Frederick the Great and His Court Part 26

"Ah, it is you, mother," said he, peevishly. "I hoped it was some one wis.h.i.+ng to buy, then I could have bought some bread."

"Bread!" said the mother anxiously; "did I not, before I went out, give you the money to buy bread for you and your little sister?"

"Yes, but when father came home he threatened to beat me if I did not give up the money at once; I was frightened, and gave it; then he left, and Anna and I have been crying for bread, while our father is amusing himself at the alehouse and our mother has taken a holiday, and has been looking at the festivities which I also would have been glad to see, but could not, because I must stay at home and watch the shop into which no one has entered, and take care of my little sister, who cries for bread, which I cannot give her." As he finished he threw an angry look at his mother, who, deeply grieved, had fallen back on a wooden bench. She looked lovingly at her son, and holding out her arms to him, said:

"Come, give me a kiss, and reward me for all my pain and suffering."

"Give us bread, then perhaps I will kiss you," said he, harshly.

She looked terrified into his hard, cold face. She pressed her hand to her high, pale forehead, as if she would force back the madness that threatened her; she held the other hand to her heart, whose wild, feverish throbbings were almost choking her.

"My G.o.d! my G.o.d!" murmured she, "am I then already mad? Am I dreaming?

Is this my son, my Karl, who loved me so dearly--my boy, who was the only comfort in my misery, the confidant of my tears and wretchedness?

Can I, whom he looks at with such dark glances, be his mother--his mother, who joyfully bears for him the scorn of the world, who has suffered and hungered for him, worked for him during the long, cold winter nights--his mother, whose love for him was so great that she was willing not to die, but for his sake to live on in her woe? Karl, my son, come to your mother, for you well know how tenderly she loves you, and that she will die if you do not love her."

"No, mother," said he, not moving, "you do not love me, nor my little sister Anna; for if you loved us, you would not have left us to-day, and joined the gay people who were making merry while your poor children were at home groaning and crying."

"Oh, my child! my child! I did not go, out of idle curiosity," said she, sadly. "I went to consult the oracle of your future, and to see if there was not to be some hope, some comfort for my children; if this would not be the beginning of brighter days. I wished to read all this in a man's face; I wished to see if he still had a heart, or if, like all princes, he had become hard and pitiless."

She had forgotten that she was speaking to her son; she was addressing herself, and had entirely forgotten that he was present.

"Ah," said he, sneeringly, "you thought he would now give you money for your shame; but father told me that all the gold in the world would not wipe out this shame, and that brandy was the only way besides death that could make us forget that we are despised and accursed. Father told me--"

The boy stopped and retreated a few steps; his mother had risen from her seat and stood before him, deadly pale, with widely-opened, flas.h.i.+ng eyes, with trembling lips; every muscle of her face in play; her whole form trembling in a paroxysm of rage and frightful torture.

It was not the head of a woman, but a Medusa; not the look of a tender, loving mother, but of a wild, angry, threatening mad woman.

"What did your father tell you?" cried she, wildly, to the trembling boy before her. "What did he say? I will, I must know! You are silent; speak, or I dash my brains out against the wall, and you will be guilty of your mother's death."

"You will beat me if I tell you," said he insolently.

"No, no, I will not beat you," said she, breathlessly; and folding her hands as if to pray, she continued: "My child, my child, have mercy on your mother. Tell me what he said; with what words he poisoned your heart, and made the love for your poor mother die so quickly. Tell me all, my son; I will not beat but bless you, though your words should cut my heart like a knife."

She wished to press him to her heart, but he resisted pa.s.sionately.

"No," said he, "you shall not kiss me; father said you made all you touched unhappy and despised, and that we would be well, happy, and rich if you were not our mother."

She shuddered; her arm fell powerless to her side, a hollow groan escaped her, her eyes were fixed and tearless.

"What more did he tell you?" murmured she; "with what other tales did he amuse my child?" She looked at him with such a sad, painful smile, that he trembled and glanced timidly down; he now saw what torture he was preparing for her.

"Father was drunk," said he; "when he heard that you had gone out, he was furious; he cursed you so dreadfully that Anna and I both cried, and I begged him not insult you so, for it hurt me, for then I still loved you."

"Then he still loved me!" said his mother, wringing her hands.

"But he laughed at me, and said you did not deserve our love; that you were the cause of all our misery and want; he had become poor and wretched because he had married you, and taken to drink so as not to hear or see men pointing and laughing at you when you pa.s.sed. But, mother, you look so pale, you tremble so! I will say no more; I will forget all father said; I will love you, mother; but do not look at me so dreadfully, and do not tremble in that way."

The boy wept from grief and terror. His old love had awakened; he approached his mother to kiss her, but now she pushed him back.

"I do not tremble," said she, though her teeth were chattering. "I do not tremble, and you must not forget what your father said; you must tell me all again. Speak on, speak! I must hear all, know all. What more did he say?"

The boy looked at her sadly. His voice, which before had been insolent and rude, was now quiet and gentle, and his eyes were full of tears.

"He said he married you out of pity, and because you brought him a few thousand dollars. But this gold brought no blessing with it, but a curse; and that since then it had gone worse with him than with the executioner, whom all despise, and who dares not enter an honest man's house. But that you were more despised and disgraced than the miserable man who had stripped you in the open market and whipped you through the streets; that the boys had pelted you with mud, and that the streets became red with the blood that flowed down your back."

The poor woman gave a piercing shriek, and fell as if struck by lightning to the floor. The boy threw himself weeping by her side; and the little girl, who had been sleeping in another corner of the room, awakened by the scream, came running toward them crying for bread.

But the mother moved not; she lay there pale, with closed eyes; she was cold and lifeless; she did not hear her poor little girl cry; she did not feel the hot kisses and tears of her son, who was imploring her in anxious, tender, loving words, to open her eyes, to tell him that she was not angry, that she had forgiven him. But he suddenly stopped and listened eagerly; he thought he heard the well-known sound of the bell.

"There it was again; if it is father, he will beat me to death,"

murmured he, as he went toward the shop door. "He forbade me to repeat a word of all that to mother."

He opened the door, and there stood not his father but a richly-dressed gentleman, who, with a friendly gesture, pushed the boy aside and entered the shop.

"I want some tobacco, my little fellow," said he; "therefore call Mr.

Schommer to give me some from his best canister."

"My father is not at home," said the boy, staring at the handsome, friendly gentleman.

"Well, I did not come precisely on his account," said the gentleman, with a strange laugh. "Call your mother, Madame Schommer, and tell her I wish to make a purchase."

"Mother is lying in the back room on the floor, and I believe she is dead!" said Karl, sobbing.

The gentleman looked at him with amazement. "Did you say dead? That would be very inconvenient, for I have greatly counted on her life.

What did she die of? Is a physician with her?"

"No one is with her but my little sister; you can hear her crying!"

"Yes, I can hear her; and it is in truth no edifying music. No one else, did you say? Where, then, are your friends? where is your father?"

"Father is at the ale-house, and friends we have none; we live all alone, for no one will live with us."

"Well, if you are alone, I may go to your mother," said he, with a careless laugh. "It is likely your mother has fainted; and as I am learned in these feminine swoons, it is very possible I may call her back to life. Show the way, little Cupid, and lead me to your mother, the fainting Venus." And laughing, he followed the astonished boy into the back room.

She still lay without movement on the floor, and little Anna, kneeling by her side, was praying for bread.

"That is your mother, Madame Schommer?" asked the strange gentleman, looking curiously at the pale woman.

"Yes, that is my mother," said the boy. "Mother, mother, wake up!" said he, covering her face with kisses. "Wake up, I do not believe what father said. I will love you! He was drunk! Ah, my dear, dear mother, only wake up!"

"She will awake," said the stranger, who was bending over her, laying his hand on her heart and temples, "she is, as I thought, not dead but in a swoon."

The boy laughed aloud with glee. "My mother is not dead," said he, crying and laughing at once. "She will wake up and love me; we will all be so happy!"

"Mother, mother, give me some bread!" whimpered poor little Anna.

"Are you then so hungry?" said the stranger, who was getting tired of this scene.

"Yes," said the boy, "she is hungry; we are both hungry. We have had nothing to eat all day. Mother gave us money before she went out to buy bread and milk, but father came and took it to buy brandy for himself."