The Son of His Mother Part 36

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-cla.s.s.

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 Lamke, 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 amus.e.m.e.nt, 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 b.u.t.ter dish of blue gla.s.s, a glazed paper-bag full of gingerbread nuts, but above all a little d.i.c.ky-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 pus.h.i.+ng 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 hoa.r.s.e voice.

Wolfgang p.r.i.c.ked 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s 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 Lamke 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."