Those were days of the purest happiness at the Schliebens'. The villa had been bought now, some rooms had been built on to it, and another piece of land had been added to the garden as a play-ground. They could not think of not giving the boy sufficient space to romp about in. Some sand was brought there, a heap as high as a dune in which to dig. And when he was big enough to do gymnastics they got him a swing and horizontal and parallel bars.

But still it was not sufficient. He climbed over all the fences round the neighbouring villas, over all the walls that were protected by barbed wire and pieces of glass.

"A splendid lad," said Dr. Hofmann when he spoke of Wolfgang. When he spoke to him he certainly said: "What a little ruffian you are! Just you wait till you go to school and they'll soon teach you to sit still."

Wolf was wild--rather too wild, his mother considered. The boy's high spirits amused her husband: that was because there was such a large amount of surplus energy in him. But KÄte felt somewhat surprised at so much wildness--no, she was not really surprised, she knew too well where all that wildness came from; it frightened her.

She did not scold him when he tore his trousers--oh, they could be replaced--but when he came home with the first hole in his head she became incredibly agitated. She scolded him angrily, she became unjust. She was quite unable to stop the blood--ugh, how it ran!--she felt as if she were going to have a fit; she dragged herself into her room with difficulty and remained sitting silently in a corner, her eyes staring into space.

When her husband reproached her for exaggerating in that manner, she never answered a word. Then he comforted her: she could feel quite easy now, the thing was of no moment, the hole was sewn up and the lad as happy as though it had never happened.

But she shuddered nervously and her cheeks were pale. Oh, if Paul knew what she had been thinking of, was forced to think of the whole time! How strange that the same memory did not obtrude itself on him. Oh, Michel Solheid had laid bleeding on the Venn--blood had dripped on the ground to-day as on that day. The little boy had not complained, just as little as his--she fought against using the word even in her thoughts--as his father, as Michel Solheid had complained. And still the red blood had gushed out as though it were a spring. How much more natural it would have been for him to have cried. Did Wolf feel differently from other children?

KÄte went through the list of her acquaintances; there was not a single child that would not have cried if he had got such a wound, and he would not have been considered a coward on that account. There was no doubt about it, WÖlfchen was less sensitive. Not only more insensible to bodily pain, no--and she thought she had noticed it several times--also more insensible to emotion. Even in the case of joy. Did not other children show their happiness by clapping their hands and shouting? Did not they dance round the thing they wanted--the toy, the doll, the cake--with shouts of delight? He only held out his hand for it in silence.

He took it because he had been told to do so, without all the childish chatter, without the rapturous delight that makes it so attractive and satisfactory to give children gifts.

"As a peasant," her husband used to say. That cut her to the quick every time he said it. Was WÖlfchen really made of such different material? No, Paul must not say "peasant." WÖlfchen was not stupid, only perhaps a little slow in thinking, and he was shrewd enough. He had not been born in a large town, that was it; where they lived now was just like the country.

"You peasant!" The next time his father said it--it was said in praise and not to blame him, because he was pleased the boy kept his little garden so well--KÄte flew into a passion. Why? Her husband did not understand the reason for it. Why should he not be pleased? Had not the boy put a splendid fence round his garden? He had made a palisade of hazel-sticks into which he had woven flexible willow-twigs, and then he had covered the whole with pine branches to make it close. And he had put beans and peas in his garden, which he had begged the cook to give him; and now he meant to plant potatoes there as well. Had anybody told him how to do it? No, nobody. The first-rate cook and the housemaid were both from a town, what did they know about sowing peas and planting potatoes?

"He's a born farmer," said the father laughing.

But the mother turned away as though in pain. She would much, much rather have seen her son's garden a mass of weeds than that he should plant, weed and water so busily.

She had made him a present of some flowers; but they did not interest him and he was not so successful with them either. There was only a large sunflower that grew and grew. It was soon as high as the boy, soon even higher, and he often stood in front of it, his childish face raised, gazing earnestly into its golden disc for quite a long time.

When the sunflower's golden petals withered--then its seeds ripened instead and were examined every day and finally gathered--Wolfgang went to school. He was already in his seventh year, and was big and strong; why should he not learn with other children now?

His mother had thought how wonderful it would be to teach him the rudiments herself, for when she was a young girl with nothing to do at home and a great wish to continue her studies, she had gone to a training college and even passed her examination as a teacher with distinction; but--perhaps that was too long ago, for her strength was not equal to the task. Especially her patience. He made so little progress, was so exceedingly slow. Was the boy stupid? No, but dull, very dull. And it often seemed to her as though she were facing a wall when she spoke to him.

"You are much too eager," said her husband. But how on earth was she to make it clear to him that that was an "A" and that an "O," and how was she to explain to him that if you put one and one together it makes two without getting eager? She became excited, she took the ball-frame and counted the blue and red balls that looked like round beads on a string for the boy. She got hot and red, almost hoarse, and would have liked to cry with impatience and discouragement, when WÖlfchen sat looking at her with his large eyes without showing any interest, and still did not know that one bead and one bead more make two beads after they had worked at it for hours.

She saw to her sorrow that she would have to give up the lessons. "He'll do better with a master," said her husband, consolingly. And it was better, although it could not exactly be termed "good."

Wolfgang was not lazy, but his thoughts were always wandering. Learning did not interest him. He had other things to think about: would the last leaves in the garden have fallen when he got home from school at noon? And would the starling, for whom he had nailed the little box high up in the pine-tree, come again next spring? It had picked off all the black berries from the elderberry, and had then gone away screaming; if it did not find any more elderberries, what would it eat then? And the boy's heart was heavy with grief--if only he had given it a little bag of berries when it went away.

Now the pines in the Grunewald were covered with snow. When Wolfgang had gone to school that morning, his knapsack on his back, the housemaid at his side, the white layer had crackled and broken under his boots. It was very cold. And then he had heard a bird's shriek, that sounded like a hungry croak. The housemaid thought it was an owl--pooh, what did she know about it? It was a raven, the hungry beggar in the jet-black coat, like the one in the primer.

And the boy was thinking of it now as he sat on the bench, staring with big eyes at the blackboard, on which the teacher was writing words they were to find out. How nice it must be under the pines now. There flew the raven; brushing the snow off the branches with its black wings, so that it looked like powder as it fell. Where was he going to fly to? His thoughts flew far, far away after the raven, as they had done after the starling. The boy's eyes shone, his chest rose with the deep breath he drew--at that moment the teacher called to him.

"Wolfgang, are you asleep with your eyes open? What's this?" The boy gave a start, got red, then pale and knew nothing.

The other boys almost died of laughing--"Are you asleep with your eyes open?"--that had been too funny.

The teacher did not punish him, but Wolfgang crept home as though he had been punished. He had hidden from the housemaid, who always came to fetch him--no, he would not go with her to-day. He had also run away from his comrades--let them fight without him today, to-morrow he would throw all the more snowballs at them.

He walked quite alone, turned off from the street and wandered about aimlessly among the pines. He looked for the raven, but it was far away, and so he began to run too, run as quickly as he could, and tore the knapsack off his back with a loud cry, hurling it far from him up into the broad branches of a pine, so that it hung there and nothing but snow fell down silently in large lumps. That amused him. He filled both his hands with snow, made hard balls of it and began to regularly bombard the pine that kept his knapsack a prisoner. But it did not give it up, and when he had grown hot and red and tired but very much cheered, he had to go home without his knapsack.

The housemaid had been back a long time when he arrived. She opened the door for him with a red face--she had run so hard after him--and an angry look. "Hm," she said irritably, "you've been kept, I suppose?"

He pushed her aside. "Hold your tongue!" He could not bear her at that moment, when coming in from outside where everything had been so quiet, so free.

His parents were already at table. His father frowned as he looked at him, his mother asked in a voice of gentle reproach in which there was also a little anxiety: "Where have you been so long? Lisbeth has been looking for you everywhere."

"Well?" His father's voice sounded severe.

The boy did not give any answer, it seemed to him all at once as though his tongue were paralysed. What should he tell those people sitting indoors about what he had been doing outside?

"He's sure to have been kept at school, ma'am," whispered the housemaid when she handed the meat. "I'll find it out from the other boys to-morrow, and tell you about it, ma'am."

"Oh, you!" The boy jumped up; although she had whispered it in a low voice, he had heard it all the same. His chair fell down behind him with a crash, and rushing up to the girl with clenched fist he seized hold of her so roughly that she gave a shrill scream and let the dish fall out of her hand.

"You goose, you goose!" he howled in a loud voice, and wanted to strike her. His father only pulled him away with difficulty.

"WÖlfchen!" KÄte's fork had fallen out of her hand with a clatter, and she was staring at her boy with dilated eyes.

The maid complained bitterly. He was always like that, he was unbearable, he had said before to her: "Hold your tongue!" No, she could not put up with it, she would rather leave. And she ran out of the room crying.

Paul Schlieben was extremely angry. "You are to be civil to inferiors. You are to be polite to them, just because they have to serve. Do you hear?" And he seized hold of the boy with a strong hand, laid him across his knees and gave him the whipping he so well deserved.

Wolfgang ground his teeth together and bore the punishment without uttering a sound and without a tear.

But every stroke fell on his mother's heart. She felt as if she herself had been beaten and severely bruised. When her husband took his usual rest after the stormy dinner, smoked, read the paper and took a little nap between whiles, she crept up to the nursery in which the boy had been locked. Was he crying?

She turned the key softly--he was kneeling on the chair near the window, his nose pressed flat against the pane, looking attentively out at the snow. He did not notice her at all. Then she went away again cautiously. She went downstairs again, but her mind was not sufficiently at rest to read in her room; she crept about the house softly as though she had no peace. Then she heard Lisbeth say to the cook in the kitchen between the rattling of plates: "I shall certainly not put up with it. Not from such a rude boy. What has he got to do here?"

KÄte stood rigid, overcome by a terror that paralysed her: what did she know? She became glowing hot and then icy cold. "Not from such a rude boy--what has he got to do here?" oh, God, was that the way she spoke about him?

She ran up to the nursery; WÖlfchen was still kneeling at the window.

No other villa obstructed the view there as yet; from the window one looked out on a large piece of waste ground, where dandelions and nettles grew in the sand between hedge mustard in the summer time, but where the snow lay now, deep and clean, untouched by any footstep. The short winter evening was already drawing to a close, that white field was the only thing that still glittered, and it seemed to the mother that the child's face was very wan in the pale light of the luminous snow.

"WÖlfchen," she called softly. And then "WÖlfchen, how could you say 'goose' and 'hold your tongue' to Lisbeth? Oh, for shame! Where did you get those words from?" Her voice was gentle and sad as she questioned him.

Then he turned round to her, and she saw how his eyes burned. Something flickered in them, that looked like a terrified, restless longing.

She noticed that as well, and quite against all rules of pedagogy she opened her arms and whispered--after it had escaped from her lips she did not know herself why she had said it, for he had everything, everything his heart desired--"You poor child!"

And he ran into her arms.

They held each other tightly, heart beating against heart. They were both sad, but neither of them knew the reason why, nor why the other one was sad.

"It's not the whipping," he murmured.

She stroked his straight hair away from his forehead with her soft hand; she did not ask him any more questions. For--did not something rise out of that field covered with snow, hover outside the window and lay its finger on its lips: "Be quiet, do not ask, do not touch it"?

But she remained with the boy and played with him; she felt as though she ought not to leave him alone to-day. Yes, she must pay still more attention to him in the future. All at once the thought fell on her heart like a heavy weight: she had already left him much too much to himself. But then she consoled herself again: he was still so young, his mind was still a piece of quite soft wax, which she could mould as she liked. He must never again be allowed to stand at the window staring out at that desolate field with such burning eyes. What was he longing for? Was not a wealth of love showered on him? And everything else that delights a child's heart?

She looked round his pretty room. Such a quantity of toys were piled up in it, trains and steamers, tin soldiers and picture books and all the newest games.

"Come, we'll play," she said.

He was quite ready to do so; she was surprised how quickly he had forgotten his sorrow. Thank God, he was still quite an innocent, unsuspecting child. But how restlessly he threw the toys about. "That's stupid," and "that's tiresome"--nothing really absorbed his attention. She soon felt quite exhausted with all her proposals and her endeavours to induce him to play this or that game. She did not think she had been so difficult to satisfy as a child. She had wanted to get up and go away half a dozen times already--no, she really could not stand it any longer, she had a frantic headache, it had got on her nerves, it was certainly much easier to stand at the fire and cook or do housework than play with a child--but her sense of duty and her love kept her back every time.

She must not leave him alone, for--she felt it with a gloomy dread--for then somebody else would come and take him away from her.

She remained sitting with him, pale and exhausted; he had tormented her a great deal. At last he found a woolly sheep that had been quite forgotten in the corner of the toy cupboard, a dilapidated old toy from his childhood with only three legs left. And he amused himself with that; that pleased him more than the other costly toys. He sat on the carpet as though he were quite a little child, held the sheep between his knees and stroked it.

When he lay in bed at last, she still sat beside him holding his hand. She sang the song with which she had so often sung him to sleep:

She sang it more and more softly. At last she thought he had fallen asleep, but then he tore his hand away impatiently: "Stop that song! I'm not a baby any longer!"

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

It was fortunate that there were no street boys in the Grunewald colony, as WÖlfchen would assuredly have played with them; as it was, his playfellows were only a hall-porter's children. There was certainly no want of nicer children to play with; school-fellows whose parents lived in similar villas to theirs used to invite him; and the families in Berlin, with whom the Schliebens were on friendly terms and who were pleased when their children could get out to the Grunewald on their holidays, often asked him to come and see them too.

All children liked to come to the shady garden, where Auntie KÄte was always so kind to them. There was always plenty of cakes and fruit and hoops and balls and croquet and tennis, ninepins and gymnastic appliances. On sunny afternoons gay laughter and shrieks used to ascend high up into the green tops of the pines, but--KÄte noticed it with surprise--her boy, who was generally so wild, was the quietest of them all on those occasions. He did not care for those visits. He did not care for those well-behaved boys in white and blue sailor-suits, with their fresh faces showing above their dazzling collars; he never felt really at home with them. He would have preferred to have run away to a place far away from there, where nobody else went except now and then a beggar with a large bag, who would turn over every bit of paper with his wire hook to see whether something of value had not been left there the Sunday before. He would have liked to help that man. Or fill the large bag with pine-cones.

But still Wolfgang had some friends. There was Hans Flebbe--his father was coachman at the banker's, who owned the splendid villa on the other side of the road and lived in Bellevuestrasse in Berlin in the winter--and there were also Artur and Frida. But their father was only porter in a villa that was let out to different families.

As soon as these three came home from school, they would stand outside the Schliebens' villa. They could not be driven away, they would wait there patiently until Wolfgang joined them.

"He's like a brother to my Hans," the coachman used to say, and he would greet him with a specially condescending flick of his whip from his high seat. And the porter and his wife used to state with much satisfaction: "Yes, old Schlieben always touches his hat, and she, his lady, also says 'how do you do?' to us in a very friendly style, but the little one, oh, he's quite different."

Those were wild games the four comrades played together, and in which Frida was reckoned to be quite a boy: catch, hide and seek, but best of all, robbers and policemen. How Wolf's eyes sparkled when he, as the robber captain, gave the policeman, Hans Flebbe, a kick in the stomach, so that he fell backwards on the ground and lay for a time without moving from pain.

"I've shot him," he said to his mother proudly.

KÄte, who had been called to the window by the noisy shrieks of the children who were rushing about wildly in the waste field behind the villa, had beckoned to her boy to come in. He had come unwillingly; but he had come. Now he stood breathless before her, and she stroked the damp hair away from the face that was wet with perspiration: "What a sight you look! And here--look."

She pointed reproachfully to his white blouse that was covered with dirt. Where in all the world had he made himself so filthy? there were no real pools there. And his trousers. The right leg was slit open the whole way down, the left one had a three-cornered hole in the knee.

Pooh, that was nothing. He wanted to rush away again, he was trembling with impatience; his playfellows were crouching behind the bush, they dared not come out before he, their captain, came back to them. He strove against the hand that was holding him; but his struggles were of no avail that time, his father came out of the next room.

"You are to stop here. You ought to feel ashamed of yourself to resist your mother like that. Off with you, go to your room and prepare your lessons for tomorrow."

Paul Schlieben spoke sharply. It had made him angry to see how the boy had striven with hands and feet against his delicate wife.

"You rude boy, I'll teach you how to behave to your mother. Here"--he seized hold of him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him up to her--"here, beg her pardon. Kiss your good mother's hand. And promise not to be so wild again, not to behave like a street-boy. Be quick--well, are you soon going to do it?"

The veins on the man's forehead began to swell with anger. What a stubborn fellow he was. There he stood, his blouse torn open at front so that you could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest that was wet with perspiration--he was not breathing quietly even now, he was still panting from the rough game--and looking so wild, so turbulent, not at all like the child of nice parents. This could not go on any longer.

"You must not tear about like that any more, do you hear?" said his father severely. "I forbid it. Play other games. You have your garden, your gymnastic appliances and a hundred things others would envy you. And now come here, beg your mother's pardon."

The boy went to his mother. She met him half way, she held out her hand to him already. He kissed it, he mumbled also, "I won't do it again," but the man did not hear any repentance in his voice. There was something in the sullen way he said it that irritated him. And he lost control of himself a little.

"That wasn't an apology. Ask your mother's pardon again--and distinctly."

The boy repeated it.

"And now promise that you will not rush about like that again. 'Dear mother, I promise'--well?"

Not a word, no promise.

"What's the meaning of this?" The man shook the boy, beside himself with anger. But the boy pressed his lips together. He gave his father an upward look out of his dark eyes.

The woman caught the look--oh, God, that was the look!--that look--the woman's look!

She put both her arms round the boy protectingly: "Don't, don't irritate him." She drew him nearer to her and covered his eyes with her hands, so that he had to close them, and then she cast an imploring glance at her husband: "Go, do go."

Paul Schlieben went, but he shook his head angrily.

"You'll see what your training will make of the boy." He raised his hand menacingly once more: "Boy, I tell you, you'll have to obey." And then he closed the door behind him--he could not even have his midday rest undisturbed now.

He heard his wife's voice in the next room. It sounded so gentle and trembled as though with a secret dread. "WÖlfchen, WÖlfchen, aren't you my good boy?"

No answer. Good heavens, had the unfeeling scamp no answer to give to that question uttered in that tone?

Then again the soft trembling voice: "Won't you be my good boy?"

If the boy did not answer now, then--! The blood surged to his head as he listened against his will, his fingers twitched, he wanted to jump up and rush in again and--ah, he must have answered now. It was probably nothing but a silent nod, but KÄte's voice sounded intensely happy: "There you see, I knew you were my good boy, my darling child, my--my----"

Hm, it was certainly not necessary for KÄte to lavish such endearing tones on the boy, after he had just been so naughty. And she must have kissed him, put her arms round him. Her voice had died away in a tender breath.

Paul Schlieben did not hear anything more now; neither the rustling of her dress nor any other sound--ah, she was probably whispering to him now. How she spoiled the scamp.

But now--somebody was weeping softly. Was that Wolf's hard, defiant voice? Yes, he was actually crying loudly now, and between his sobs he jerked out pitifully--you could hardly understand what he was saying: "I had to--to shoot him--he's the policeman, you know."

And now everything was quiet again. The man took up his paper once more, which he had thrown aside before, and commenced to read. But he could not fix his attention on it, his thoughts wandered obstinately again and again to the next room. Had the scamp come to his senses now? Did he see that he had been naughty? And was not KÄte much too weak? There was nothing to be heard, nothing whatever. But still--was not that the door that creaked? No, imagination. Everything was quiet.

After waiting a little longer he went into the next room. It was indeed very quiet there, for KÄte was quite alone. She was sitting at the window, her hands in her lap, pondering. Her thoughts seemed to be far away.

"Where's the boy?"

She gave a terrified start, and thrust both hands forward as though to ward off something.

He saw now that she was pale. The vexation she had had on account of the child had probably shaken her a good deal--just let him wait until he got hold of him, he should do twice as many sums to-day as a punishment.

"Is the boy at his lessons?"

She shook her head and got red. "No."

"No? Why not?" He looked at her in amazement. "Didn't I tell him that he was to go to his lessons at once?"

"You said so. But I told him to run away. Paul, don't be angry." She saw that he was about to fly into a passion, and laid her hand on his arm soothingly. "If you love me, leave him. Oh Paul, believe me, do believe me when I say he can't help it, he must run about, rush about, be out of doors--he must."

"You always have some excuse. Just think of the story of the knapsack when first he went to school--the rascal had thrown it up into a pine-tree. If a labourer had not found it by accident and brought it to us, because he read our name on the primer, we might have looked for it for a long time. You excused that--well, that was nothing very bad--a fit of wantonness--but now you are excusing something quite different; and everything." The man, who generally yielded to his wife in all points, grew angry in his grave anxiety. "I implore you, KÄte, don't be so incredibly weak with the boy. Where will it lead to?"

"It will lead him to you and me." She pointed gravely to him and herself. And then she laid her hand on her heart with an expression of deep emotion.

"What do you mean? I don't understand you. Please express yourself a little more clearly, I'm not in a humour to guess riddles."

"If you can't guess it, you'll not understand it either if I say it more clearly." She bent her head and then went back to her former seat. But she was not lost in thought any longer, it seemed to him as if she were leaning forward to catch the shrill shouts of triumph that rose high above the roof from the waste field at the back of the house.

"You'll never be able to manage the boy."

"Oh yes, I shall."

"Of course you will, if you let him do exactly what he likes." The man strode quickly out of the room; his anger was getting the mastery of him.

Paul Schlieben was seriously angry with his wife, perhaps for the first time in their married life. How could KÄte be so unreasonable? take so little notice of his orders, as though he had never given them--nay, even act in direct opposition to him? Oh, the rascal was cunning enough, he drew his conclusions from it already. And if he did not do so as yet, still he felt instinctively what a support he had in his mother. It was simply incredible how weak KÄte was.

His wife's soft sensitive nature, which had attracted him to her in the first instance and which had had the same charm for him all the years they had been married, now seemed exaggerated all at once--childish. Yes, this timorousness, this everlasting dread of what was over and done with was childish. They had not heard anything more about the boy's mother, why then conjure up her shade on all occasions? They had the boy's birth and baptismal certificates safely in their hands, and the Venn was far away--he would never see it--why then this constant, tremulous anxiety? There was no reason whatever for it. They lived in such pleasant surroundings, their financial position was so sound, Wolf possessed everything that fills and gladdens a child's heart, that it was real madness for KÄte to suppose that he had a kind of longing for his home. How in the world should he have got that longing? He had no idea that this was not really his home. It was sad that KÄte was so hypersensitive. She could positively make others nervous as well.

And the man passed his hand over his forehead, as though to drive disagreeable thoughts away with a movement of his hand. He lighted a cigar. It was an extra fine one to-day, those he generally left for his guests; he had the feeling that he must have something to help him over an unpleasant hour. For the thing was unpleasant, really unpleasant and difficult, even if he hoped in time to solve the question of how to train such a child satisfactorily. At any rate not as KÄte was doing. That was clear to him already.

Paul Schlieben sat in the corner of the sofa in his study, blowing blue rings of smoke into the air. His brows were still knit. He had come home very tired from the office that day, where there had been all sorts of complications--quite enough annoyance--he had had to dictate some hurried letters, had not allowed himself a moment's repose, and had hoped to have a pleasant rest at home--but in vain. Strange how one child can alter the whole household, one's whole life. If the boy had not been there?... Ah, then he would have had a short peaceful nap by now, stretched out on the divan with the newspaper in front of his face, and would be going across to KÄte's room for a cosy chat and a cup of coffee, which she prepared herself so gracefully on the humming Viennese coffee-machine. He had always liked to sit and watch her slender, well-cared-for hands move about so noiselessly. It was a pity.

He sighed. But then he conquered the feeling: no, one ought not to wish he were away because of a momentary annoyance. How many happy hours little WÖlfchen had given them. It had been charming to watch his first steps, to listen to his first connected words. And had not KÄte been very happy to have him--oh, who said been happy?--she was still so. Nothing could be compared to the boy. And that the hours of cloudless happiness they had had through him were not so numerous now as formerly was quite natural. He was not the same little boy any longer, who had taken his first bold run from that corner over there to this sofa, and had clung to his father's legs rejoicing at his own daring; that was all. He was now beginning to be an independent person, a person with wishes of his own, no longer with those that had been inculcated; he showed a will of his very own. Now he wanted this and now he wanted that, and no longer what his teachers wanted. But was not that natural? On the whole, when a child begins to go to school, what a great many changes take place. One would have to make allowances, even if one did not wish to have one's whole way of living influenced by it first the parents, then the child.

The man felt how he gradually became calmer. A boy--what a compound of wildness, roughness, unrestraint, ay, unmannerliness is included in that word! And all, all who were now men had once been boys.

His cigar went out; he had forgotten to smoke it. The man thought of his own boyhood with a strangely gentle feeling not entirely free from a faint longing. Let him only be honest: had he not also rushed about and made a terrible noise, dirtied himself, got hot and torn his trousers and been up to pranks, more than enough pranks?

Strange how he all at once remembered some of the severe lectures he had had given him and the tears he had forced from his mother's eyes; he also very clearly remembered the whipping he had once got for telling a lie. His father had said at the time--all at once he seemed to hear his voice, which had generally sounded anything but solemn, in fact very commonplace, but which had then been ennobled by the gravity of the situation, echo in the room: "Boy, I can forgive you everything else except lies." Ah, it had been very uncomfortable that day in the small office, where his father had leant against the high wooden desk holding the stick behind his back. He had pushed the little cap he wore on account of his baldness to one side in his agitation, his friendly blue eyes had looked at him penetratingly, and at the same time sadly.

"One can forgive everything except lies"--well, had the boy, had Wolfgang told a lie? Certainly not. He had only been naughty, as the best children are now and then.

The man felt ashamed of himself: and he, he had been so displeased with the boy simply because he had been naughty?

He got up from the sofa, threw the remains of his cigar into the ash-tray and went out to look for Wolfgang.

He came across the four in the height of the game. They had lighted a small fire on the waste piece of ground close behind the garden railing, so that the overhanging bushes in the garden formed a kind of roof over them.

They were crouching close together; they were in camp now. Frida had some potatoes in her pinafore, which were to be roasted in the ashes; but the fire would not burn, the twigs only smouldered. Wolfgang lay on his stomach on the ground, resting on his elbows, and was blowing with all the strength of his lungs. But it was not enough, the fire would not burn on any account.

Paul Schlieben had come up softly, the children had not noticed him at all in their eagerness. "Won't it burn?" he asked.

Wolfgang jerked himself up, and was on his feet in a moment. He had been red and fresh-looking, but now he grew pale, his frank look fell timidly, a miserable expression lengthened his round, childish face and made him look older.

"Have I to go in?" It sounded pitiful.

The man pretended not to hear the question; he had really intended fetching him in, but all at once he hesitated to say so. It was hard for the boy to have to go away now before the fire burnt, before the potatoes were roasted. So he said nothing, but stooped down, and as he was not far enough down even then he knelt down and blew the fire, that was faintly crackling, with all the breath he had in his broad chest. Sparks began to leap out at once, and a small flame shot up and soon turned into a big one.

There was a shout of glee. Frida hopped about in the circle, her plaits flying: "It's burning, it's burning!" Artur and Hans chimed in too; they also hopped from the one foot to the other, clapped their dirty hands and shouted loudly: "It's burning, it's burning!"

"Be quiet, children." The man was amused at their happiness. "Bring me some twigs, but very dry ones," he ordered, full of eagerness, too, to keep alive this still uncertain flame, that now disappeared, now flared up again. He blew and poked and added more twigs. The wind drove the smoke into his face so that he had to cough, but he wiped his eyes, that were full of tears, and did not mind that his trousers got wet green spots from kneeling on the ground, and that chance passers-by would be greatly surprised to see Herr Paul Schlieben occupied in that manner. He, too, found it fun now to keep up a fire for roasting potatoes under the pale, blue autumn sky, in which the white clouds were scudding along and the twittering swallows flying. He had never known such a thing--he had always lived in a town--but it was splendid, really splendid.

The children brought twigs. Wolfgang took them and broke them across his knee--crack!--the sticks broke like glass. What a knack the boy had at it.

The flames flared up, the little fire emitted an agreeable warmth; one could warm one's hands at it--ah, that was really very nice.

And then the man followed the smoke, which the wind raised from the field like a light cloud, with his eyes. It seemed grey at first, but the higher it flew the lighter it became, and the friendly sunshine shone through it, transforming it. It floated upwards, ever upwards, ever more immaterial, more intangible, until it flew away entirely--a puff, a whiff.

Now it was about time to bury the potatoes; Wolfgang busied himself with it. They had not poked the fire any more, the flame had sunk down, but the ashes hid all the heat. The children stood round with wide-open eyes, quite quiet, almost holding their breath and yet trembling with expectation: when would the first potatoes be done? Oh, did they not smell nice already? They distended their nostrils so as to smell them. But Paul Schlieben brushed his trousers now and prepared to go away--it would take too long before the potatoes were ready. He felt something that resembled regret. But it really would not do for him to stand about any longer; what would people think of him?

He was himself again now. "That's enough now," he said, and he went away, carefully avoiding the impracticable parts of the field where the puddles were. Then he heard steps close behind him. He turned round. "Wolf? Well, what do you want?"

The boy looked at him sadly out of his dark eyes.

"Are you going home too?" There was astonishment in the man's question--he had not said that the boy was to go with him.

The pines emitted a splendid smell, you could breathe the air so freely, so easily, and that pale blue sky with the fleecy white clouds had something wonderfully clear about it, something that filled the eyes with light. White threads floated over the countryside, driven from the clean east, and hung fast to the green branches of the pines, shimmering there like a fairy web. And the sun was still agreeably warm without burning, and an invigorating pungent odour streamed from the golden-coloured leaves of the bushes that enclosed the gardens at the back.

The man drew a deep breath; he felt as if he had suddenly grown ten, twenty--no, thirty years younger. Even more.

"Well, run along," he said.

The boy looked at him as if he had not quite understood him.

"Run," he said once more curtly, smiling at the same time.

Then the boy gave a shout, such a shrill, triumphant shout that his playfellows, who were crouching round the potato fire, joined in immediately without knowing why.

There was a gleam in the dark eyes of the boy, who loved freedom, the free air and to run about free. He did not say his father had made him happy, but he drew a deep breath as if a load had fallen off his chest. And the man noticed something in his face, that was now commencing to grow coarser, to lose the soft contours of childhood and get the sharp ones of youth, that made it refined and beautiful.

Wolfgang flew back across the field as quick as lightning, as if shot from a tightly strung bow.

The man went back into his garden. He opened the gate cautiously so that it should not creak, and closed it again just as quietly--KÄte need not know where he had been. But she was already standing at the window.

There was something touchingly helpless in her attitude, such an anxious scrutiny in her eyes--no, she need not look at him like that, he was not angry with her.

And he nodded to her.

When the housemaid asked whether the master did not know where the young gentleman was--she had had the milk warmed three times already for him and had run up and downstairs with it--he said in a low voice with an excuse in the tone: "Oh, that does not matter, Lisbeth. Warm it for a fourth time later on. It is so healthy for him to be out of doors."

BOOK II

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