went into the desert of artificial passions and yourself became arid, unnatural, prematurely old. You are a coward. And for once you have to make a decision, yet there you stand and hesitate. You don’t want to hurt your mother and yet you want to help Peter. You would prefer your mother to ask you, implore you with desperate gestures of entreaty, to sell the painting. But she won’t do that, she won’t spare you the decision; you will have to act like a man. There is no middle course, no shift, no compromise, no shirking. You have let things drift too long—now you have to decide—the one or the other.”
The clouds rose higher and higher. Wolfgang Pagel still stood irresolutely at the window. He was good to look at, with his slim hips and broad shoulders, the image of a warrior. But he was not a warrior. He had an open face, with a good forehead, a straight nose—but he was not frank, not straight. Many thoughts struggled within him; all were disagreeable and tormenting. All demanded something of him, and he was angry at having to deal with them.
Others have better luck, he thought. They do what they like and don’t bother. With me everything is difficult. I shall have to think it all out again. Is there no way—must I choose between Mother and Peter?
For a while he stood his ground; this time he did not wish to evade his responsibilities. But gradually, as he found no solution although everything clamored for a decision, he grew tired, lit a cigarette, and took another mouthful of coffee. Softly he opened the door of his room and listened. The flat was silent; Mamma was not back yet.
His hair was fair and curly, his chin was not a very strong one—he was soft, he was indolent. And now he smiled. He had made up his mind. Once again he had avoided a decision. He would take advantage of his mother’s absence to remove the painting without a scene. He smiled, suddenly very satisfied with himself. The thoughts that had tormented him were gone.
He went straight across the corridor toward his father’s room. There was no time to be lost, the storm was about to break, and Mamma might come back at any moment.
He opened the door and there, in the big armchair, sat Mamma, black, stiff and upright.
“Good afternoon, Wolfgang,” she said. “I’m so pleased to see you.”
III
He was not at all pleased. On the contrary, he felt like a thievish servant caught red-handed.
“I thought you were out shopping, Mamma,” said he lamely and gave her a limp hand which she pressed energetically and meaningfully. She smiled. “I wanted to give you time to feel at home again; I didn’t wish to overwhelm you at once. Well, sit down, Wolfgang, don’t stand about so irresolutely.… You’ve no engagements at present; you aren’t here on a visit, you’re at home.”
He sat down obediently, the son once again under maternal command and care. “Only on a visit. Just for a few minutes,” he muttered, but she did not hear him, whether intentionally or not he was to learn later.
“The coffee was still hot, was it? Good. I had only just made it when you came. You haven’t bathed and changed yet? Well, there’s plenty of time. I can quite understand that you wanted to have a look at your home first. It’s your world after all. Our world,” she modified, watching his face.
“Mamma,” he began, for this emphasis on the world that he belonged to, the insinuation that the Thumann flat was Petra’s world, annoyed him—“Mamma, you’re very much mistaken …”
She interrupted him. “Wolfgang,” she said in a changed, a much warmer voice, “Wolfgang, you needn’t tell me anything or explain anything. I know a good deal, I don’t need to know more. To clear the situation up once and for all, however, I’d like to admit here and now that I didn’t behave well to your girl-friend. I regret some of the things I said and even more what I did. You understand me! Is this enough, Wolfgang? Come, give me your hand, my boy.”
He scrutinized his mother’s face. He could not believe it at first; he knew his mother, knew her face and there was no doubt she meant it sincerely. She had repented. She had made her peace with him and with Peter—she was therefore reconciled, and Heaven alone knew how it had come about. Perhaps the suspense of waiting for him had softened her.
It was incredible. He held her hand. “Mamma,” he said, “that’s very nice of you. But perhaps you don’t know yet that we intended to marry today. It’s only …”
She interrupted him again—what readiness, what eagerness to meet him halfway! She was making everything easy for him. “It’s all right, Wolfgang. Now everything is settled. I’m so glad to see you sitting here again.”
An immense relief overwhelmed him. A moment ago he had stood at the window of his room tormented by doubts as to which of them he should hurt—his mother or Petra. Except these alternatives there seemed to be no escape. And now everything had altered; his mother had seen her mistake, and the way into this orderly home stood open to both of them.
He got up, he looked down on the white parting in his mother’s hair. Suddenly he was seized by something akin to emotion. He swallowed and wanted to say something, and cried out that he wished life were different, no, that he wished he were different, then he would have behaved differently.
The old woman sat at the table with an immobile wooden face. She didn’t look at her son, but she rapped her knuckles smartly on the table. It sounded wooden. “Ah, Wolfgang,” she said, “don’t be childish, please. In the Easter term when you hadn’t moved up to a higher form you always cried out ‘I wish …’ And when your engine was broken you were sorry afterwards about the way you had treated it. But that’s futile, and you’re no longer a child. Retrospective repentance is useless, my boy; you must learn in the end that life goes on, ever on and on. One can’t change the past, but one can change oneself—for the future.”
“Certainly, Mamma,” he said like a good boy. “I only wanted to …”
But he did not finish. The outer door opened and shut hurriedly, more than hurriedly. Steps hastened along the corridor …
“It’s only Minna,” explained his mother.
Their door opened without a preliminary knock; it was flung open, and Minna stood in the doorway, elderly, gray and shriveled.
“Many thanks, Minna,” said Frau Pagel quickly, for at the moment she did not wish to have any news from Georgenkirchstrasse; she had got here all that had interested her there. “Many thanks, Minna,” she therefore said, as severely as possible. “Please prepare the supper immediately.”
Minna, however, for this once was not the obedient servant; her eyes were angry and suspicious, her yellowish cheeks flushed. She didn’t look at her mistress, her hostile stare was directed at the hitherto beloved young master.
“Shame on you,” said she breathlessly. “Shame, Wolfgang. So you are sitting here?”
“Are you mad?” Frau Pagel cried indignantly, for she had never experienced such behavior from her Minna in all the twenty years of their life together. “You’re disturbing us.”
But no notice was taken and Wolfgang at once comprehended that something had happened “there.” A misgiving overcame him. He saw Peter, and Peter saying to him “Good luck, Wolf” as he went with the suitcase to the pawnbroker’s. She had given him a kiss …
He took Minna by the shoulders. “You’ve been there? What’s the matter? Tell me quickly!”
“If you say another word,” cried Frau Pagel, “you’re dismissed on the spot.”
“You needn’t dismiss me, madam!” said Minna, outwardly calm. “I’m going anyhow. Do you think I’d stay in a place where the mother encourages the son to do wrong and the son obeys her? Oh, Wolf, how could you have done it? How could you have been so wicked?”
“Minna, what’s come over you? How dare you! You old …”
“You can call me what you like, I’m used to it, madam. Only I always thought that you called me names only in fun. But now I know you mean it; you think that we’re different, that I’m just out of the kitchen and you’re a fine lady.”
“Minna,” shouted Wolfgang, and shook the old servant vigorously. She was quite beside herself. “Tell me what has happened to Peter. Is she …?”
“Oh? Do you really care, Wolf, even though you’ve run away from her on her wedding day and sold all the clothes off her body and left her with nothing but a shabby overcoat? The one from your husband, madam—and nothing underneath, no stockings, nothing … And so the police have arrested her. And what’s the worst of all, I’ll never forgive you for it, Wolf, she was starving. She was retching again and again and almost fell down the
