And Wolfgang teased his mother. "Let me go--why not? I should like to so much--why mayn't I?"
Yes, why not? He had kept dinning this "why not?" into her ears for the last twenty-four hours; it had quite worn her out. What should she say to him? that she disliked Frida? But what had the girl done that she had taken a dislike to her? Nothing. She always curtseyed politely, was always tidily dressed, had even plaited the blue ribbon into her fair hair with a certain taste. The parents were also quite respectable people, and still--these children always hung about the streets, always, both summer and winter. You could pass their house whenever you liked, those Lämkes were always outside their door. Was it the life of the streets this snub-nosed girl, who was very developed for her age, reminded her of? No, he must not go to those people's house, go down into the atmosphere of the porter's room.
"I don't wish you to go there," she said. She had not the heart to say: "I won't allow it," when he looked at her with those beseeching eyes.
And the boy saw his advantage. He felt distinctly: she is struggling with herself; and he followed it up with cruel pertinacity.
"Let me--oh, do let me. I shall be so sorry if I can't. Then I shan't care to do anything. Why mayn't I? Mammy, I'll love you so, if you'll only let me go. Do let me--will you? But I will."
She could not escape from him any more, he followed her wherever she went, he took hold of her dress, and even if she forbade him to ask her any more, she felt that he only thought of the one thing the whole time. So he forced her in that way.
Paul Schlieben was not so averse to his accepting the invitation from the Lämkes. "Why not? They're quite respectable people. It won't harm the boy to cast a glance at those circles for once in a way. I also went to our hall-porter's home as a boy. And why not?"
She wanted to say: "But that was something quite different, there was no danger in your case"--but then she thought better of it and said nothing. She did not want to bring him her fears, her doubts, her secret gnawing dread so soon again, as there was no manifest reason for them, and they could not be explained as every other feeling can be after all. Something like a depressing mist always hung over her. But why should she tell him so? She neither wanted to be scolded nor laughed at for it; she would resent both. He was not the same man he used to be. Oh--she felt it with a slight bitterness--how he used to understand her. He had shared every emotion with her, every vibration of her soul. But he had not the gift of understanding her thoughts now--or did she perhaps not understand him any longer?
But he was still her dear husband, her good, faithful husband whom she loved more than anyone else in the world--no, whom she loved as she loved Wölfchen. The child, oh, the child was the sun round which her life revolved.
If Paul only had been as he was formerly. She had to cast a covert glance at him very frequently now, and, with a certain surprise, also grow accustomed to his outward appearance. Not that his broadening-out did not suit him; the slight stoutness his slender figure with its formerly somewhat stiff but always perfect carriage had assumed suited his years, and the silver threads that commenced to gleam in his beard and at his temples. It suited also the comfortable velvet coat he always put on as soon as he came home, suited his whole manner of being. Strange that anybody could become such a practical person, to whom everything relating to business had formerly been such a burden, nay, even most repugnant. He would not have picked up the strange child from the Venn now, and--Käte gave her husband a long look--he would not have taken it home with him now as a gift from fairyland.