The boy's friendship with the LÄmkes was restricted. Her boy should never go there again. In a manner KÄte had grown jealous of the woman who spoke of such improper things and did not mind what she said when children were present.

Frau LÄmke could not boast any longer of receiving a friendly greeting from the fine lady. Frau Schlieben walked past her house now without looking at her, and did not seem to hear her respectful: "Good morning, ma'am."

"Tell me, Wolfgang, what have I done to your mother?" she asked the boy one day when she had been out shopping and saw him again for the first time for several months. He was leaning against the railing that enclosed the plot of ground opposite their house, staring fixedly at their door.

He gave a start; he had not heard her coming. And then he pretended not to see her, and stood flicking the whip he held in his hand.

"Are you never coming to see us again?" she went on. "Have you been having a fight with Artur or been quarrelling with Frida? No, it can't be that, as they've been looking out for you so long. I suppose your mother won't let you, is that it? Hm, we're not good enough any more, I suppose? Of course not. LÄmke's only a porter and our children only a porter's children."

Her good-natured voice sounded mortified, and the boy listened attentively. He turned scarlet.

"Oh, I see, you are not allowed to. All right, stop away then, it's all the same to me." She turned round to go, full of anger.

"Well, what do you want now?" A sound from him made her stop; she remained against her will. There was something in the glance the boy gave her, as he looked her full in the face, that kept her standing. "I know, my dear," she said good-naturedly, "it's not your fault. I know that."

"She won't let me," he muttered between his teeth, cracking his whip with a loud noise.

"Why not?" inquired the woman. "Hasn't she said why you're not to play with Artur and Frida any more? Artur has got a new humming top--oh my, how it dances. And Frida a splendid ball from the lady who lives in our house."

The boy's eyes flashed. He put out his foot and gave such a violent kick to a stone in front of him that it flew over to the other side of the street. "I shall play with them all the same."

"Come, come, not so defiant," said the woman admonishingly. "It may be the children were naughty--bless you, you can't be answerable for all they do. Listen, little Wolfgang, you must obey your mother if she won't hear of your coming." She sighed. "We've been very fond of you, my dear. But it's always like that, the friendship is very warm to begin with, and then all of a sudden the rich think better of it. And you really are too big to sit with us in the cellar now----"

She was chattering on, when she felt someone seize hold of her hand. The boy held it in a very firm grip. Bending down to him--for she was tall and thin and her eyes were no longer very good owing to the demi-obscurity of their room--she saw that he had tears in his eyes. She had never seen him cry before, and got quite a fright.

"Hush, hush, WÖlfchen. Now don't cry, for goodness' sake don't, it isn't worth it." Taking hold of a corner of her coarse blue working-apron--she had just run away from the wash-tub--she wiped his eyes and then his cheeks, and then she stroked the hair that grew so straight and thick on his round head.

He stood quite still in the street that was already so sunny, so spring-like, as though rooted to the spot. He who had shrunk from caresses allowed her to stroke him, and did not mind if others saw it too.

"I shall come to see you again, Frau LÄmke. She can say what she likes. I will come to you."

As he went away, not running as he usually did, but slowly and deliberately, the woman followed him with her eyes, and was surprised to see how big he had grown.

KÄte had no easy time. However much she fought against WÖlfchen having any intercourse with the LÄmkes--positively stood out against it--the boy was stronger than she. He succeeded in gaining his end; the children were to come to him, even if he might not go to them. In the garden, at any rate--he had wrung that concession from his mother.

They had had a struggle, as it were--no loud words and violent scenes, it is true, no direct prohibitions on her side, no entreaties on his, but a much more serious, silent struggle. She had felt that he was setting her at defiance, that the opposition in him increased more and more until it became dislike--yes, dislike of her. Or did she only imagine it?

She would have liked to speak to her husband about it--oh, how she wanted to do it!--but she dreaded his smile, or his indirect reproach. He had said a short time ago: "It's no trifle to train a child. One's own is difficult enough, how much more difficult"--no, he should not say "somebody else's" again, no, never again. This child was not somebody else's, it was their own--their beloved child. She gave way to Wolfgang. Anyhow there was no danger if the children came to him in the garden; she could always see and hear them there. And she would be good to them, she made up her mind the children should not suffer because she had already had to weep many a secret tear at night on her pillow on account of their friendship. She would make her boy fond of the garden, so fond that he would never long to go out into the street again.

But when she hid the coloured eggs on Easter Sunday, the day she had given WÖlfchen permission to invite the LÄmkes and also the coachman's son into the garden, and put the nests and hares and chickens into the box-tree that was covered with shoots and among the clusters of blue scyllas that had just commenced to flower, something like anger rose in her heart. Now these children would come with their bad manners and clumsy shoes and tread down her beds, those flower-beds with which they had taken so much trouble, and in which the hyacinths were already showing buds under the branches that protected them and the tulips lifting up their heads. What a pity! And what a pity they would not be able to enjoy this first really spring day quietly, listening undisturbed to the piping blackbird. And they had even refused to come. Hans Flebbe had certainly accepted the invitation without showing any resentment--the coachman knew what was the right thing to do--but the LÄmkes did not want to come on any account--that is to say, their mother did not wish it. Lisbeth had been sent there twice; the second time she had come back quite indignant: "Really, what notions such people have." "Dear boy, it's no good, they won't come," KÄte had had to say. But then she had noticed how downcast he looked, and in the night she had heard him sigh and toss about. No, that would not do. She wanted to feel his arm, which he had flung so impetuously round her waist when she gave him permission to invite the children, round her neck too. And then she had sat down and written--written to this uneducated woman, addressing her as "Dear Madam," and had asked her to let the children look for eggs to please Wolfgang.

Now they were there. They stood stiff and silent on the path dressed in their best clothes, and did not even look at the flower-beds. KÄte had always imagined she understood how to draw out children extremely well, but she did not understand it in this case. She had praised Frida's bran-new, many coloured check frock, and had lifted up her fair plait on which the blue bow was dangling: "Oh, how thick!"--and she had remarked on Artur's shiny boots and Flebbe's hair, which was covered with pomade and which he wore plastered down on both sides of his healthy-looking footman's face with a parting in the middle. She had also made inquiries about their school report at Easter, but had never got any longer answer than "yes" and "no."

The children were shy. Especially Frida. She was the eldest, and she felt how forced the friendly inquiries were. She made her curtsey as she always did, quickly and pertly like a water wagtail bobbing up and down, but her high girl's voice did not sound so clear to-day; the tone was more subdued, almost depressed. And she did not laugh. Artur copied his sister, and Hans Flebbe copied the girl too, for he always considered all she did worthy of imitation. The two boys stood there, poor little wretches, staring fixedly at the points of their boots and sniffing, as they dared not take out their handkerchiefs and use them.

KÄte was in despair. She could not understand that her Wolfgang could find pleasure in having such playfellows. Moreover, he was exactly like the others that day, taciturn and awkward. Even when they commenced to look for the eggs, the children set about it very stupidly; she had positively to push them to the hiding-place.

At last, tired out and almost irritable, KÄte went indoors; she would only stop there a short time. No, she could not stand it any longer, always to have to talk and talk to the children and still not get any answer out of them.

But hardly had she reached her room, when she pricked up her ears; a cry reached her from outside that was as clear, as piercing and triumphant as a swallow's when on the wing. Children shouted like that when they were thoroughly happy--oh, she knew that from former times, from the time before WÖlfchen had come. Then she had often listened to such shouts full of longing. Oh--she had only to go, then the children were merry, then Wolfgang was merry. She felt very bitter.

She had gone to the window and was looking out into the garden, with her forehead pressed against the pane. How they ran, jumped, hopped, laughed. As though they had been set free. They were trying to catch each other. Frida darted behind the bushes like a weasel, came into sight again with a sharp piercing laugh, and then disappeared once more with a shriek. Wolfgang set off after her wildly. He took no notice of the beds in which the flowers were growing, his mother's delight; he jumped into the middle of them, caring little whether he broke the hyacinths or the tulips, his one thought being to prevent Frida escaping.

And the two others copied him. Oh, how they trampled on the beds now. All three boys were after the girl. The fair plait flew up and down in the sunshine like a golden cord, now here, now there. At last Wolfgang seized hold of it with a triumphant shout. Frida endeavoured to get it away, but the boy held it fast. Then she turned round as quick as lightning, and, laughing all over her face, grasped him firmly round the body with both hands.

It was a harmless merry embrace, a trick of the game--the girl did not wish to be caught, she wanted to pretend that she had been the captor--it was quite a childish innocent embrace, but KÄte reddened. She frowned: hardly had she turned her back, when the girl from the street showed herself.

And the mother went into the garden again with a feeling of hatred towards the girl who, in spite of her youth, already endeavoured to attract her boy.

If KÄte had thought she would earn her boy's boisterous gratitude that evening after the children had gone home, loaded with Easter eggs and having had plenty to eat, she was disappointed. Wolfgang did not say a word.

She had to ask him: "Well, was it nice?"

"Hm."

That might just as well mean yes as no. But she learnt that it had meant no when she bade him goodnight. It was his father's wish that he should kiss her hand; he did so that evening as usual with an awkward, already so thoroughly boyish, somewhat clumsy gesture. His dark smooth head bent before her for a moment-- only a short moment--his lips just brushed her hand. There was no pressure in the kiss, no warmth.

"Haven't you enjoyed yourself at all?" She could not help it, she had to ask once more. And he, who was candid, said straight out:

"You always came just when it was nice."

"Well then, I won't disturb you in the future." She tried to smile. "Good night, my son." She kissed him, but after he had gone there was a great terror in her heart, besides a certain feeling of jealousy at the thought of being superfluous. If he were like that now, what would he be later on?

Wolfgang could not complain, his mother let the children come to him in the garden as often as he wanted them--and he wanted them almost every day. The friendship that had languished during the winter became warmer than ever now that it was summer.

"Pray leave them," Paul Schlieben had said to his wife, as she looked at him with anxious eyes: what would he say? Would he really not mind Wolfgang rushing about with those children in his garden? "I think it's nice to see how the boy behaves to those children," he said. "I would never have thought he could attach himself to anybody like that."

"You don't think it will do him any harm only to associate with those--those--well, with those children who belong to quite a different sphere?"

"Nonsense. Harm?" He laughed. "That will stop of its own accord later on. I infinitely prefer him to keep to the children of such people than to those of snobs. He'll remain a simple child much longer in that manner."

"Do you think so?" Well, Paul might be right in a manner. WÖlfchen was not at all fanciful, he liked an apple, a plain piece of bread and butter just as much as cake. But all the same it would have been better, and she would have preferred it, had he shown himself more dainty with regard to his food--as well as to other things. She took great trouble to make him more fastidious.

When the cook came to her quite indignant one day: "Master Wolfgang won't have any more of the good saveloy on his bread now, nor of the joint from dinner either, ma'am he says it's 'always the same.' What am I to do now?" she was delighted. At last she had succeeded in instilling into him that people do not swallow everything thoughtlessly without making any choice, just for the sake of eating something.

If she had seen how he stuffed bread and dripping with liver and onion sausage on it down his throat at Frau LÄmke's, or gobbled up potato cake baked in oil hot from the pan, she would not have been so delighted. But now she was grateful for every finer feeling she thought she observed in him, be it ever so small. She did not notice at all what tortures she caused herself in this manner.

Oh, why did not her husband help her to train him? If only he would. But he no longer understood her.

Paul Schlieben had given up remonstrating with his wife. He had done so several times, but what he had said had had no effect owing to the obstinacy with which she held fast to her principles. Why should he quarrel with her? They had lived so many years happily together--it would soon be their silver wedding--and was this child, this boy who could hardly write correctly as yet, into whose head the master was just drilling the first rules in Latin--this child who after all had nothing to do either with her or him--this outsider to separate him and his wife now after they had been married so long? Rather than that it would be better to let many things pass which it would perhaps have been better for KÄte to have done differently. Let her see how she could manage the boy in her way--she was so very fond of him. And when he, no longer the plaything, had outgrown her delicate hands, then he, the man, was still there to make him feel a more vigorous hand. Fortunately there was no deceit in the boy.

Paul Schlieben was not dissatisfied with Wolfgang. He certainly did not show any brilliancy at school, he did not belong to the top boys of his form by any means, but still he kept quite respectably in the middle of it. Well, there was no need for him to be a scholar.

Paul Schlieben had not the same opinion as formerly of the things he used to find in his younger years the only ones worth considering: science, art, and their study. Now he was content with his calling as merchant. And as this child had come into his life, had come into that position without having done anything to bring it about himself, it was the duty of him who allowed himself to be called "father" by him to prepare a future for him. So the man mapped out a certain plan. When the boy had got so far as to pass the examination that entitled him to one year's service in the army, he would take him away from school, send him a year to France, England and possibly also to America, to firms of high standing in each country, and then, when he had started from the bottom and learnt something, he would make him a partner. He thought how nice it would be then to be able to lay many things on younger shoulders. And the boy would no doubt be reliable; one could see that already.

If only KÄte did not expect such a ridiculous amount of him. She was always after the boy--if not in person, then in her thoughts, at any rate. She worried him--it could not be helped, he was not an affectionate child--and did it make her happy?

He had many a time given the boy an imperceptible, pacifying nod, when his eyes had sought his across the table as though asking for help. Yes, it was really getting more and more difficult to get on with KÄte.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Schliebens went away. The husband had consulted the doctor with regard to his wife, and he had ordered Franzensbad. But it was absolutely impossible for him to accompany her there. He would employ the time making some excursions on foot in the Tyrol, as it was a long time since he had had a holiday. A couple of pounds less in weight would do him no harm.

But where was Wolfgang to be meanwhile?

"At home," said his father. "He's old enough; eleven years. He is at school in the morning and in the garden in the afternoons, and Hofmann can come and see him every other day--to reassure you."

It was an unbearable thought for the mother to leave the child alone. She would have preferred to take him with her. But Paul had got vexed: "What next?" And the doctor had said. "On no account."

Then KÄte had wanted to induce her husband to take the boy with him: "How healthy it would be for him to run about to his heart's content for once in a way."

"It seems to me he does enough of that here. Really, KÄte, the boy is as strong as can be, don't always make such a fuss about him. Besides, I'm not going to take him away from school when it's quite unnecessary."

To be sure, he must not lose his place in the form, and possibly become one of the last. KÄte was so ambitious on her son's account. But as the July holidays were almost over and she had not gone away with him during that time, which would have been more suitable, she would remain at home for the present. She declared she could not go away.

However, the doctor and her husband arranged everything without her; the more nervously and anxiously she refused to go, the more urgent a thorough cure seemed to be to them. The day of departure had already been proposed.

But Lisbeth gave notice beforehand: no, if the mistress was going away for so long and the master too, she would go as well. Remain alone with Wolfgang, with that boy? No, that she wouldn't.

She must have saved a tidy little sum during the well-nigh ten years she had been in the house, for even the promise of a rise could not keep her. She persisted in her wish to leave, and threw an angry look at the boy, whose laughing face appeared outside above the windowsill at that moment.

KÄte was beside herself. Not only because she did not want the servant she had had so long to leave her, but she had reckoned so firmly on Lisbeth keeping a watchful eye on the boy during her absence. And it pained her that she spoke of Wolfgang in such a tone full of hate. What had the child done to her?

But Lisbeth only shrugged her shoulders without speaking, and looked sulky and offended.

Paul Schlieben took the boy in hand. "Just tell me, my boy, what's been the trouble between you and Lisbeth? She has given notice, and it seems to me she's leaving on your account. Listen"--he cast a keen glance at him--"I suppose you've been cheeky to her?"

The boy's face brightened: "Oh, that's nice, that's nice that she's going." He did not answer the question that had been put to him at all.

His father caught him by the ear. "Answer me, have you been cheeky to her?"

"Hm." Wolfgang nodded and laughed. And then he said, still triumphing in the remembrance: "It was only yesterday. I gave her a smack in the face. Why does she always say I've no right here?"

The man did not tell anything of this to his wife; she would only have brooded over it. He had not punished the boy either, only shaken his finger at him a little.

Lisbeth went away. She left the house, in which she had served so long and faithfully and in which she had had to put up with so much--as she weepingly assured her mistress, who was also overcome with emotion--like an offended queen.

Another maid had been engaged, one in whom KÄte had certainly not much confidence from the commencement--Lisbeth had straightway given her the impression of being much more intelligent--but there was no choice, as it was not the time of year when servants generally leave; and she had to go to the baths as quickly as possible.

So Cilia Pioschek from the Warthe district came to the Schliebens.

She was a big, strong girl with a face that was round and healthy, white and red. She was only eighteen, but she had already been in service a long time, three years as nurse at the farm bailiff's whilst she still went to school. Paul Schlieben was amused at her--she did not understand a joke, took everything literally and said everything straight out just as it came into her head--but KÄte called her behaviour "forward." On the other hand the new maid was on better terms with the old cook and the man-servant than Lisbeth, as she put up with a good deal.

"You can go away with your mind at rest," said Paul. "Do me this favour, KÄte, don't oppose our plan any longer. In six weeks you will be back again quite well, God willing, and I shall not see these"--he gave a slight tap with his finger--"these small wrinkles at the corners of your eyes any more." He kissed her.

And she returned his kiss, now when she was to be separated from him for the first time since their marriage for so long; for they had always, always travelled together before, and since WÖlfchen had come to the house he had only once asked permission to leave her for a fortnight at the most. She had never left the child alone. And now she was to leave her dear ones for six long weeks. She clung to him. She had it on the tip of her tongue to ask him: "Why don't you go with me as you used to? Franzensbad and Spa--there's surely no great difference between those two?" But why say it if he had never thought of doing so for a moment? Years had gone by, and some of the tenderness that had united them so closely before, that they could only enjoy things together, and that made them feel they never could be separated, had disappeared under the winged flight of time.

She sighed and withdrew quietly from the arm that he had thrown round her. "If anybody should come in and see us like this. Such an old couple," she said, trying to joke. And he gave a somewhat embarrassed laugh, as she thought, and did not try to hold her.

But when the carriage which was to take her to the station in Berlin stood before the door early one morning, when the two large trunks as well as the small luggage had been put on the top of it, when he held out his hand to help her in and then took a seat beside her, she could not refrain from saying: "Oh, if only you were going with me. I don't like travelling alone."

"If only you had said so a little earlier." He felt quite perturbed; he was exceedingly sorry. "How easily I could have taken you there the one day, seen you settled there and come back the next."

Oh, he did not understand what she meant by "if only you were going with me." Stay with her there as well--that was what she had meant.

Her sorrowful eyes sought the upstairs window behind which WÖlfchen was sleeping. She had had to say goodbye to him the evening before, as she was leaving so early. She had only stood at his bedside with a mute good-bye that morning, and her gloved hand had passed cautiously over his head, that rested so heavily on the pillow, so as not to waken him. Oh, how she would have liked to have said some loving words to him now.

"Give my love to the boy, give my love to the boy," she said quickly, hastily, several times after each other, to the cook and Friedrich, who were standing near the carriage. "And take good care of him. Do you hear? Give my love to the boy, give my love to the boy." She could not say anything more or think of anything more. "Give my love to----"

Then the upstairs window rattled. Stretching both her arms out she rose half out of her seat.

The boy put his head out. His cheeks, that were hot with sleep, showed ruddy above his white night-shirt.

"Good-bye, good-bye. Come back well. And be sure to write to me."

He called it out in a very contented voice and nodded down to her; and she saw Cilia's round, healthy, white and red face behind his and heard her friendly laugh.