The Son of His Mother Part 21

She had stopped and sighed, full of a deep distress which drove away the anger from her eyes.

"He put his arms round her neck from behind. And he kissed her.

'Dear Cillchen,' he said. And she drew him towards her, took him almost on her lap--he is much too big for that, much too big--and spoke softly to him the whole time."

"Did you understand what she said?"

"No. But they laughed. And then she gave him a slap behind--you should only have seen it--and then he gave her one. They took turns to slap each other. Do you consider that proper?"

"That goes too far, you are right. But it's nothing bad. She is a good girl, quite unspoilt as yet, and he a stupid boy. Surely you don't intend to send the girl away for that? For goodness' sake, Kate, think it well over. Did they see you?"

"No."

"Well, then, don't do it. It's much wiser. I'll speak to the boy some time when I find an opportunity."

"And you think I couldn't--I can't--I mustn't send her away?" Kate had grown quite dejected in the presence of his calmness.

"There's no reason whatever for it." He was fully convinced of what he said, and wanted to take up his paper again. Then he caught her eyes, and stretched out his hand to her across the table. "Dear child, don't take everything so much to heart. You're making your life miserable--your own, the boy's--and--yes, mine too. Take things easier. There! And now I'll read my paper at last."

Kate got up quietly--he was all right, he was reading. She had not given him her hand. His calmness hurt her. It was more than calmness, it was indifference, slackness. But she would not be slack, no, she would not get tired of doing her duty.

And she went after her boy.

Wolfgang was already upstairs in his room. But he had first crept softly up to Cilia, who was drying the plates and dishes in the kitchen, from behind, had given her a pinch and then thrown both arms round her and begged for a story: "Tell me something"--but she would not.

"I don't know anything."

"Oh, do tell me something. About the procession. Or even if it's only about your sow. How many little ones did she have last time?"

"Thirteen." Cilia could not resist _that_ question, but still she remained taciturn.

"Is your cow going to calve this year too? How many cows has the biggest farmer near you? You know, the one down near the Warthe, Haulander. Do tell me." He knew all about everything, knew all the people at her home and all the cattle. He could never get tired of hearing about them and about the country where the bells tinkle for matins and vespers or call with a deep, solemn sound for high ma.s.s on Sundays. He was so very fond of hearing about the country, about the large fields in which the blue flax and golden rye grow, about the bluish line of forest on the horizon, about the wide, wide stretches of heath, where the bees buzz busily over the blooming heather and the fen-fowls screech near the quiet waters in the evening, when the sky and the sun are reflected red in them.

"Tell me about it," he begged and urged her.

But she was reluctant and shook her head. "No, go away; no, I won't.

The mistress has been looking at me like that again this evening--oh, like--no, I can't explain. I believe she's going to give me notice."

He had crept up to his room in a sulk and undressed himself. He had grown so accustomed to it that he could not sleep now when Cilia did not tell him something first. Then he fell into such a quiet sleep, and dreamt so beautifully of wide stretches of heather covered with red blossoms, and of quiet waters near which the fen-fowls screeched, which he went out to shoot.

Oh, that Cilia, what was the matter with her to-day? How stupid!

"The mistress is going to give me notice." Nonsense, as if he would stand that. And he clenched his hand.

Then the door creaked.

He craned his neck forward: was it she? Was she coming, after all?

It was his mother. He slipped hastily into bed and drew the covering up to his forehead. Let her think he was already asleep.

But she did not think so and said: "So you're still awake?" and she sat down on the chair near his bed on which his things were. Cilia always sat there too. He compared the two faces in silence. Oh, Cilia was much prettier, so white and red, and she had dimples in her fat cheeks when she laughed, and she was so jolly. But his mother was not ugly either.

He looked at her attentively; and then suddenly a hitherto quite unknown feeling came over him: oh, what narrow cheeks she had. And the soft hair near her temples--was--was----

"You're getting quite grey," he said all at once, quite dismayed, and stretched out his finger. "There, quite grey."

She nodded. A look of displeasure lengthened her delicate face, and made it appear still narrower.

"You should laugh more," he advised. "Then people would never see you had wrinkles."

Wrinkles--oh yes, wrinkles. She pa.s.sed her hand over her forehead nervously. What uncharitable eyes children had. Youth and beauty had no doubt disappeared for ever--but it was this boy who had deprived her of the last remnant of them. And it sounded like a reproach as she said: "Sorrow has done that. Your serious illness and--and----" she hesitated: should she begin now about what troubled her so?"--and many other things," she concluded with a sigh.

"I can understand that," he said navely. "You're so old, too."

Well, he was honest, she had to confess that; but he said it without a trace of tender feeling. She could not suppress a slight irritation; it was not pleasant to be reminded of your age by your child. "I'm not so old as all that," she said.

"Oh, I don't mean either that you're _very_ old. But still much older than Cilia, for example."

She winced--he always brought in that person.

"Cilia is a pretty girl, don't you think so, mother?"

She got so angry that she lost control of herself. "Do you think so?" she said curtly, rising. "She's leaving on the first of October."

"She's leaving? Oh no!" He stared at her incredulously.

"Yes, yes." She felt she was cruel, but could she be otherwise? His disbelieving tone expressed such terror. "She's leaving. I'm going to give her notice."

"Oh no, you won't." He laughed. "You won't do that."

"Yes, I will." She emphasised each word; it sounded irrevocable.

He still shook his head incredulously: it could not be. But then he suddenly remembered Cilia's depression and her words that evening: "I suppose she's going to give me notice." "No, you shan't do so." He started up in bed.

"I shall not ask you."

"No, you shan't, you shan't," he cried. All at once Cilia moved across his mental vision, her ingenuous eyes looked at him so sadly--he liked her so much--and she was to go? He was seized with fury.

"She shan't go, she shan't go," he howled, and shouted it louder and louder: "She shan't go." He was in a mad, indescribable frame of mind.

He threw himself back, stretched himself out and struck the bedstead with his feet, so that it creaked in all the joints.

Kate was terrified; she had never seen him so violent before. But how right she was. His behaviour showed her that plainly. No, she must not call herself cruel even if his tears flowed; it was necessary that Cilia went. But she was sorry for him.

"Wolfchen," she said persuasively, "why, Wolfchen. She tried to soothe him, and drew up his cover that had fallen down with gentle hand. But as soon as she touched him he pushed her away.

"Wolfchen--Wolfchen--you with your Wolfchen! As if I were a baby still. My name is Wolfgang. And you are unjust--envious--you only want her to go away because I like her better, much better than you."

He shouted in her face, and she became deathly white. She felt as though she must scream with pain. She who had suffered so much for his sake was of less account than Cilia in his opinion? All at once she remembered all the burning and ineffaceable tears she had already shed for his sake. And of all the hard hours during his illness none had been so hard as this one.

She forgot that he was still a child, a naughty boy. Had he not said himself: "I'm not a child any longer"? His behaviour seemed unpardonable. She left the room without a word.