The Son of His Mother Part 22

He followed her with eyes full of dismay: had he hurt her? All at once he was conscious that he had done so--oh no, he did not want to do that. He had already got half out of bed to run after her on his bare feet, to hold her fast by her dress and say: "Are you angry?"--when he suddenly remembered Cilia again. No, it was too bad of her to tell her to go.

He wept as he crept under the bed-clothes and folded his hands.

Cilia had told him he was to pray to the Holy Virgin, to that smiling woman in the blue mantle covered with stars, who sits on a throne over the altar with the crown on her head. She healed everything. And when she asked G.o.d in Heaven for anything, He did it. He would pray to her now.

Cilia had once taken him to her church, when his mother was at the baths and his father in the Tyrol. He had had to promise her not to tell anybody about it, and the charm of the secrecy had increased the charm of the church. An unconscious longing drew him to those altars, where the saints looked so beautiful and where you could see G.o.d incarnate, to whom he had been told to pray as to a father. He had never liked the church so much which his mother sometimes went to, and in which he had also been.

That longing, which had clung to him ever since like a fairy tale, now came over him forcibly and vividly. Yes, it was beautiful to be able to kneel like that before the Holy Virgin, who was lovelier than all women on earth, and hardly had you laid your request before her when its fulfilment was insured. Splendid!

"Hail Mary!" Cilia's prayer began like that. He did not know any more, but he repeated the words many times. And now he smelt the incense again, which had filled the whole church with perfume, heard again the little bell announcing the transubstantiation, saw the Lord's anointed with the splendid stole over his chasuble bow first to the left of the altar, then to the right. Oh, how he envied the boys in their white surplices, who were allowed to kneel near him. Blessed harmonies floated under the high, arched dome:

"Procedenti ab utroque Compar sit laudatio----"

They had sung something like that. And then the priest had raised the gleaming monstrance on high, and all the people had bowed deeply: _Qui vivis et regnas in saecula saeculorum._ Yes, he had remembered _that_ Latin well. He would never forget it all his life.

Cilia had had to nudge him and whisper: "Come, we're going now,"

otherwise he would have remained kneeling much longer in the magnificent and still cosy church, in which nothing was cold and strange.

If only he could go there again. Cilia had certainly promised to take him if she found an opportunity--but now she was to go away, and the opportunity would never come. What a pity. He was filled with a great regret and defiance at the same time; no, he would not go to the church his mother went to, and where the boys from his school went.

And he whispered again, "Hail, Mary!" and the hot and angry tears that had been running down his cheeks ceased as he whispered it.

He had climbed out of his bed, and was kneeling by the side of it on the carpet, his clasped hands raised in prayer, as he had seen the angels do in the altar-piece. His eyes sparkled and were wide open, his defiance melted into fervour.

When he at last got into bed again, and his excessive fatigue had calmed his agitation and he had fallen asleep, he dreamt of the beautiful Virgin Mary, whose features were well known to him, and he felt his heart burn for her.

It was a fortnight later, the first of October, that Cilla left her situation. Kate had given her a good character; it was still not clear to the girl why she had been dismissed, even when she stood in the street. The lady wanted an older, more experienced maid--that was what she had said--but Cilia did not quite believe that, she felt vaguely that there was another reason: she simply did not like her. She would go home for a short time before taking another situation, she felt homesick, and it had been difficult for her to leave the place--on account of the boy. How he had cried, even yesterday evening. He had hung on her neck and kissed her many times like a little child, that big boy. And there was so much he still wanted to say to her. They had been standing together upstairs in the dark pa.s.sage, and then the mistress's step as she came up the stairs had driven them away; he was just able to escape to his room.

And she had not even been able to say good-bye to him to-day, the good boy. For he had hardly gone to school when her mistress said: "There, now you can go." She was quite taken aback, for she had not reckoned on getting away before the afternoon. But the new housemaid, an elderly person with a pointed face, had already come, so what was there for her to do? So all she had done was to wrap up all the pictures of the saints she kept in her prayer-book quickly in paper, and stick them into the drawer in the table that stood at the boy's bedside--he would be sure to find them there--after she had written "Love from Cilia" on them. Then she had gone away.

Cilia had sent her basket on by goods train, and she had nothing to carry now but a little leather bag and a cardboard box tied with string. So she could get on quickly. But on her way to the station she stopped all at once: the school would be over at one o'clock, it was almost eleven now, it really did not matter if she left somewhat later.

How pleased he would be if she said good-bye to him once more and begged him not to forget her.

She turned round. She would be sure to find a bench near the school, and there she would wait for him.

The pa.s.sers-by looked curiously at the young girl who had posted herself near the school like a soldier, stiff and silent. Cilia had not found a bench; she dared not go far from the entrance for fear of missing him. So she placed the cardboard box on the ground, and stood with her little bag on her arm. Now and then she asked somebody what time it was. The time pa.s.sed slowly. At last it was almost one. Then she felt her heart beat: the good boy! In her thoughts she could already see his dark eyes flash with joy, hear his amazed: "Cillchen!

You?"

Cilia pushed her hat straight on her beautiful fair hair, and stared fixedly at the school-door with a more vivid red on her red cheeks: the bell would soon ring--then he would come rus.h.i.+ng out--then--. All at once she saw the boy's mother. She? Frau Schlieben was approaching the door with quick steps. Oh dear!

A few quick bounds brought her behind a bush: did she intend fetching her Wolfgang herself to-day? Oh, then she would have to go. And she stole away to the station, full of grief. The joy that had made her heart beat had all disappeared; but she still had one consolation: Wolfgang would not forget her. No, never!

Wolfgang was much surprised to see his mother. Surely he need not be fetched? She had never done that herself before. He was disagreeably impressed. Was he a baby? The others would make fun of him. He felt very indignant, but his mother's kindness disarmed him.

She was specially tender that day, and very talkative. She inquired about everything they had been doing at school, she did not even scold when he confessed he had had ten faults in his Latin composition; on the contrary, she promised he should make an excursion to Schildhorn that afternoon. It was such a beautiful, sunny autumn day, almost like summer. The boy sauntered along beside her, quite content, dangling his books at the end of the long strap. He had quite forgotten for the moment that Cilia was to leave that day.

But when they came home and the strange maid answered the door, he opened his eyes wide, and when they sat down at table and the new girl with the pointed face, who did not look at all like a servant, brought in the dishes, he could not contain himself any longer.

"Where's Cilia?" he asked.

"She has gone away--you know it," said his mother in a casual tone of voice.

"Away?" He turned pale and then crimson. So she had gone without saying good-bye to him! All at once he had no appet.i.te, although he had been so hungry before. Every mouthful choked him; he looked stiffly at his plate--he dared not look up for fear of crying.

His parents spoke of this and that--all trivial matters--and a voice within him cried: "Why has she gone without saying good-bye to me?" It hurt him very much. He could not understand it--she was so fond of him.

How could she have found it in her heart to go away without letting him know where he could find her? His Cillchen to leave him like that! Oh, she could not have done so--not of her own free will, oh no, no. And just when he was at school.

He was seized with a sudden suspicion: he had not thought of such a thing before, but now it was clear to him--oh, he was not so stupid as all that--she had had to go just because he was at school. His mother had never liked Cilia, and she had not wanted her to say good-bye to him.

The boy cast angry glances at his mother from under his lowered lashes: that was horrid of her.

He rose from the table full of suppressed wrath, and dragged his feet up the stairs to his room. He found the pictures of the saints that had been stuck into his drawer at once--"With love from Cilia"--and then he gave way to his fury and his grief. He stamped with his feet and kissed the gaudy pictures, and his tears made lots of dark spots on them. Then he rushed downstairs into the dining-room, where his father was still sitting at the table and his mother packing cakes and fruit into her small bag. Oh, she had wanted to go for a walk with him. That would be the very last thing he would do.

"Where has Cilia gone? Why haven't you let her say good-bye to me?"

His mother gazed at him, petrified; how did the boy guess her innermost thoughts? She could not utter a word. But he did not let her speak either, his boy's voice, which was still high, cracked and then became deep and hoa.r.s.e: "Yes, you--oh, I know it quite well--you did not want her to say good-bye to me. You've sent her away so that I should not see her any more--yes, you! That's horrid of you!

That's--that's vile!" He went towards her.

She shrank back slowly--he raised his hands--was he going to strike her?

"You rascal!" His father's hand seized him by the scruff of his neck. "How dare you? Raise your hand against your mother?" The angry man shook the boy until his teeth chattered, and did so again and again. "You--you rascal, you good-for-nothing!"

"She didn't let her say good-bye to me," the boy screamed as an answer. "She's sent her away because--because----"

"You still dare to speak to----"

"Yes! Why didn't she let Cilia say good-bye to me? She never did anything to her. I loved her and it was for that, only for that----"

"Silence!" He gave the boy a violent blow on the mouth. The man no longer recognised himself; his calmness had abandoned him, the boy's obstinacy made him lose his temper. How he struggled against the hand that was holding him, how he stared at him with his bold eyes. How dared he shout at him like that? "You"--he shook him--"so you are so insolent? So ungrateful? What would have become of you? You would have died in misery--yes--it's she who has made something out of you--who picked you up out of----"

"Paul!" His wife's scream interrupted the man. Kate seized hold of his arm as though she were out of her mind: "No, no, leave him. You are not to--no!" She held her hand in front of his mouth. And when he pushed her away angrily and seized hold of the boy more firmly, she tore him away from him and pressed his head against her dress as if to protect him. She held her hand before his ears. Her face was deathly white, and, turning her dilated eyes to her husband, she implored him full of terror: "Not a word! I beseech you, I beseech you!"

The man's anger had not yet cooled. Kate must really have lost her senses. Why did she take the boy away from the punishment he so richly deserved? He approached the boy once more with a hard: "Well, really, Kate I'm not going to condone this."

Then she fled with him to the door and pushed him outside, bolted it and then placed herself in front of it, as though to bar her husband's egress.

Now Wolfgang had gone. They were both alone now, she and her husband, and with a cry full of reproach: "You had almost betrayed it to him," she tottered to the sofa. She fell rather than sat down on it, and broke out in hopeless weeping.

Paul Schlieben strode up and down the room. He had indeed almost allowed himself to be carried away by his indignation. But would it have been a misfortune if he had told the boy about it? Let him know where he came from, and that he had nothing, really nothing whatever to do there. That he received everything as a favour. It was absolutely unnecessary--in fact, more prejudicial than desirable--to keep it a secret from him. But if she would not allow it on any account!

He interrupted his walk to and fro, remained standing before his wife, who was weeping in the corner of the sofa, and looked down at her. He felt so extremely sorry for her. That was the reward for all her kindness, her unselfishness, for all her devotion! He laid his hand softly on her drooping head without saying a word.

Then she started up suddenly and caught hold of his hand: "And don't do anything to him, please. Don't hit him. It's my fault--he guessed it. I did not like her, I gave her notice, and then I sent her away secretly--only because he loved her, only for that reason. I feared her. Paul, Paul"--she wrung her hands repentantly--"oh, Paul, I stand abashed before the child, I stand abashed before myself."

Wolfgang was sitting huddled up in his room, holding the pictures of the saints in his hand. Those were now his most costly, his only possessions; a precious memory. Where could she be now? Still in the Grunewald? Already in Berlin? Or much further? Oh, how he longed for her. He missed the friendly face that was always smiling secretly at him, and his longing for her increased until he could not bear it any longer. There was no one there who loved him as she did whom he loved as he had loved her.

Now that Cilia was gone he forgot that he had often laughed at her and played tricks on her, and had also quarrelled with her in a boyish manner. His longing for her grew and grew, and her figure grew as well.

It became so large and so strong, so powerful that it took his eyes away from everything else that still surrounded him. He threw himself on the carpet and dug his fingers into it; he had to hold himself in that manner, otherwise he would have broken everything to bits, everything, big and small.