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.