The Son of His Mother Part 11

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, G.o.d, 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. "Wolfchen, Wolfchen, 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 Kate'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 Kate 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 Kate 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 Kate 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 pa.s.sion, 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, Kate, 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 Kate 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 Kate 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 Kate 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 Kate was so hypersensitive. She could positively make others nervous as well.

And the man pa.s.sed 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 Kate 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 Kate'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 Wolfchen had given them. It had been charming to watch his first steps, to listen to his first connected words. And had not Kate 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 enn.o.bled 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.