The Son of His Mother Part 42

It was not the length and the full particulars she gave in the letter that pleased Paul Schlieben so much--she had also written long detailed letters to him from Franzensbad at the time--but he read something between the lines. It was an unexpressed wish, a longing, a craving for him. And he resolved to go to the south. After all, they had lived so many years together, that it was quite comprehensible that the one felt lonely without the other.

He settled the business he had in hand with energetic eagerness. He hoped to be ready to start in a week at the latest. But he would not write to her beforehand, would not write anything whatever about it, it was to be a surprise for once in a way.

The midday sun at Sestri was hot, but in spite of its gleaming power the air became agreeable and refres.h.i.+ng just a little before sunset. A sweet odour poured forth from every plant then, and this streaming wealth of perfume was so soothing, so delicious. Kate felt her heart overflow. Thank G.o.d, she was still not quite exhausted, not quite worn-out yet, she still possessed the faculty of enjoying what was beautiful. If Paul had only been there.

High up, quite at the edge of the outermost promontory on that coast and surrounded by the white foam of the ardent sea that longs to climb up to the cypresses and pines, the holm-oaks and the strawberry-trees, the many sweet-smelling roses, lies the garden of a rich marchese. The mother and her son were sitting there. They were looking in silence at the gigantic sun, which hung red, deep purple just above the sea that, quiet and devout, solemn and expectant in the holy conception of the light, shone with the splendid reflection of it. It was one of those hours, those marvellous rare hours in which even mute things become eloquent, when the hidden becomes revealed, the stones cry aloud.

The woman felt quite startled as she gazed and gazed: oh, there it was, the same gigantic red sun that she had once seen disappear into the waves of the wild Venn.

Alas, that that thought should come even now and torture her. She turned quickly and looked at Wolfgang with timid apprehension--if he should guess it. But he was sitting on a stone, taking no interest in his surroundings; he had crossed his legs and his eyes were half closed. Of what was he dreaming? She had to rouse him.

"Isn't that splendid, grand, sublime?"

"Oh yes."

"It's setting--look how it's setting." Kate had jumped up from the ivy-clad pine-stump and was pointing at it. Her cheeks were flushed and she was full of enthusiasm at the sight of the purple sea, the radiant light that was disappearing in such splendour. The tears came to her eyes; they were dazzled. When she looked again it struck her that Wolfgang was very pale.

"Are you cold?" A sudden coolness blew from the sea.

"No. But I"--suddenly he opened his dark eyes wide and looked at her firmly--"I should like to know something about my mother. Now you can speak--I'm listening."

"Of your--your"--she stammered, it came so unexpectedly. Alas, the sun, the Venn sun. She would have preferred to have been silent now; now she had not the courage she had had before.

But he urged her. "Tell me." There was something imperious in his voice. "What is her name?--Where does she live?--Is she still alive?"

Kate looked around with terrified eyes. "Is she still alive?"--she could not even answer that. Oh yes, yes, surely--of course--she was still alive.

And she told him all. Told him how they had got him away from the Venn, had fled with him as though he had been stolen.

As she told him it she turned pale and then red and then pale again--oh, what a pa.s.sion he would fly into. How he would excite himself. And how angry he would be with her. For they had never troubled about his mother since they left the Venn, never again. She could not tell him any more.

He did not ask any other questions. But he did not fly into a pa.s.sion as she had feared; she need not have defended her action when he remained silent for some time, positively make excuses for it. He gave her a friendly glance and only said: "You meant well, I feel sure of that."

As they went down the steps leading from the park to the town he offered her his arm. He led her, to all appearances, but still she had the feeling as if he were the one who needed a support--he tottered.

The cemetery at Sestri lies behind the marchese's garden. The white marble monuments gleamed through the grey of evening; the white wings of an enormous angel rose just above the wall that encircles the park.

Kate looked back: did not something like a presentiment seem to be wafted to them from there--or was it a hope? She did not know whether Wolfgang felt as she did or whether he felt anything, but she pressed his arm more closely and he pressed hers slightly in return.

She heard him walking restlessly up and down his room during the night that followed the evening they had spent in the garden of Villa Piuma. She had really made up her mind to leave him alone--she had looked after him much too much formerly--but then she thought he was still a patient, and that the agitation he must have felt on hearing her story might be injurious to him. She wanted to go to him, but found his door locked. He only opened it after she had repeatedly knocked and implored him to let her come in.

"What do you want?" There was again something of the old repellent sound in his voice.

But she would not allow herself to be deterred. "I thought you might perhaps like to--well, talk a little more about it," she said tenderly.

"What am I to do?" he cried, and he wrung his hands and started to stride restlessly up and down the room again. "If only somebody would tell me what I'm to do now. But n.o.body knows. n.o.body can know. What am I to do--what am I to do?"

Kate stood there dismayed: oh, now he had such thoughts. She saw it, he had wept. She clung to him full of grieved sympathy. She did what she had not done for a long time, for an exceedingly long time, she kissed him. And shaken in the depths of her being by his "What am I to do?" as by a just reproach, she said contritely: "Don't torture yourself. Don't fret. If you like we'll go there--we'll look for her--we shall no doubt find her."

But he shook his head vehemently and groaned. "That's too late now--much too late. What am I to do there now? I am no use for that or for this"--he threw out his hands--"no use for anything. Mother, mother!" Throwing both his arms round the woman he fell down heavily in front of her and pressed his face against her dress.

She felt he was sobbing by the convulsive movement of his body, by the tight grasp of his hot hands round her waist.

"If only I knew--my mother--mother--oh, mother, what am I to do?"

He wept aloud, and she wept with him in compa.s.sionate sympathy. If only Paul had been there. She could not find any comforting words to say to him, she felt so deserving of blame herself, she believed there was no longer any comfort to be found. Before her eyes stood the _one_ agonising, torturing question: "How is it to end?" engraved in large letters, like the inscriptions over cemetery gates.

Kate took counsel with herself: should she write to her husband "Come"? Wolfgang was certainly not well again. He did not complain, he only said he could not sleep at night and that made him so tired. She did not know whether it was moral suffering that deprived him of his sleep or physical. She was in great trouble, but she still put off the letter to her husband. Why should she make him hasten to them, take that long journey? It would not be of any use. It was still not clear to her that she wanted him for herself, for her own sake. She even omitted writing to him for a few days.

Wolfgang lay a great deal on the couch in his room with the shutters closed; he did not even read. She often went in to keep him company--he must not feel lonely--but it seemed almost as though he were just as pleased to be alone.

When she looked at him furtively over the top of her book in the semi-obscurity of the room, she could not think he was so ill. It was probably a disinclination to do anything more than anything else--a slackness of will-power that made him so apathetic also physically. If only she could rouse him. She proposed all manner of things, drives along the coast to all the beautifully situated places in the neighbourhood, excursions into the mountains--they were so near the highest summits in the Alps, and it was indescribably beautiful to look down into the fruitful valleys of the _cinque terre_ that were full of vineyards--sails in the gulf, during which the boat carries you so smoothly under the regular strokes of practised boatmen, that you hardly notice the distance from the sh.o.r.e and still are very soon swimming far out on the open sea, on that heavenly clear, blue sea, whose breath liberates the soul. Did he want to fish--there were such exquisite little gaily-coloured fish there, that are so stupid and greedy they grab at every bait--would he not shoot ospreys as well? She positively worried him.

But he always gave her an evasive reply; he did not want to. "I'm really too tired to-day."

Then she sent for the Italian doctor. But Wolfgang was angry: what did he want with that quack? He was so disagreeable to the old man that Kate felt quite ashamed of him. Then she left him alone. Why should she try to show him kindness if he would not be shown kindness?

She despaired about him. It made her very depressed to think that their journey also seemed a failure--yes, it was, she saw that more every day. The charm of novelty that had stirred him up during the first days had disappeared; now it was as it had been before--worse.

For now the air no longer seemed to agree with him. When they walked together he frequently stood still and panted, like one who has difficulty in breathing. She often felt quite terrified when that happened. "Let us turn round, I know you don't feel well." But this difficulty in breathing pa.s.sed away so quickly that she scolded herself for the excessive anxiety she always felt on his account, an anxiety that had embittered so many years of her life.

But one night he had another attack, worse than the others he had already had at home.

It might have been about midnight when Kate, who was sleeping softly, rocked to sleep by the constant roar of the sea, was startled by a knocking at the door between their two rooms, and by a cry of "Mother, oh mother!" Was not that a child moaning? She sat up drowsily--then she recognised his voice.

"Wolfgang, yes, what's the matter?" She threw on her morning-gown in a fright, pushed her feet into her velvet shoes, opened the door--there he stood outside in his s.h.i.+rt and with bare feet, trembling and stammering: "I feel--so bad." He looked at her imploringly with eyes full of terror, and fell down before she had time to catch hold of him.

Kate almost pulled the bell down in her terror. The porter and chambermaid came running. "Telegraph 'Come' to my husband--to my husband. Quickly, at once."

When the scared proprietor of the hotel also appeared, they laid the sick lad on his untidy bed again; the porter rushed to the telegraph station and for the doctor, the chambermaid sobbed. The landlord himself hurried down into his cellar to fetch some of the oldest brandy and the best champagne. They were all so extremely sorry for the young gentleman; he seemed to be lying in a deep swoon.

Kate did not weep like the good-natured person the chambermaid, whose tears ran down her cheeks the whole time. She had too much to think of, she had to do her duty until the last. Until the last--now she knew it. It was not necessary for the doctor to shake his head nor to whisper mysteriously to the proprietor of the hotel--she knew it.

Restoratives were brought from the chemist's; the sick lad's head was lowered, his feet raised, they gave him camphor injections--the heart would not be whipped on any more.

Kate did not leave him; she stood close to his bed. The golden, invincible, eternal light was just rising gloriously out of the waves when he stammered something once more. She bent over him as closely as she had once done over the sleeping boy, when she had longed to give him breath of her breath, to mould him anew for herself, to give him life of her life. She had not that wish any longer. She let him go now.

And if she bent over him so closely now, hung on his lips so affectionately, it was only to hear his last wish.

"Mo-ther?" There was such a question in his voice. He said nothing further. He only opened his eyes once more, looked round searchingly, sighed and then expired.

The sun laughed in at the windows. And the woman, who, with dry eyes, was now standing at one of them looking out at the splendour, at the refres.h.i.+ng, glorious morning that was more sparkling than ever before, felt vanquished by the power of nature. It was too great, too sublime, too irresistible--she must bend the knee admiringly before nature, however veiled her eyes were. Kate stood a long time in deep thought. Outside was life, here in the room was death. But death is not the greatest evil. She turned round with a trembling sigh and stepped back to the bed: "Thank G.o.d!"

Then she sank on her knees before the dead boy, folded his cold hands and kissed him.

She did not hear that someone tapped softly at the door.