The Son of His Mother

by Clara Viebig

The man felt quite ashamed of himself. How a seed of suspicion grows! He had really wronged his son this time. But that question of the money still remained, the boy had not been open and honest in that. It seemed to the father that he could not quite rely on his son any more now.

It was hardly noon when Wolfgang left the office again. He had arranged to meet a couple of acquaintances in the Imperial Café not far from the Linden; he would have to have something to eat, and whether he had his lunch there or somewhere else was of no consequence; a sandwich, which was all his father took with him from home, was not sufficient for him after swimming and riding.

Then he showed himself again at the office for an hour in the afternoon, but in his tennis clothes this time, in white shoes, a racket in his hand.

When Wolfgang left the West End tennis-ground that afternoon, hot and red--the games had been long and obstinate--and went across to the Zoological Gardens' Station, he hesitated as he stood at the entrance to it. He did not feel as if he wanted to go home at all. Should he not drive into town again instead? As a matter of fact he did not feel tempted to go into the streets either, which the drifting crowds made still closer; it was better in the suburbs, where there was at least a breath of fresh air blowing over the villa--but then he would have to sit with his parents. And if his father were in just as bad a humour as he had been at the office that morning, it would be awful. Then it would be better to find some friend or other in Berlin. If only he had not had his tennis suit on. That hindered him. He was still standing undecided when he suddenly saw in the crowd that now, when work was over and free-time come, was winding its way through the entrance to the station like a long worm and dividing itself into arms to go up the steps to the right and left, a mass of fair hair gleaming under a white sailor-hat trimmed with a blue velvet band and pressed down on a forehead, which seemed well-known to him. It was beautiful fair silky hair, smooth and shining; carelessly arranged in an enormous knot to all appearances, but in reality with much care. And now he recognised the blue eyes and the pert little nose under the straw hat. Frida Lämke! Oh, what a long time since he had seen her. He suddenly remembered the hundreds of times he had neglected them. How little he had troubled himself about those good people. That was very wrong of him. And all at once it seemed to him that he had missed them always, the whole time. He reached her side with one bound like an impetuous boy, not noticing that he trod on a dress here and that he gave somebody a shove in the side there.

"Frida!"

She gave a little start. Who had accosted her so boldly?

"How do, Frida. How are you?"

She did not recognise him at first, but then she blushed and pouted. What a gentleman Wolfgang had grown. And she answered a little pertly, a little affectedly: "Very well, thanks, Mr. Wolfgang. Are you quite well too?" and she threw her fair head back and laughed.

He would not hear of her calling him "Mr. Wolfgang." "Nonsense, what are you thinking of?" And he was so cordial, so quite the Wolfgang of former years, that she was soon on the old terms with him again. She dropped her affectation entirely. They walked beside each other as intimately as if almost a year had not passed since last they had talked together.

"Young lovers," thought many a one who came across them strolling along near the coppices in the Tiergarten. They had let their train go--he had no wish to hurry home, at any rate--and so they walked further and further in among the green trees, where it was already dark and where even his light tennis suit and her light blouse could not be distinguished any longer. The nightingales had grown silent long ago; all that was heard was a girl's soft laugh now and then, which sounded like the cooing of a dove, and the low whispers of invisible couples. Whispers came from the benches that stood in the dark, summer dresses rustled, burning cigars gleamed like glow-worms; all the seats one came across were occupied. It was extremely close in the park.