The Son of His Mother Part 29

BOOK III

CHAPTER XIII

The clocks in the house ticked terribly loudly. They could be heard through the silence of the night like warning voices.

Oh, how quickly the time flew. It had quite lately been evening--midnight--and now the clock on the mantel-piece already struck a short, clear, hard one.

The lonely woman pressed her hands to her temples with a shudder.

How they throbbed, and how her thoughts--torturing thoughts--hurried along, madly, restlessly, like the hasty tick of the clocks.

Everybody in the house was asleep--the manservant, the maids, her husband too--long ago. Only she, she alone had not found any sleep as yet.

And everything was asleep outside as well. The pines stood around the house motionless, and their dark outlines, as stiff as though cut out of cardboard, stood out clearly against the silvery sky of night.

No shouts, no footsteps, no sound of wheels, no singing, no laughter, not even a dog's bark came from the sleeping colony in the Grunewald. But something that sounded like a gentle sighing was heard around the white villa with the red roof and the green shutters.

The mother, who was waiting for her son, listened: was anybody there? No, it was the breeze that was trying to move the branches of the old gnarled pines.

Kate Schlieben was standing at the window now. She had torn it open impatiently some time before, and now she leant out of it. As far as her eye could reach there was n.o.body to be seen, n.o.body whatever. There was still no sign of him.

The clock struck two. The woman gazed round at the mantel-piece with an almost desperate look: oh, that unbearable clock, how it tortured her. It must be wrong. It could not be so late.

Kate had sat up waiting for Wolfgang many an evening, but he had never remained out so long as to-day. Paul had no objection to the boy going his own way. "My child," he had said, "you can't alter it. Lie down and go to sleep, that is much more sensible. The boy has the key, he will come home all right. You can't keep a young fellow of his age in leading-strings any longer. Leave him, or you'll make him dislike our house--do leave him in peace."

What strange thoughts Paul had. He was certainly quite right, she must not keep the boy in leading-strings any longer. She was not able to do so either--had never been able to do so. But how could she go to bed quietly? She would not be able to sleep. Where could he be?

Kate had grown grey. In the three years that had elapsed since her son's confirmation she had changed considerably outwardly. Whilst Wolfgang had grown taller and stronger and broader like a young tree, her figure had drooped like a flower that is heavy with rain or is about to wither. Her fine features had remained the same, but her skin, which had retained almost the delicate smoothness of a young girl's for so long, had become looser; her eyes looked as if she had wept a great deal. Her acquaintances found Frau Schlieben had grown much older.

When Kate saw herself in the gla.s.s now, she did not blush with pleasure at the sight of her own well-preserved looks; she did not like looking at herself any more. Something had given her a shock both inwardly and outwardly. What that had been n.o.body guessed. Her husband knew it certainly, but he did not speak of it to his wife. Why agitate her again? Why tear open old wounds?

He took good care never again to mention the day on which the boy had been confirmed. It was also best not to do so. He had certainly taken him very severely to task on account of his ungrateful behaviour at the time, and had demanded of him that he should treat them more considerately and his mother also more affectionately. And the lad, who had no doubt repented of his conduct long ago, had stood there like a poor sinner; he had said nothing and had not raised his eyes. And when his father had finally led him to his mother, he had allowed himself to be led and to be embraced by his mother, who had thrown both her arms round his neck. She had wept over him and then kissed him.

And then nothing more had ever been said about it.

The white house with its bright green and red, which was always being embellished and improved, both inside and out, struck everybody who pa.s.sed by as extremely cosy. The trippers on Sundays used to stand outside the wrought iron railing and admire the abundance of flowers, the ivy-leaved geraniums on the balconies and the splendid show of fine rose-trees in summer, the azaleas and camellias behind the thick gla.s.s of the conservatory and the rows of coloured primulas and early hyacinths and tulips between the double windows in winter. The lady in her dress of soft cloth and with the wavy grey hair and the gentle face, with its rather sad smile, suited the house and the flowers and her peaceful surroundings well. "Delightful," the people used to say.

When Wolfgang heard such things in former years when he was a boy, he used to make faces at the people: the house and garden were no concern of theirs, there was nothing to admire about them. Now it flattered him when they remained standing, when they even envied him.

Oh yes, the place was quite nice. He felt very important.

Paul Schlieben and his wife had never placed any special value on money, they had always had enough, a competency was simply a matter of course to them; and they never guessed that their son placed any value on wealth. When Wolfgang used to think now of how little he had once cared for it all in his boyish impetuosity, and that he had run away without money, without bread, he had to smile. How childish. And when he remembered that he once, when he was already older and able to reflect upon his actions, had asked impetuously for something that would have been equivalent to giving up all that made his life so comfortable, he shook his head now. Too silly.

To compare himself with others afforded him a certain satisfaction.

Kesselborn was still sweating in the top form--his people made a point of his studying theology, possibly in order to become court chaplain on account of his n.o.ble birth--Lehmann had to help his father in his forwarding business in spite of the very good examination he had pa.s.sed on leaving school, and look after the furniture-vans. And Kullrich--ah, poor Kullrich, he had consumption, like his mother.

The corners of Wolfgang's mouth drooped with a half-contemptuous, half-compa.s.sionate smile when he thought of his school-fellows. Was that living? Oh, and to live, to live was so beautiful!

Wolfgang was conscious of his strength: he could tear up trees by the roots, blow down walls that stood in his way with his breath as though they were cards.

School was no longer the place for him, his limbs and his inclinations had outgrown the benches. Besides, he was already growing a moustache. There had long been a black shadow on the upper lip that made one guess it was coming, and now it had come, it had come!

Surely such a grown-up person could not remain in the second form any longer? And why should he? He was not to be a scholar. Wolfgang left school after pa.s.sing the examination that admitted him to the top form.

Paul Schlieben had given up, for the present, his intention of sending him abroad as soon as he had finished school; he wished to keep him a little longer under his own eye first. Not that he wanted to guard him as carefully as Kate did, but the old doctor, their good friend whom he esteemed so highly, had warned him in confidence once when they were sitting quite alone over a gla.s.s of wine: "Listen, Schlieben," he had said, "you had better take care of the boy. I wouldn't let him go so far away as yet--he is so young. And he is a rampageous fellow and--after what he went through as a child, you know--hm, one can never tell if his heart will hold out."

"Why not?" Schlieben had asked in surprise. "So you look upon him as ill?"

"No, certainly not." The doctor had grown quite angry: at once this exaggeration! "Who says anything about 'ill'? All the same, the lad must not do everything in a rush. Well, and boys will be boys. We know that from our time."

And both men had nodded to each other, had brightened up and laughed.

Wolfgang had a horse to ride on, rode first at the riding-school and then a couple of hours each day out of doors. His father made a point of his not sitting too much at the office. He would easily learn what was necessary for him to know as a merchant, and arithmetic he knew already.

The two partners, old bachelors, were delighted with the lively lad, who came to the office with his whip in his hand and sat on his stool as if it were a horse.

Paul Schlieben did not hear any complaints of his son; the whole staff, men who had been ten, twenty years with the firm, all well-oiled machines that worked irreproachably, hung round the young fellow: he was their future chief. Everything worked smoothly.

Both father and mother were complimented on their son. "A splendid fellow. What life there is in him." "He's only in the making," the man would answer, but still you could see that he was pleased to hear it in his heart. He did not feel the torturing anxiety his wife felt. Kate only raised her eyebrows a little and gave a slight, somewhat sad smile of consent.

She could not rejoice in the big lad any longer, as she had once rejoiced in the little fellow on her lap. It seemed to her as though she had altogether lost the capacity for rejoicing, slowly, it is true, quite gradually, but still steadily, until the last remnant of the capacity had been torn out by the roots on one particular day, in one particular hour, at the disastrous moment when he had said: "I will go, I want to think of my mother--where is she?" Ever since then. She still wished him to have the best the earth could give, but she had become more indifferent, tired. He had trodden too heavily on her heart, more heavily than when in days gone by his small vigorous feet had stamped on her lap.

She bent further out of the window with a deep sigh, as she waited all alone for him. Was it not unheard of, unpardonable of him to come home so late? Did he not know that she was waiting for him?

She clenched her hand, which rested on the windowsill, in such a paroxysm of anger as she had rarely felt. It was foolish of her to wait for him. Was he not old enough--eighteen? Did he still want waiting for like a boy coming home alone from a children's party for the first time? He had made an appointment with some other young fellows in Berlin--who knew in what cafe they were spending their night?

She stamped her foot. Her hot breath rose like smoke in the cold clear night in spring, she s.h.i.+vered with exhaustion and discomfort. And then she thought of the hours, all the hours during which she had watched for him already, and her heart was filled with a great bitterness. Even her tongue had a bitter taste--that was gall. No, she did not feel the love of former years for him any longer. In those days, yes, in those days she had felt a rapture--even when she suffered on his account; but now she only felt a dull animosity. Why had he forced himself into her life? Oh, how smooth, how free from sorrow, how--yes, how much happier it had been formerly. How he had broken her spirit--would she ever be able to rise again?

No. A hard curt no. And then she thought of her husband. He had also robbed her of him. Had not he and she been one formerly, one in everything? Now this third one had forced his way between them, pushed her husband and her further and further apart--until he went on this side and she on that.

A sudden pain seized the woman as she stood there pondering, a great compa.s.sion for herself drove the tears into her eyes; they felt hot as they dripped down on her hands that she had clenched on the window-sill. If he--if he had only never come into their lives----

At that moment a hand touched her shoulder and made her start. She turned round like lightning: "Are you there at last?"

"It's I," said her husband. He had woke up, and when he did not hear her breathing beside him he had got vexed: really, now she was sitting downstairs again, waiting for the lad. Such want of sense. And after lying a little time longer waiting for her and vexed with her, he had cast on a few necessary garments, stuck on his slippers and groped his way through the dark house. He s.h.i.+vered with cold and was in a bad humour. That he had been disturbed in his best sleep and that she would have a sick headache next day was not all; no, what was worse was that Wolfgang must find it downright intolerable to be watched in that manner.

It was natural that he scolded her. "What wrong is there if he remains away a little longer for once in a way, I should like to know, Kate? It's really absurd of you. I used also to loaf about as a young fellow, but thank goodness, my mother was sensible enough not to mind.

Come, Kate, come to bed now."

She drew back. "Yes--you!" she said slowly, and he did not know what she meant by it. She turned her back on him and leant out of the window again.

He stood a few moments longer waiting, but as she did not come, did not even turn round to him, he shook his head. He would have to leave her, she really was getting quite peculiar.

He was half asleep as he went upstairs again alone; he almost stumbled with fatigue, and his limbs were heavy. But in spite of that his thoughts were clearer, more inexorable than in the daytime, when there is so much around one to distract one's attention. At that hour his heart was filled with longing for a wife who would lead him quietly and gently along a soft track in his old age, and whose smiles were not only outward as the smiles on Kate's face. A wife whose heart laughed--and, alas, his Kate was not one of those.