgang cursed his life. Oh, he ought to be somewhere quite different, live at quite a different place, quite different.

And even if he were not so comfortable there, let him only get away from this place, away. It bored him so terribly to be here. He loathed it. He drew a deep breath, oh, if only he had some work he would like to do! That would tire him out, so that he had no other desire but to eat and then sleep. Better to be a day labourer than one who sits perched on a stool in an office and sees figures, nothing but figures and accounts and ledgers and cash-books—oh, only not let him be a merchant, no, that was the very worst of all.

Hitherto Wolfgang had never been conscious of the fact that he would never be any good as a merchant; now he knew it. No, he did not like it, he could not go on being a merchant. Everyone must surely become what nature has meant him to be.

He would say it in the morning—no, he would not go to the office any more, he would not do it any longer. He would be free. He leant out of the window once more, and scented the damp, pleasant smell that rose up out of the soaked earth with distended nostrils, panting greedily like a thirsty stag.

The rain had come after the thunder and lightning, and had saturated the thirsty earth and penetrated into it, filling all its pores with fertility. It rained and rained uninterruptedly, came down in torrents as if it would never end.

Something gave way in Wolfgang's soul; it became soft.

"Mother," he whispered dreamily, stretching out his hot hands so that the cool rain bathed them. Then he stretched his head far out too, closed his eyes and raised his head, so that the falling drops refreshed his burning lids and the wide-open, thirsty lips drank the tears of heaven as though they were costly wine.

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

But in the morning, when the sand in the Grunewald had swallowed up all the rain, and nothing was left of the storm that had cleared the air during the night but the somewhat fresher green of the lawns, a stronger smell of the pines and many fallen acorns and chestnuts on the promenade, Wolfgang thought differently again. The day was beautiful; he could swim, ride, go to the office for a short time, eat, drink, play tennis, make an appointment for the evening—there were so many places where you could amuse yourself—and why should he spoil this splendid day for himself and, after all, his father too? He thrust every graver thought aside as burdensome. But his soul was not at peace all the same. He tried to deaden thought.

Kate did not fall asleep so quickly as on the previous night; even if she had promised herself not to sit up and wait for him any more, she could not sleep if he were not at home. She heard the clocks strike terribly loudly, as she had done on a former occasion; every noise, even the slightest, penetrated to her ear through the stillness of the house, sounding much louder. She would hear him, she must hear him as soon as he stuck the key into the front door.

But she heard nothing, although she lay long awake listening. The hours crept on, the day dawned, a pale streak of light no broader than her thumb stole through the closed shutters; she saw it on the wall opposite to her bed. The light became gradually less and less wan, more decided in colour, a warm, sunny, ruddy gold. No cock proclaimed the new day with triumphant crow, the house was so quiet, the garden so silent, but the light betrayed that it was morning.

She must have slept, however, without knowing it. What, was it already morning? She was sure now that he must have been at home a long time, she had simply not heard him come in. That calmed her. But she dressed hurriedly, without paying as much attention to her dress as usual, and she could not resist standing outside his door to listen before going down to breakfast. He was not up yet—of course not, he had come home so late—he was still asleep. She would be able to look at him without his knowing. She went in, but he was not asleep.

The woman looked at the bed with bewildered eyes—there it was, open, invitingly white and comfortable, but he was not in it. The bed had not been touched. The room was empty.

Then her heart grew cold with dread. So she had not slept, his return had not escaped her. On that former occasion he had come home—true, he was drunk, but still he had come home—but not this time!



CHAPTER XV

"Wolfgang not here again?" said Paul Schlieben as he joined his wife in her room. "He comes so little to the office too. They always assure me that he has just been—but why doesn't he keep the same office-hours as I? Where is he?" He looked inquiringly and impatiently at his wife.

She shrugged her shoulders, and the evening sun, which was casting a last gleam through the tall window as it set, touched her cheek with red for a moment. "I don't know," she said in a low voice. And then she looked so lost as she gazed out into the autumn evening, that her husband felt that her thoughts were far away, looking for something outside.

"I've just come from town, 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.



CHAPTER XVI

They had agreed that Wolfgang should not live at the villa with them any longer. True, he was still very young, but the time for independence had come, his parents realised. Two prettily furnished rooms were taken in the neighbourhood of the office—Wolfgang was to take a much more active part in the business now—otherwise he would be left to himself. This coming home so late at night, this responsible control—no, it would not do for 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.



CHAPTER XVII

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.



CHAPTER XVIII

Kate was alone with her son. Now she had him all to herself. What she had striven for jealously before had now been given to her. Not even nature that looked in at the windows with such alluring eyes could attract him. It surprised her—nay, it almost saddened her now—that he did not show more interest. They travelled through Switzerland—he saw it for the first time—but those high mountains, whose summits were lost in the snow and the clouds and that moved her to tears of adoring admiration the first time she saw them, hardly wrung a glance from him. Now and then he looked out of the carriage window, but he mostly leant back in his corner reading, or dreaming with open eyes.

"Are you tired?"

"No," he said; nothing but "no," but without the surly abruptness which had been peculiar to him. His tone was no longer unpleasant and repellent.

Kate looked at her son with anxious eyes: was the journey tiring him? It was fortunate that she was with him. It seemed to her that she was indispensable, and a feeling of heartfelt satisfaction made her insensible to the fatigue of the long journey.

Wolfgang was not much interested in the cathedral at Milan. "Yes, grand," he said when she grew enthusiastic about the marvellous structure. But he would not go up to the platform with her, from which they would have a magnificent view all round as far as the distant Alps, as the weather was so clear. "You go alone, leave me here."

At first it seemed ridiculous to her that she, the old woman, should go up whilst he, the young man, remained below. But at last she could not resist the desire to see all those marvellous things again that she had already once enjoyed. She took a ticket for the platform, and he opened one of the camp stools that stand about in the enormous empty cathedral and sat down, his back against a marble pillar.

Oh, it was nice to rest here. After the market outside, with its noise and the buzzing of voices and all the gaudy colours, he found a twilight here filled with the perfume of incense. It did not disturb him that doors opened and closed, that people came in and out in crowds. That here a guide gave the visitors the information he had learnt by heart, drawling it quite loudly in a cracked voice without heeding that he meanwhile almost stumbled over the feet of those who were kneeling on low benches, confessing their sins in a whisper to a priest seated there. That there someone was celebrating mass—the priests were curtsying and ringing their bells—whilst here a cook chattered to a friend of hers, the fowls that were tied together by their legs lying beside her.