"Well then, I won't disturb you in the future." She tried to smile. "Good night, my son." She kissed him, but after he had gone there was a great terror in her heart, besides a certain feeling of jealousy at the thought of being superfluous. If he were like that now, what would he be later on?
Wolfgang could not complain, his mother let the children come to him in the garden as often as he wanted them--and he wanted them almost every day. The friendship that had languished during the winter became warmer than ever now that it was summer.
"Pray leave them," Paul Schlieben had said to his wife, as she looked at him with anxious eyes: what would he say? Would he really not mind Wolfgang rushing about with those children in his garden? "I think it's nice to see how the boy behaves to those children," he said. "I would never have thought he could attach himself to anybody like that."
"You don't think it will do him any harm only to associate with those--those--well, with those children who belong to quite a different sphere?"
"Nonsense. Harm?" He laughed. "That will stop of its own accord later on. I infinitely prefer him to keep to the children of such people than to those of snobs. He'll remain a simple child much longer in that manner."
"Do you think so?" Well, Paul might be right in a manner. Wölfchen was not at all fanciful, he liked an apple, a plain piece of bread and butter just as much as cake. But all the same it would have been better, and she would have preferred it, had he shown himself more dainty with regard to his food--as well as to other things. She took great trouble to make him more fastidious.
When the cook came to her quite indignant one day: "Master Wolfgang won't have any more of the good saveloy on his bread now, nor of the joint from dinner either, ma'am he says it's 'always the same.' What am I to do now?" she was delighted. At last she had succeeded in instilling into him that people do not swallow everything thoughtlessly without making any choice, just for the sake of eating something.
If she had seen how he stuffed bread and dripping with liver and onion sausage on it down his throat at Frau Lämke's, or gobbled up potato cake baked in oil hot from the pan, she would not have been so delighted. But now she was grateful for every finer feeling she thought she observed in him, be it ever so small. She did not notice at all what tortures she caused herself in this manner.
Oh, why did not her husband help her to train him? If only he would. But he no longer understood her.
Paul Schlieben had given up remonstrating with his wife. He had done so several times, but what he had said had had no effect owing to the obstinacy with which she held fast to her principles. Why should he quarrel with her? They had lived so many years happily together--it would soon be their silver wedding--and was this child, this boy who could hardly write correctly as yet, into whose head the master was just drilling the first rules in Latin--this child who after all had nothing to do either with her or him--this outsider to separate him and his wife now after they had been married so long? Rather than that it would be better to let many things pass which it would perhaps have been better for Käte to have done differently. Let her see how she could manage the boy in her way--she was so very fond of him. And when he, no longer the plaything, had outgrown her delicate hands, then he, the man, was still there to make him feel a more vigorous hand. Fortunately there was no deceit in the boy.