er, more peaceful. It was winter, and the snow was
such a soft protecting cover for many a buried hope.

Wolfgang used to come and visit them, but not too often; besides, he
saw his father every day at the office. It never seemed to enter his
head that his mother would have liked to see him more frequently. She
did not let him perceive it. Was she perhaps to beg him to come more
frequently? No, she had already begged much too much--for many years,
almost eighteen years--and she told herself bitterly that it had been
lost labour.

When he came to them, they were on quite friendly terms with each
other; his mother still continued to see that his clothes were the best
that could be bought, his shirts as well got up as they could
be, and that he had fine cambric night shirts and high collars. That he
frequently did not look as he ought to have done was not her fault; nor
was it perhaps the fault of his clothes, but rather on account of his
tired expression, his weary eyes and the indifferent way in which he
carried himself. He let himself go, he looked dissipated.

But the husband and wife did not speak about it to each other. If he
could only serve his time as a soldier, thought Paul Schlieben to
himself. He hoped the restraint and the severe regulations in force in
the army would regulate his whole life; what they, his parents, had not
been able to effect with all their care, the drill would be able to do.
Wolfgang was to appear before the commissioners in April. At present,
during the winter, he certainly kept to the office hours more regularly
and more conscientiously, but oh, how wretched he often looked in the
morning. Terribly pale, positively ashen. "Dissipation." The father
settled that with a shake of his head, but he said nothing to his son
about it; why should he? An unpleasant scene would be the only result,
which would not lead to anything, and would probably do more harm. For
they no longer met on common ground.

And thus things went on without any special disturbance, but all
three suffered nevertheless; the son too.

Frida thought she noticed that Wolfgang was often depressed.
Sometimes he went to the theatre with her, she was so fond of
"something to laugh at." But he did not join in her laughter, did not
even laugh when the tears rolled down her cheeks with laughing. She
could really get very vexed that lie had so little sense of what was
amusing.

"Aren't you enjoying yourself?"

"Hm, moderately