"It strikes as well," she said to him eagerly. "You can know what time it is in the dark. Look. If you press here--do you see?"
"Yes. Give it to me--you've to press here." He knew all about it.
They had lost count of the time; they had to be going. Wolfgang walked to the station between his parents. When they passed the house where Lämke was hall-porter, Frida was standing at the door. She must have got up earlier than usual this Sunday; she was already in her finery, looked very nice and smiled and nodded. Then Frau Lämke stuck her head out of the low cellar-window, and followed the boy with her eyes.
"There he goes," she philosophised. "Who knows what life has in store for him?" She felt quite moved.
It was splendid weather, a real spring day. The tasteful villas looked so festive and bright; all the bushes were shooting, and the crocuses, tulips and primroses were in bloom. Even Berlin with its large grey houses and its noise and traffic showed a Sunday face. It was so much quieter in the streets; true, the electric cars were rushing along and there were cabs and carriages, but there were no waggons about, no brewers' and butchers' carts. Everything was so much quieter, as though subdued, softened. The streets seemed broader than usual because they were emptier, and the faces of the people who walked there looked different from what they generally did.
The candidates for confirmation were streaming to the church; there was a large number of boys and girls. Most of the girls drove, for they all belonged to good families.
Ah, all those boys and girls. Käte could hardly suppress a slight feeling of longing, almost of envy: oh, to be as young as they were. But then every selfish thought was swallowed up in the one feeling: the boy, the boy was stepping out of childhood's land now. God be with him!
Feelings she had not known for a long time, childlike, devout, quite artless feelings crowded in upon her; everything the years and her worldly life had brought with them fell from her. To-day she was young again, as young as those kneeling at the altar, full of confidence, full of hope.
Dr. Baumann spoke grave words full of advice to the boys and girls; many of the young children sobbed, and their mothers, too. A shudder passed through the crowded church, the young dark and fair heads bent low. Käte's eyes sought Wolfgang; his head was the darkest of all. But he did not keep it bent, his eyes wandered restlessly all over the church until they came to a certain window; there they remained fixed. What was he looking for there? Of what was he thinking? She imagined she could see that his thoughts were far away, and that made her uneasy. Moving nearer to her husband she whispered: "Do you see him?"
He nodded and whispered: "Certainly. He's bigger than all the others." There was something of a father's pride in the man's whisper. Yes, to-day it came home to him: even if they had had many a sorrow they would not have had under other circumstances, many a discomfort and unpleasantness, still they had had many a joy they would otherwise have missed. In spite of everything the boy might in time be all right. How he was growing. There was an expression about his mouth that was almost manly. It had never struck his father before--was it the black clothes that made the boy look so grave?