The clocks in the house ticked terribly loudly. They could be heard through the silence of the night like warning voices.

Oh, how quickly the time flew. It had quite lately been evening--midnight--and now the clock on the mantel-piece already struck a short, clear, hard one.

The lonely woman pressed her hands to her temples with a shudder. How they throbbed, and how her thoughts--torturing thoughts--hurried along, madly, restlessly, like the hasty tick of the clocks.

Everybody in the house was asleep--the manservant, the maids, her husband too--long ago. Only she, she alone had not found any sleep as yet.

And everything was asleep outside as well. The pines stood around the house motionless, and their dark outlines, as stiff as though cut out of cardboard, stood out clearly against the silvery sky of night.

No shouts, no footsteps, no sound of wheels, no singing, no laughter, not even a dog's bark came from the sleeping colony in the Grunewald. But something that sounded like a gentle sighing was heard around the white villa with the red roof and the green shutters.

The mother, who was waiting for her son, listened: was anybody there? No, it was the breeze that was trying to move the branches of the old gnarled pines.

KÄte Schlieben was standing at the window now. She had torn it open impatiently some time before, and now she leant out of it. As far as her eye could reach there was nobody to be seen, nobody whatever. There was still no sign of him.

The clock struck two. The woman gazed round at the mantel-piece with an almost desperate look: oh, that unbearable clock, how it tortured her. It must be wrong. It could not be so late.

KÄte had sat up waiting for Wolfgang many an evening, but he had never remained out so long as to-day. Paul had no objection to the boy going his own way. "My child," he had said, "you can't alter it. Lie down and go to sleep, that is much more sensible. The boy has the key, he will come home all right. You can't keep a young fellow of his age in leading-strings any longer. Leave him, or you'll make him dislike our house--do leave him in peace."

What strange thoughts Paul had. He was certainly quite right, she must not keep the boy in leading-strings any longer. She was not able to do so either--had never been able to do so. But how could she go to bed quietly? She would not be able to sleep. Where could he be?

KÄte had grown grey. In the three years that had elapsed since her son's confirmation she had changed considerably outwardly. Whilst Wolfgang had grown taller and stronger and broader like a young tree, her figure had drooped like a flower that is heavy with rain or is about to wither. Her fine features had remained the same, but her skin, which had retained almost the delicate smoothness of a young girl's for so long, had become looser; her eyes looked as if she had wept a great deal. Her acquaintances found Frau Schlieben had grown much older.

When KÄte saw herself in the glass now, she did not blush with pleasure at the sight of her own well-preserved looks; she did not like looking at herself any more. Something had given her a shock both inwardly and outwardly. What that had been nobody guessed. Her husband knew it certainly, but he did not speak of it to his wife. Why agitate her again? Why tear open old wounds?

He took good care never again to mention the day on which the boy had been confirmed. It was also best not to do so. He had certainly taken him very severely to task on account of his ungrateful behaviour at the time, and had demanded of him that he should treat them more considerately and his mother also more affectionately. And the lad, who had no doubt repented of his conduct long ago, had stood there like a poor sinner; he had said nothing and had not raised his eyes. And when his father had finally led him to his mother, he had allowed himself to be led and to be embraced by his mother, who had thrown both her arms round his neck. She had wept over him and then kissed him.

And then nothing more had ever been said about it.

The white house with its bright green and red, which was always being embellished and improved, both inside and out, struck everybody who passed by as extremely cosy. The trippers on Sundays used to stand outside the wrought iron railing and admire the abundance of flowers, the ivy-leaved geraniums on the balconies and the splendid show of fine rose-trees in summer, the azaleas and camellias behind the thick glass of the conservatory and the rows of coloured primulas and early hyacinths and tulips between the double windows in winter. The lady in her dress of soft cloth and with the wavy grey hair and the gentle face, with its rather sad smile, suited the house and the flowers and her peaceful surroundings well. "Delightful," the people used to say.

When Wolfgang heard such things in former years when he was a boy, he used to make faces at the people: the house and garden were no concern of theirs, there was nothing to admire about them. Now it flattered him when they remained standing, when they even envied him. Oh yes, the place was quite nice. He felt very important.

Paul Schlieben and his wife had never placed any special value on money, they had always had enough, a competency was simply a matter of course to them; and they never guessed that their son placed any value on wealth. When Wolfgang used to think now of how little he had once cared for it all in his boyish impetuosity, and that he had run away without money, without bread, he had to smile. How childish. And when he remembered that he once, when he was already older and able to reflect upon his actions, had asked impetuously for something that would have been equivalent to giving up all that made his life so comfortable, he shook his head now. Too silly.

To compare himself with others afforded him a certain satisfaction. Kesselborn was still sweating in the top form--his people made a point of his studying theology, possibly in order to become court chaplain on account of his noble birth--Lehmann had to help his father in his forwarding business in spite of the very good examination he had passed on leaving school, and look after the furniture-vans. And Kullrich--ah, poor Kullrich, he had consumption, like his mother.

The corners of Wolfgang's mouth drooped with a half-contemptuous, half-compassionate smile when he thought of his school-fellows. Was that living? Oh, and to live, to live was so beautiful!

Wolfgang was conscious of his strength: he could tear up trees by the roots, blow down walls that stood in his way with his breath as though they were cards.

School was no longer the place for him, his limbs and his inclinations had outgrown the benches. Besides, he was already growing a moustache. There had long been a black shadow on the upper lip that made one guess it was coming, and now it had come, it had come!

Surely such a grown-up person could not remain in the second form any longer? And why should he? He was not to be a scholar. Wolfgang left school after passing the examination that admitted him to the top form.

Paul Schlieben had given up, for the present, his intention of sending him abroad as soon as he had finished school; he wished to keep him a little longer under his own eye first. Not that he wanted to guard him as carefully as KÄte did, but the old doctor, their good friend whom he esteemed so highly, had warned him in confidence once when they were sitting quite alone over a glass of wine: "Listen, Schlieben," he had said, "you had better take care of the boy. I wouldn't let him go so far away as yet--he is so young. And he is a rampageous fellow and--after what he went through as a child, you know--hm, one can never tell if his heart will hold out."

"Why not?" Schlieben had asked in surprise. "So you look upon him as ill?"

"No, certainly not." The doctor had grown quite angry: at once this exaggeration! "Who says anything about 'ill'? All the same, the lad must not do everything in a rush. Well, and boys will be boys. We know that from our time."

And both men had nodded to each other, had brightened up and laughed.

Wolfgang had a horse to ride on, rode first at the riding-school and then a couple of hours each day out of doors. His father made a point of his not sitting too much at the office. He would easily learn what was necessary for him to know as a merchant, and arithmetic he knew already.

The two partners, old bachelors, were delighted with the lively lad, who came to the office with his whip in his hand and sat on his stool as if it were a horse.

Paul Schlieben did not hear any complaints of his son; the whole staff, men who had been ten, twenty years with the firm, all well-oiled machines that worked irreproachably, hung round the young fellow: he was their future chief. Everything worked smoothly.

Both father and mother were complimented on their son. "A splendid fellow. What life there is in him." "He's only in the making," the man would answer, but still you could see that he was pleased to hear it in his heart. He did not feel the torturing anxiety his wife felt. KÄte only raised her eyebrows a little and gave a slight, somewhat sad smile of consent.

She could not rejoice in the big lad any longer, as she had once rejoiced in the little fellow on her lap. It seemed to her as though she had altogether lost the capacity for rejoicing, slowly, it is true, quite gradually, but still steadily, until the last remnant of the capacity had been torn out by the roots on one particular day, in one particular hour, at the disastrous moment when he had said: "I will go, I want to think of my mother--where is she?" Ever since then. She still wished him to have the best the earth could give, but she had become more indifferent, tired. He had trodden too heavily on her heart, more heavily than when in days gone by his small vigorous feet had stamped on her lap.

She bent further out of the window with a deep sigh, as she waited all alone for him. Was it not unheard of, unpardonable of him to come home so late? Did he not know that she was waiting for him?

She clenched her hand, which rested on the windowsill, in such a paroxysm of anger as she had rarely felt. It was foolish of her to wait for him. Was he not old enough--eighteen? Did he still want waiting for like a boy coming home alone from a children's party for the first time? He had made an appointment with some other young fellows in Berlin--who knew in what cafÉ they were spending their night?

She stamped her foot. Her hot breath rose like smoke in the cold clear night in spring, she shivered with exhaustion and discomfort. And then she thought of the hours, all the hours during which she had watched for him already, and her heart was filled with a great bitterness. Even her tongue had a bitter taste--that was gall. No, she did not feel the love of former years for him any longer. In those days, yes, in those days she had felt a rapture--even when she suffered on his account; but now she only felt a dull animosity. Why had he forced himself into her life? Oh, how smooth, how free from sorrow, how--yes, how much happier it had been formerly. How he had broken her spirit--would she ever be able to rise again?

No. A hard curt no. And then she thought of her husband. He had also robbed her of him. Had not he and she been one formerly, one in everything? Now this third one had forced his way between them, pushed her husband and her further and further apart--until he went on this side and she on that.

A sudden pain seized the woman as she stood there pondering, a great compassion for herself drove the tears into her eyes; they felt hot as they dripped down on her hands that she had clenched on the window-sill. If he--if he had only never come into their lives----

At that moment a hand touched her shoulder and made her start. She turned round like lightning: "Are you there at last?"

"It's I," said her husband. He had woke up, and when he did not hear her breathing beside him he had got vexed: really, now she was sitting downstairs again, waiting for the lad. Such want of sense. And after lying a little time longer waiting for her and vexed with her, he had cast on a few necessary garments, stuck on his slippers and groped his way through the dark house. He shivered with cold and was in a bad humour. That he had been disturbed in his best sleep and that she would have a sick headache next day was not all; no, what was worse was that Wolfgang must find it downright intolerable to be watched in that manner.

It was natural that he scolded her. "What wrong is there if he remains away a little longer for once in a way, I should like to know, KÄte? It's really absurd of you. I used also to loaf about as a young fellow, but thank goodness, my mother was sensible enough not to mind. Come, KÄte, come to bed now."

She drew back. "Yes--you!" she said slowly, and he did not know what she meant by it. She turned her back on him and leant out of the window again.

He stood a few moments longer waiting, but as she did not come, did not even turn round to him, he shook his head. He would have to leave her, she really was getting quite peculiar.

He was half asleep as he went upstairs again alone; he almost stumbled with fatigue, and his limbs were heavy. But in spite of that his thoughts were clearer, more inexorable than in the daytime, when there is so much around one to distract one's attention. At that hour his heart was filled with longing for a wife who would lead him quietly and gently along a soft track in his old age, and whose smiles were not only outward as the smiles on KÄte's face. A wife whose heart laughed--and, alas, his KÄte was not one of those.

The man lay down again with a sigh of disappointment and shivered as he drew up the covering. But it was a long time before he could fall asleep. If only the lad would come. It really was rather late to-day. Such loafing about realty went too far.

The morning was dawning as a cab drove slowly down the street. It stopped outside the white villa, and two gentlemen helped a third out of it. The two, who were holding the third under his arms, were laughing, and the driver on his seat, who was looking down at them full of interest, also laughed slyly: "Shall I help you, gentlemen? Well, can you do it?"

They leant him up against the railing that enclosed the front garden, rang the bell gently, then jumped hastily into the cab again and banged the door. "Home now, cabby."

The bell had only vibrated softly--a sound like a terrified breath--but KÄte had heard it, although she had fallen asleep in her chair; not firmly, only dozing a little. She jumped up in terror, it sounded shrill in her ears. She rushed to the window. Somebody was leaning against the railing outside. Wolfgang? Yes, yes, it was. But why did he not open the gate and come in?

What had happened to him? All at once she felt as though she must call for help--Friedrich! Paul! Paul!--must ring for the maids. Something had happened to him, something must have happened to him--why did he not come in?

He leant so heavily against the railing, so strangely. His head hung down on his chest, his hat was at the back of his head. Was he ill?

Or had some vagrants attacked him? The strangest ideas shot suddenly through her head. Was he wounded? O God, what had happened to him?

Fears, at which she would have laughed at any other time, filled her mind in this hour, in which it was not night any longer and not day either. Her feet were cold and stiff as though frozen, she could hardly get to the door; she could not find the key at first, and when her trembling hands stuck it into the lock, she could not turn it. She was so awkward in her haste, so beside herself in her fear. Something terrible must have happened. An accident. She felt it.

At last, at last! At last she was able to turn the key. And now she rushed through the front garden to the gate; a chilling icy wind like the breath of winter met her. She opened the gate: "Wolfgang!"

He did not answer. She could not quite see his face; he stood there without moving.

She took hold of his hand: "Good gracious, what's the matter with you?"

He did not move.

"Wolfgang! Wolfgang!" She shook him in the greatest terror. Then he fell against her so heavily that he almost knocked her down, and faltered, lisped like an idiot whose heavy tongue has been taught to say a few words: "Beg--par--don."

She had to lead him. His breath, which smelt strongly of spirits, blew across her face. A great disgust, more terrible than the fear she had had before, took possession of her. This was the awful thing she had been expecting no, this was still more awful, more intolerable. He was drunk, drunk! This was what a drunken man must look like.

A drunken man had never been near her before; now she had one close to her. The horror she felt shook her so that her teeth chattered. Oh for shame, for shame, how disgusting, how vulgar! How degraded he seemed to her, and she felt degraded, too, through him. This was not her Wolfgang any more, the child whom she had adopted as her son. This was quite an ordinary, quite a common man from the street, with whom she had nothing, nothing whatever to do any more.

She wanted to push him away from her quickly, to hurry into the house and close the door behind her--let him find out for himself what to do. But he held her fast. He had laid his arm heavily round her neck, he almost weighed her down; thus he forced her to lead him.

And she led him reluctantly, revolting desperately in her heart, but still conquered. She could not leave him, exposed to the servants' scorn, the laughter of the street. If anybody should see him in that condition? It would not be long before the first people came past, the milk-boys, the girls with the bread, the men working in the street, those who drank Carlsbad water early in the morning. Oh, how terrible if anybody should guess how deeply he had sunk.

"Lean on me, lean heavily," she said in a trembling voice. "Pull yourself together--that's right." She almost broke down under his weight but she kept him on his feet. He was so drunk that he did not know what he was doing, he actually wanted to lie down in front of the door, at full length on the stone steps. But she snatched him up.

"You must--you must," she said, and he followed her like a child. Like a dog, she thought.

Now she had got him into the hall--the front door was again locked--but now came the fear that the servants would see him. They were not up yet, but it would not be long before Friedrich would walk over from the gardener's lodge in his leather slippers, and the girls come down from their attics, and then the sweeping and tidying up would commence, the opening of the windows, the drawing up of the blinds, so that the bright light--the cruel light--might force its way into every crevice. She must get him up the stairs, into his room without anybody guessing anything, without asking anyone for help.

She had thought of her husband for one moment--but no, not him either, nobody must see him like that. She helped him upstairs with a strength for which she had never given herself credit; she positively carried him. And all the time she kept on entreating him to go quietly, whispering the words softly but persistently. She had to coax him, or he would not go on: "Quietly, WÖlfchen. Go on, go on, WÖlfchen--that's splendid, WÖlfchen."

She suffered the torments of hell. He stumbled and was noisy; she gave a start every time he knocked his foot against the stairs, every time the banisters creaked when he fell against them helplessly, and a terrible fear almost paralysed her. If anybody should hear it, oh, if anybody should hear it. But let them get on, on.

"Quietly, WÖlfchen, quite quietly." It sounded like an entreaty, and still it was a command. As he had conquered her before by means of his heavy arm, so she conquered him now by means of her will.

Everybody in the house must be deaf, that they did not hear the noise. To the woman every step sounded like a clap of thunder that continues to roll and roll through the wide space and resounds in the furthermost corner. Paul must be deaf as well. They passed his door. The intoxicated lad remained standing just outside his parents' bedroom, he would not on any account go further--in there--not a step further. She had to entice him, as she had enticed the child in bygone days, the sweet little child with the eyes like sloes that was to run from the chair to the next halting-place. "Come, WÖlfchen, come." And she brought him past in safety.

At last they were in his room. "Thank God, thank God!" she stammered, when she had got him on the bed. She was as pale as the lad, whose face with its silly expression grew more and more livid as the day dawned. Ah, that was the same room in which she had once, many years ago--it was exceedingly long ago!--fought for the child's precious life with fear and trembling, where she had crawled before God's omnipotence like a worm: only let him live, O God, only let him live! Alas, it would have been better had he died then.

As an arrow shot from a too tight bow whizzes along as quick as lightning, so that thought whizzed through her mind. She was horrified at the thought, she could not forgive herself for having had it, but she could not get rid of it again. She stood with shaking knees, terrified at her own heartlessness, and still the thought came: if only he had died at the time, it would have been better. This--this was also the room in which she had tried on the suit the boy, who was growing so fast, was to wear at his confirmation. Now she drew off the grown-up man's clothes, tore off his dinner jacket, his fine trousers--as well as she could in his present state of complete unconsciousness--and unlaced his glacÉ shoes.

Where had he been? A smell of cigarettes and scent and the dregs of wine streamed from him; it almost took her breath away. There hung the same looking-glass in which she had seen the brown boy's face near her fair woman's face, fresh and round-cheeked, a little coarse, a little defiant, but still so nice-looking in its vigorous strength, so dear in its innocence. And now--?

Her eyes glanced at the livid face with the open mouth, from which the breath reeking with spirits came with a snore and a rattle, in the glass, and then at her own terrified, exhausted face, on which all the softness had been changed into hard lines that grief had worn. A shudder passed through her; she smoothed the untidy grey strands of hair away from her forehead with her cold hand; her eyes blinked as though she wanted to weep. But she forced her tears back; she must not cry any more now; that time was over.

She stood some time longer in the centre of the room, motionless, with bated breath, letting her tired arms hang down loosely; then she crept on her toes to the door. He was sleeping quite firmly. She locked the door from the outside and stuck the key in her pocket--nobody must go in.

Should she go to bed now? She could not sleep--oh, she was too restless--but she would have to lie down, oh yes, she must do so, or what would the maids think, and Paul? Then she would have to get up again as she did every day, wash herself, dress, sit at the breakfast-table, eat, talk, smile as she did every day, as though nothing, nothing whatever had happened. And still so much had happened!

She felt so hopelessly isolated as she lay in bed beside her husband. There was nobody to whom she could complain. Paul had not understood her before, he would understand her even less now; he had changed so much in the course of time. Besides, was he not quite infatuated with the boy now? Strange, formerly when she had loved Wolfgang so, her love had always been too much of a good thing--how often he had reproached her for it!--and now, now!--no, they simply did not understand each other any longer. She would have to fight her battles alone, quite alone.

When KÄte heard the first sounds in the house, she would have liked to get up, but she forced herself to remain in bed: it would attract their attention if they saw her so early. But a great fear tortured her. If that person--that, that intoxicated person over there should awake, make a noise, bang on the locked door? What should she say then to make excuses for him? What should she do? She lay in bed quite feverish with uneasiness. At last it was her usual time to get up.

"I suppose the boy came home terribly late--or rather early, eh?" said Paul at breakfast.

"Oh no. Just after you went upstairs."

"Really? But I lay awake quite a long time after that."

He had said it lightly, unsuspiciously, but she got a fright nevertheless. "We--we--he talked to me for quite a long time," she said hesitatingly.

"Foolish," he said, nothing more, and shook his head.

Oh, how difficult it was to tell lies. In what a position Wolfgang placed her.

When Schlieben had driven to town and the cook was busy in the kitchen and Friedrich in the garden, KÄte kept an eye on the housemaid. What a long time she was in the bedroom to-day. "You must finish the rooms upstairs more quickly, you are excessively slow," she said in a sharp voice.

The maid looked at her mistress, quite astonished at the unusual way in which she spoke to her, and said later on to the cook downstairs: "Ugh, what a bad temper the mistress is in to-day. She has been after me."

KÄte had stood beside the girl until the bedroom was finished, she had positively rushed her. Now she was alone, quite alone with him up there, now she could see what was the matter with him.

Would he still be drunk? As she stood outside his door she held her breath; putting her ear to the door she listened. There was nothing to be heard inside, not even his breathing. After casting a glance around her she opened the door like a thief, crept inside and locked it again behind her. She approached the bed cautiously and softly; but she started back so hastily that the high-backed chair she knocked against fell over with a loud noise. What was that--there? What was it?

A disgusting smell, which filled the closed room, made her feel sick. Staggering to the window she tore it open, thrust back the shutters--then she saw. There he lay like an animal--he, who had always been accustomed to so much attention, he who as a child had stretched out his little hands if only a crumb had stuck to them: "Make them clean!" and had cried. There he lay now as if he did not feel anything, as if he did not care anything whatever about what was going on around him, as if the bed on which he lay were fresh and clean; his eyes, with their jet-black lashes that fell like shadows on his pale cheeks, were firmly closed, and he slept the heavy sleep of exhaustion.

She did not know what she was doing. She raised her hand to strike him in the face, to throw a word at him--a violent word expressive of disgust and loathing; she felt how the saliva collected in her mouth, how she longed to spit. It was too horrible, too filthy, too terrible!

A stream of light forced its way in through the open window, of light and sun; a blackbird was singing, full and clear. Outside was the sun, outside was beauty, but here, here? She would have liked to cover up her face and whimper, to run away and conceal herself. But who should do what was necessary? Who should make everything tidy and clean? The chair she had knocked down, the clothes she had drawn off him so hastily, the disgusting smell--alas, all reminded her only too distinctly of a wild night. It must not remain like that. And even if she did not love him any longer--no, no, there was no voice in her heart now that spoke of love--her pride bade her not to humble herself before the servants. Let her get it away quickly, quickly, let nobody else find out anything about it.

She set her teeth hard, pressing back the disgust that rose again and again as though to choke her, and commenced to wash, scrub, clean. She fetched water for herself again and again, the pitcher full, a whole pailful. She had to do it furtively, to creep across the passage on tiptoe. Oh dear, how the water splashed, how noisily it poured into the pail when she turned the tap on. If only nobody, nobody found out anything about it.

She had found a cloth to scour with, and what she had never done before in her life she did now, for she lay on her knees like a servant and rubbed the floor, and crept about in front of the bed and under the bed, and stretched out her arms so as to be sure to get into every corner. Nothing must be forgotten, everything must be flooded with fresh, clean, purifying water. Everything in the room seemed to her to be soiled--as though it were damaged and degraded--the floor, the furniture, the walls. She would have preferred to have washed the wall-paper too, that beautiful deep-coloured wallpaper, or to have torn it off entirely.

She had never worked like that in her life before. Her pretty morning-gown with the silk insertions and lace clung to her body with the perspiration of exertion and fear. The dress had dark spots on the knees from slipping about in the wet, the hem of the train had got into the water; her hair was dishevelled; it had come undone and was hanging round her hot face. Nobody would have recognised Frau Schlieben as she was now.

At last, thank goodness! KÄte looked round with a sigh of relief; the air in the room was quite different now. The fresh wind that blew in through the open window had cleared everything. Only he, he did not suit amid all that cleanliness. His forehead was covered with clammy sweat, his cheeks were livid, his lips swollen, cracked, his hair bristly, standing straight up in tufts. Then she washed him, too, cooled his forehead and dried it, rubbed his cheeks with soap and a sponge, fetched a brush and comb, combed and smoothed his hair, ran quickly across to her room, brought the Florida water that stood on her dressing-table and sprinkled it over him. Now she had only to put on another bed-spread. She could not do any more, it was too difficult for her to lift him. For he did not awake. He lay there like a tree that had been hewn down--dead, stiff, immovable--and noticed nothing of the trembling hands that glided over him, that pulled and smoothed now here, now there.

She did not know how long she had been engaged with him; a knock at the door brought her thoughts back to the present.

"Who is there?"

"I, Friedrich."

"What do you want?"

"The master wishes to know if you will come down to dinner, ma'am."

"To dinner--the master?" She pressed her hands to her head. Was it possible? Paul back already--dinner-time? It could not be. "What time is it?" she cried in a shrill voice. She never thought of looking herself at the watch that lay on the table beside the bed; and it would not have been any use--the expensive gold watch, the gift he had received at his confirmation, had stopped. It had not been wound up.

"It's half past two, ma'am," said Friedrich outside. And then the man, who had been there for years, ventured to inquire respectfully: "Is the young master not well, as he has not got up? Could I perhaps be of some use, ma'am?"

She hesitated for a moment. Should she let him into the secret? It would be easier for her then. But the shame of it made her call out: "There's nothing to be done, you had better go. The young master has a headache, he will remain in bed for another hour. I'll come directly."

She rushed across to her room. There was no time to change her dress, but she would at any rate have to fasten up her hair that had fallen down, smooth it and put a little cap on trimmed with dainty ribbons.

"Still in your morning-gown?" said her husband in a tone of surprise, as she came into the dining-room. There was also a little reproach in his voice as he asked the question; he did not like people not to dress for dinner.

"You came exceptionally early to-day," she said in excuse. She did not dare to look up frankly, she felt so exceedingly humiliated. She could not eat, an intolerable memory rendered every drink, every mouthful loathsome.

"Where is Wolfgang?"

There was the question for which she really ought to have been prepared and which crushed her nevertheless. She had no means of warding it off. What was she to answer? Should she say he was ill? Then his father would go up and see him. Should she say he was drunk and sleeping? Oh no, no, and still it could not remain a secret. She turned red and white, her lips quivered and not a word crossed them.

"Ha ha!" All at once her husband gave a loud laugh--a laugh partly good-natured and partly mocking--and then he stretched his hand to her across the table and eyed her calmly: "You must not agitate yourself like that if the boy feels a little seedy for once in a way. Such things do happen, every mother has to go through that."

"But not to that degree--not to that awful degree!" She screamed out aloud, overwhelmed with pain and anger. And then she seized her husband's hand and squeezed it between both hers that were cold and damp, and whispered, half stifled: "He was drunk--quite drunk--dead drunk!"

"Really?" The man frowned, but the smile did not quite disappear from his lips. "Well, I'll have a word with the boy when he has finished sleeping. Dead drunk, you say?"

She nodded.

"It won't have been quite as bad as that, I suppose. Still, to be drunk--that must not happen again. To take a little too much"--he shrugged his shoulders and a smile passed over his face as at some pleasant memory--"by Jove, who has been young and not taken a little too much for once in a way? Oh, I can still remember the first time I had done so. The headache after it was appalling, but the drop too much itself was fine, splendid! I would not like to have missed that."

"You--you've been drunk too?" She stared at him, with eyes distended.

"Drunk--you mustn't call that drunk exactly. A little too much," he corrected. "You mustn't exaggerate like that, KÄte." And then he went on with his dinner as if nothing had happened, as if the conversation had not succeeded in depriving him of his appetite.

She was in a fever. When would Wolfgang wake? And what would happen then?

Towards evening she heard his step upstairs, heard him close his window and then open it again, heard his low whistle that always sounded like a bird chirping. Paul was walking up and down in the garden, smoking his cigar. She was sitting in the veranda for the first time that spring, looking down at her husband in the garden. The weather was mild and warm. Then she heard Wolfgang approaching; she made up her mind she would not turn her head, she felt so ashamed, but she turned it nevertheless.

He was standing in the doorway leading from the dining-room to the veranda; behind him was twilight, in front of him the brightness of the evening sun. He blinked and pressed his eyes together, the sun shone on his face and made it flame--or was it red because he felt so ashamed? What would he say now? How would he begin? Her heart throbbed; she could not have spoken a single word, her throat felt as though she were choking.

"Good evening," he said in a loud and cheery voice. And then he cleared his throat as though swallowing a slight embarrassment and said in a low voice, approaching his mother a little more: "I beg your pardon, mater, I've overslept myself. I had no idea it was so late--I was dead tired."

Still she did not say anything.

He did not know how he stood with her. She was so quiet, that confused him a little. "The fact is, I came home very late last night."

"Oh! did you?" She turned her head away from him and looked out into the garden again with eyes full of interest, where her husband was just speaking to Friedrich and pointing with his finger to an ornamental cherry-tree that was already in bloom.

"I think so, at least," he said. What was he to say? Was she angry? He must indeed have come home very late, he could not remember at what time, altogether he could not remember anything clearly, everything seemed rather blurred to him. He had also had a bad dream and had felt wretched, but now he was all right again, quite all right. Well, if she had any fault to find with him, she would have to come out with it.

Pointing his lips again so as to whistle like a bird and with his hands in the pockets of his smart, well-cut trousers, he was about to go down into the garden from the veranda when she called him back.

"Do you want anything, mater?"

"You were drunk," she said softly, vehemently.

"I--? Oh!" He was overcome with a sudden confusion. Had he really been drunk? He had no idea of it. But she might be right all the same, for he had no idea how he had come home.

"I suppose you've again been sitting up waiting for me?" He gave her a suspicious sidelong glance, and frowned so heavily that his dark eyebrows met. "You mustn't always wait up for me," he said with secret impatience, but outwardly his tone was anxious. "It makes me lose all liking to do anything with the others if I think you are sacrificing your night's rest. Please don't do so again, mater."

"I won't do so again," she said, with her eyes fixed on her lap. She could not have looked at him, she despised him so. How broad and big and bold he had looked as he stood there saying good evening quite happily. He had behaved as if he knew nothing of all that had happened, that he had wanted to creep on all fours, stretch himself on the doorstep as if that were his bed or he a dog. He was as unembarrassed as though he had not been lying in his room at dinner-time in such--such a filthy condition; as though she had not seen him in his deep humiliation. No, she would never, never be able to kiss him again or caress him, to lay her arms round his neck as she had been so fond of doing when he was a boy. All at once he had become quite a stranger to her.

She did not say another word, did not reproach him. She heard what her husband said to him, when he joined him in the garden, as if it did not concern her.

Although Paul Schlieben had seemed very mild when speaking to his wife at dinner-time, he was not so now when face to face with his son. "I hear you came home drunk--what do you mean by that?" he said to him severely. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

"Who has said so?"

"That's nothing to do with you, I know it, and that is sufficient."

"She, of course," said the boy bitterly. "The mater always exaggerates everything. I was certainly not drunk, I only had a little too much--we all had--good gracious, pater, you must do what the others do! What else is one to do on such a long evening? But it was certainly nothing bad. See how fresh I am." And he took hold of the ornamental cherry-tree, under which they were standing, with both hands, as if he were going to root it up, and a whole shower of white blossoms fell down on him and on the path.

"Let my tree alone," said his father, smiling.

KÄte saw it. Could Paul laugh? So he did not take it very seriously, after all. But that did not provoke her as it would have done some time ago, she felt as if everything in her were cold and dead. She heard the two speak as though they were far, far away, their voices sounded quite low, and still they were speaking loudly and also animatedly.

All the same the conversation was not altogether friendly. Even if the man was not seriously angry with the lad, he still considered it his duty to expostulate with him. He concluded by saying: "Such immoderate drinking is disgusting!"--but he thought to himself: "It cannot have been so bad as KÄte makes out, or I should have seen some signs of it." His brown cheeks were smooth and firm, so shiny and so lately washed, his eyes, which were not large but noticeable on account of their dark depths, were even more sparkling than usual.

The man laid his hand on his son's shoulder: "So we must have no more of that, Wolfgang, if we're to remain friends."

The boy shrugged his shoulders carelessly. "I really don't know what crime I've committed, pater. The whole thing is something of a mystery to me. But it shan't happen again, I promise you."

And they shook hands.

Now something really did stir in KÄte. She would have liked to have jumped up, to have cried: "Don't believe him, Paul, don't believe him. He's sure to get drunk again. I don't trust him. I cannot trust him. If you had seen him as I saw him--oh, he was so vulgar!" And as in a vision a village tavern suddenly appeared before her eyes, a tavern she had never seen. Rough men sat round the wooden table, leaning on their elbows, smoking evil-smelling tobacco, drinking heavily, bawling wildly ... ah, had not his father sat among them? His grandfather too? All those from whom he was descended? She was seized with a terrible fear. It could never, never end well.

"You are so pale, KÄte," her husband said at the evening meal. "You sat still too long; it is still too cold outside."

"Aren't you well, mater?" inquired Wolfgang, politely anxious.

KÄte did not answer her son, she only looked at her husband and shook her head: "I am quite well."

That satisfied them.

Wolfgang ate with a good appetite, with a specially big one even; he was quite ravenous. There were also lots of good things of which he was fond: hot fricassee of chicken with sweetbread, force-meat balls and crawfish tails, and then some very good cold meat, butter and cheese and young radishes.

"Boy, don't drink so much," said Paul Schlieben, as Wolfgang seized the decanter again.

"I'm thirsty," said his son with a certain defiance, filling his glass to the brim and drinking it in one gulp.

"That comes of revelling." His father shook his finger at him, but smiled at the same time.

"It comes of swilling," thought KÄte, and she shuddered with disgust again. She had never used such an expression before even in her thoughts, but now none seemed strong, blunt, contemptuous enough.

There was no pleasant conversation in spite of the room being so cosy, the appointments of the table so beautiful, the flowers so prettily arranged in a cut-glass bowl on the white table-cloth, and above it all a soft subdued light under a green silk shade. KÄte was so monosyllabic that Paul soon seized the newspaper, and the boy, after trying to stifle his yawns, at last got up. It was really too awfully slow to have to sit there. Should he drive into Berlin again or go to bed? He did not quite know himself what to do.

"You are going to bed now?" said his mother. It was intended for a question, but KÄte heard herself that it did not sound like one.

"Of course he's going to bed now," said his father, looking up from his paper for a moment. "He's tired. Good night, my lad."

"I'm not tired." Wolfgang grew red and hot. What did they mean by wanting to persuade him that he was tired? He was no longer a child to be sent to bed. His mother's tone irritated him especially--"you are going to bed now"--that was an order.

The sparkle in his dark eyes became a blaze; the expression of defiance and refractoriness on his face was not pleasant to see. They could no doubt see in what a passion he was, but his father said "Good night," and held out his hand to him without looking up from the newspaper.

His mother also said "Good night."

And the son grasped first one hand and then the other--he imprinted the usual kiss on his mother's hand--and said "Good night."