Whenever Frida LÄmke met Wolfgang Schlieben now, she cast down her eyes and he pretended not to see her. He was angry with her: the confounded little minx to betray him. She was the only one who could have put his parents on his track. How should they otherwise have ever guessed it? He could have kicked himself for having once given that viper hints about his acquaintance in Puttkammerstrasse. Frida and her friendship, just let her try to talk to him again about friendship. Pooh, women on the whole were not worth anything.

A fierce contempt for women had taken possession of the young fellow. He would have liked to spit in their faces--all venal creatures--he knew quite enough about them now, ay, and loathed them.

The boy, who was not yet nineteen, felt tired and old; strangely tired. When Wolfgang thought of the time that had just passed, it seemed to him like a dream; now that the rooms in Friedrichstrasse had been given up and he was living with his parents again, even like a bad dream. And when he met Frida LÄmke--that could not be avoided as he drove to and fro regularly in office hours now--he felt a bitter pang every time. He did not even say how do you do to her, he could not bring himself to say even that.

If only he could throw of! the oppression that weighed him down. They were not unkind to him--no, they were even very good--but still he had always the feeling that they only tolerated him. That irritated him and made him sad at the same time. They had not reproached him, would probably not do so either, but his father was always grave, reserved, and his mother's glance had something that simply tortured him. He was filled with a morbid distrust: why did they not tell him straight out they despised him?

Something that was almost remorse troubled him during the nights when he could not sleep. At such times his heart would throb, positively flutter, he had to sit up in bed--he could not bear to lie down--and fight for breath. Then he stared into the dark, his eyes distended with terror. Oh, what a horrible condition that was. In the morning when the attack was over--this "moral sickness"--as he used to call it scornfully--he was vexed at his sentimentality. What wrong had he done? Nothing different from what hundreds of other young fellows do, only they were not so idiotic as he. That Frida, that confounded gossip. He would have liked to wring her neck.

After those bad nights Wolfgang was still more unamiable, more taciturn, more sulky, more reserved than ever. And he looked more wretched.

"He's run down," said Paul Schlieben to himself. He did not say so to his wife--why agitate her still more?--for he could see that she was uneasy from the way she took care of him. She did not make use of words or of caresses--those days were over--but she paid special attention to his food; he was positively pampered. A man of his age ought to be much stronger. His back no longer seemed to be so broad, his chest was less arched, his black eyes lay deep in their sockets and had dark lines under them. He held himself badly and he was always in very bad spirits. His spirits, yes, his spirits, those were at the root of all the evil, but no care could alter them and no medicine. The young fellow was dissatisfied with himself, that was it, and was it any wonder? He felt ashamed of himself.

And the situation in which he had found him rose up before his father's mental vision with terrible distinctness.

He had let his wife wait downstairs for him--true, she had made a point of going up with him, but he had insisted on her staying down in the court-yard, that narrow, dark yard which smelt of fustiness and dust--he had gone up alone. Three flights of stairs. They had seemed terribly steep to him, his knees had never felt so tired before when mounting any stairs. There was the name "Knappe." He had touched the bell--ugh, what a start he had given when he heard the shrill peal. What did he really want there? As the result of an anonymous letter he, Paul Schlieben, was forcing his way in on strange people, into a strange house? The blood surged to his head--and at that moment the person opened the door in a light blue dressing-gown, no longer young, but buxom, and with good-natured eyes. And by the gleam of a miserable kitchen lamp, which lighted up the pitch-dark passage even at noon, he had seen a smart top-coat and a fine felt hat hanging in the entrance, and had recognised Wolfgang's things. So he was really there? There? So the anonymous letter had not lied after all.

He did not know exactly what he had done after that; he only knew he had got rid of some money. And then he had led the young man down the stairs by the arm--that is to say, dragged him more than led him. KÄte had met them halfway. She had found the time too long downstairs, open-mouthed children had gathered round her, and women had watched her from the windows. She was almost in despair: why did Paul remain upstairs such a terribly long time? She had had no idea, of course, that he had first to wake his son out of a leaden sleep in an untidy bed. And she must never, never know.

Now they had got him home again, but was it a pleasure? To that Paul Schlieben had to give a curt "no" as answer, even if he had felt ever so disposed to forgive, ever so placable. No joy came to them from that quarter now. Perhaps they might have some later, much later. For the time being it would be best for the young man to serve his time as a soldier.

Wolfgang was to present himself on the first of April. Schlieben pinned his last hope to that.

Wolfgang had always wished to serve with the Rathenow Hussars, but after their last experiences his father deemed it more advisable to let him join the more sedate infantry.

Formerly Wolfgang would have opposed this plan very strenuously--in any case it must be cavalry--now it did not enter his head to do so. If he had to serve as a soldier, it was quite immaterial to him where; he was dead tired. His only wish was to sleep his fill for once. Kullrich was dead--his sorrowing father had sent him the announcement from GÖrbersdorf towards Christmas--and he? He had wasted too many nights in dissipation.

It was a blow to Paul Schlieben that Wolfgang was not accepted as a soldier. "Disqualified"--a hard word--and why disqualified?

"Serious organic defect of the heart"--his parents read it with eyes that thought they had made a mistake and that still read correctly.

Wolfgang was very exhausted when he came home after the examination, but he did not seem to mind much that he was disqualified. He did not show it--but was he not, all the same?

The doctor tried to put everything in as favourable a light as he could after he, too, had examined him. "Defect of the heart, good gracious, defect of the heart, there isn't a single person who has a perfectly normal heart. If you take a little care of yourself, Wolfgang, and live a regular life, you can grow to be a very old man with it."

The young fellow did not say a word.

The Schliebens overwhelmed their doctor with reproaches. Why had he not told them it long ago? He must surely have known. Why had he left them in such ignorance?

Dr. Hofmann defended himself: had he not again and again exhorted them to be careful? He had been anxious about the boy's heart ever since he had had scarlet fever, and had not concealed his fears. All the same, he had not thought matters would get worse so quickly. The boy had lived too gay a life.

"Serious organic defect of the heart"--that was like a sentence of death. Wolfgang laid down his arms. All at once he felt he had no longer the strength to fight against those attacks in the night. What he had fought out all alone in his bed, even without lighting his candle, before he knew that, now drove him to his feet. It drove him to the window--he tore it open--drove him round the room, until he at last, completely exhausted, found rest in the arm-chair. It drove him even to knock at his parents' door: "Are you asleep? I am so frightened. Sit up with me."

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

They had had bad nights for weeks. Wolfgang had suffered and his mother with him. How could she sleep when she knew that somebody in the next room was in torture?

Now he was better again. Their old friend's medicines had had a good effect, and Wolfgang had gone through a regular cure: baths, friction, massage, special diet. Now they could be quite satisfied with the result. It was especially the strictly regular life that had done him good; his weight had increased, his eyes were brighter, his complexion fresher. They were all full of hope--all except one. That one had no wish to live any longer.

The month of April was raw and stormy, quite exceptionally cold. It was impossible for the convalescent to be as much in the open air as was desirable, especially as any exercise that would warm him, such as tennis, cycling, riding, was still too tiring for him. The doctor proposed to send him to the Riviera. Even if there were only a few weeks left before it would be too hot there, that would suffice.

His father was at once willing for the young fellow to go. If it would do him good of course he must go. KÄte offered to accompany him.

"But why, my dear lady? The youngster can quite well go alone," the doctor assured her.

However, she insisted on it, she would go with him. It was not because she still feared she might lose him; it was her duty to do so, she must accompany him even if she had not wished to. And at the same time a faint desire began to stir in her, too, unknown to herself. She was so well acquainted with the south--should they go to Sestri, for example? She looked inquiringly at her husband. Had they not once spent some perfectly delightful days on the coast near Spezia? There, near the blue sea, where the large stone pines are greener and give more shade than the palms further south, where there is something crisp and refreshing in the air in spite of its mildness, where there is nothing relaxing in the climate but everything is vivifying.

He smiled; of course they could go there. He was so pleased that his wife's enthusiasm was not quite a thing of the past.

Wolfgang rummaged about in his room for a long time on the afternoon before their departure. KÄte, who feared he might exert himself too much whilst packing, had sent Friedrich to assist him. But the latter soon came downstairs again: "The young gentleman wishes to do it alone."

When Wolfgang had put the last things into his trunk he looked round his room thoughtfully. He had grown up there, he had so often looked upon the room as a cage, would he ever return to it?

Here have we no continuing city, but we seek one to come.

The text he had received at his confirmation hung on the wall opposite him in a beautiful frame. He had not read it for a long time. Now he read it again, smiling slightly, a little scornfully and a little sadly. Yes, he would flutter back into it. He had got used to the cage.

And now he resolved to do something more as the very last thing--to go to Frida.

Frau LÄmke was speechless with astonishment, almost frightened, when she saw young Heir Schlieben step into her room about the time her Frida generally came home. She stammered with embarrassment: "No, Frida isn't at home yet--and Artur isn't either--and father is up in the lodge--but if you will put up with my company until--until--they come"--she pushed him a chair with a good deal of noise.

He drew his chair close to the table at which she had been sewing. Now he was sitting where he used to sit. And he remembered his first invitation to the LÄmkes' quite distinctly--it had been Frida's tenth birthday--he had sat there with the children, and the coffee and the cakes had tasted so excellent.

And a host of other memories came back to him--nothing but pleasant memories--but still he and Frau LÄmke did not seem able to start a proper conversation. Did he feel oppressed at the thought of meeting Frida again? Or what made him so restless there? Yes, that was it, he did not feel at home there now.

There was something sad in his voice when he said to Frau LÄmke as he held out his hand to her on leaving: "Well--good-bye."

"Well, I hope you'll have a real good time--good bye for the present."

He nodded in reply and shook her hand once more, and then he went. He preferred to go and meet Frida, that was better than sitting in that room. His heart was throbbing. Then he saw her coming towards him.

Although it was dark and the street lamps not so good as in the town, he recognised her already far off. She was wearing the same sailor hat with the blue band she had had the summer before; it was certainly rather early in the year, but it suited her--so fresh and springlike.

A feeling surged up in Wolfgang, as she stood before him, that he had never known in the presence of any woman: a brotherly feeling of great tenderness.

He greeted her in silence, but she said in a glad voice: "Oh, is it you, Wolfgang?" and held out her hand to him.

He strolled along beside her as he had done before; she had slackened her pace involuntarily. She did not know exactly on what footing they were with each other, but still she thought she could feel that he was no longer angry.

"We are going away to-morrow," he said.

"Well, I never! Where?"

And he told her.

She interrupted him in the middle. "Are you angry with me?" she asked in a low voice.

He shook his head in the negative, but he did not say anything further about it.

All she had intended saying to him, that she had not been able to do anything else, that Hans had found him out, that she had promised his mother and that she herself had been so extremely anxious about him, remained unsaid. It was not necessary. It was as if the past were dead and buried now, as if he had entirely forgotten it.

When he told the girl, who was listening with much interest, about the Riviera where he was going, something like a new pleasure in life seemed to creep into his heart again. Oh, all he wanted was to get away from his present surroundings. When he got to the Riviera everything would be better. He had not got an exact impression of what it would be like there; he had only half listened, no, he had not listened at all when his mother told him about the south, it had all been so immaterial to him. Now he felt himself that it was a good thing to take an interest in things again. He drew a deep breath.

"Are you going to send me a pretty picture post-card from there, too?" she asked.

"Of course, many." And then he laid his arm round her narrow shoulders and drew her towards him. And she let him draw her.

They stood in the public street, where the bushes that grew on both sides of it were already in bud and the elder was swelling with the first sap, and clung to each other.

"Come back quite well," she sobbed.

And he kissed her tenderly on her cheek: "Frida, I really have to thank you."

When Frida went to business next morning--it was half past seven--she said to her mother: "Now he's gone," and she remained thoughtful the whole day. She had not spoken to Wolfgang for many weeks and she had not minded it at all during the time but since the evening before she had felt sad. She had thought much of him, she could not forget him at all.