And he, more gently if possible: “So I’ve given up this ridiculous wedding?”
She scented danger, but it did not make her cautious, only aggressive. “When the bridegroom doesn’t turn up at the registry office,” she said, “then one can draw a certain conclusion.”
“Mamma,” retorted Wolfgang, sitting down on the other side of the table and leaning across it, “you seem to be very well informed about my comings and goings. You ought to know then that the bride didn’t turn up either.”
Outside it had grown quite dark. A first gust of wind swayed the treetops, a few yellow leaves whirled through the window. In the doorway stood Minna, forgotten by mother as by son. And now there was a flash of lightning and the tense faces gleamed and were blotted out in a deeper gloom. There was a rumble of distant thunder.
The elements wanted to break out, but Frau Pagel tried to control herself. “Wolfgang,” she pleaded, “we don’t want to argue about the extent you’ve separated from Petra. I’m convinced that if this incident with the police hadn’t occurred you would have almost forgotten about her. Leave this matter to a lawyer, I beg you, Wolfgang, and I’ve never asked you so earnestly before. Do what I want for once.”
The son heard the mother pleading as he had pleaded with her a few minutes ago, but he paid no attention. In the gloom her face was dim. Behind her head the sky lighted up in sulphur-yellow, fell back into darkness and flashed anew.
“Mamma,” said Wolfgang, and his will was strengthened more and more by her resistance, “you’re very much mistaken. I didn’t come here because I had separated, partly or entirely, from Petra. I came because I wanted money for this ridiculous wedding.”
For a moment his mother sat motionless. But, however hard the blow was, she did not show it. “Well, my son, then I can tell you that you come in vain,” she replied bitterly. “You shan’t get a penny for that purpose here.” Her voice was very quiet but unfaltering. Still more quietly and without a trace of excitement, he replied: “I know you, and I never expected a different answer. You love only those people who want to be saved in your way, though one cannot congratulate you on the salvation you yourself have achieved.”
“Oh,” groaned the woman. This was a mortal blow—to her whole life, her whole being, her marriage and motherhood—struck by her own son.
But this cry of pain excited him all the more. Just as, in the world outside, oppressive heat and stench had simmered together since the early hours of the morning and were now at boiling point, so had possessiveness, an old woman’s assurance, the arbitrary exploitation of her position as mother and as guardian of the money, long been simmering together in him. But what made his anger dangerous was not these things, nor his mother’s contempt for Petra (who, without this, would not have had such significance). From his own weakness, from his own cowardice, came the hottest glow. And he had to revenge himself for having given way to her a hundred times. He was terrible now because he had been so afraid of this scene. His anger was shameless because it had been his intention to smuggle the painting away.
“Oh!” His mother’s groan had released in him a deep joy. It was a hungry age, a wolf age. Sons turned against parents, one hungry pack bared its teeth against another—who is strong shall live! But the weak must die. And let me do the killing!
“And I’ve also to tell you, Mother, that when I came into the room so quietly a moment ago, I was under the impression that you were out. I wanted to take away the painting secretly, the painting; you know which one I mean—the painting you gave me.”
“I’ve never given you a painting!” she said very quickly, but with an unmistakable tremor in her voice.
Wolfgang heard it clearly. But he talked on. He was drunk with revenge, shameless.
“I wanted to sell it secretly. Get a lot of money for it, nice money, a heap of money, foreign money, dollars, pounds, Danish kronen—and give it all to my dear good Petra.” He was sneering at her, but also at himself. He was a fool. Ah! this was even better than gambling; it excited him, inflamed him—to talk into the darkness against the lightning and the almost incessant threat and rumble of thunder far away. Out of the primeval origins of all human existence, liberated by this evil age, rose the earliest hatred of children for their parents. Youth against Age, recklessness against slow deliberation, blood against cold flesh.…
“I wanted to take it away without your knowing, but that, of course, was nonsense. It’s just as well to tell you everything once and for all—everything.… And after I’ve spoken I’ll take away the picture.”
“I won’t give it up,” she cried, jumping to her feet and standing in front of it. “No!”
“I’ll take it,” he said undaunted, and remained seated. “I’ll carry it off before your eyes and sell it, and Petra shall get the money, all of it.”
“You won’t take it by force!” There was fear in her voice.
“I shall take it by force,” he cried, “since I intend to have it. And you’ll be sensible. You know I want it, and that I’ll get it, too.”
“I’ll call the police,” she threatened, wavering between telephone and picture.
“You won’t call the police,” he laughed, “because you know quite well you gave me the picture.”
“Look at him, Minna,” cried Frau Pagel, and now she had forgotten that it was her son standing there. She saw in him the male, the male who always acted contrary to common sense, woman’s enemy from the beginning of time.
“Look at him! He can’t wait to get back to his girl! To deliver her from the police! It’s all lies and acting. She interests him as little as anything else. He only cares about money.” She mocked him. “Nice money, much money, dollars, pounds—but not for the dear, beautiful, good Petra in jail, for Fräulein Ledig; no, for the gaming table.”
She stepped aside, surrendering the picture, stood at the table, rapped it hollowly. “There, take it. That’s the worst I can do for you, to let you have it. Sell it, get money, a heap of money. And that will show your silly, obstinate, cantankerous mother to be in the right again—you won’t make the girl happy with it. You’ll lose the money gambling, just as you’ve gambled away everything else—love, decency, feeling, ambition, the power to work.” She stood there breathless, with flaming eyes.
“Anyhow, I thank you, Mamma,” said Wolfgang, suddenly dead tired of quarreling and talking. “And that’s the end of that, eh? And of everything else, too. I’ll send for my things this evening; I don’t want to burden you with them any longer. With regard to your prophecies, though—”
“Take everything,” she shouted, trembling in every limb as she watched him remove the picture from the wall. “Don’t you want some of the silver for the bride’s dowry? Take it. Oh, I know you Pagels,” she cried, and was once more the young girl she had been long, long before her betrothal and marriage. “Outwardly kind and gentle, but inwardly greedy and barren. Go! Go quickly! I don’t want to see you any more. I’ve sacrificed my life to you and in the end you’ve thrown mud at me, father as well as son, one the image of the other.… Yes, go, without a word, without a look. Your father was like that, too; he was too grand for arguments, and when he wanted to do anything at night which would give him a bad conscience, he used to creep out of the room in his stocking feet.”
Wolfgang was already going, the picture under his arm. He had looked round, intending to ask Minna for brown paper and string, but she stood stiffly in the doorway. And he was, above all, conscious of his mother’s voice, that shrill, merciless voice, like a cracked bell, eternally clanging since his childhood.