His father often beat him--he seldom knew why; but he took the blows for granted.
One day he heard his father scolding his mother.
“Do not cry, you blubbering fool,” he said; “you are only here to make my misery worse.”
“But, Max,” she answered, softly, “will you prevent your family from bearing your misfortune with you? Must we not keep closer together when we are so unhappy?”
Then he was moved, said she was his brave wife, and called himself bad names.
Frau Elsbeth tried to pacify him, bade him confide in her, and be brave.
“Yes, be brave--be brave!” he cried, getting angry again. “It is all very fine for you women to speak so; you sit at home, and spread your apron out, waiting humbly for fortune or misfortune to fall into your laps, just as kind Fate may send it. But we men must go forth into hostile life; we must struggle and strive and fight with all sorts of rogues. Away with your warnings! Be brave; yes, indeed, be brave!”
Then he walked out of the room with heavy steps, and ordered the trap to be got ready, in order to set off on his usual pilgrimage.
When he came back, and had slept off his intoxication, he said:
“There, now my last hope is gone. The d--d Jew, who wanted to advance the money at twenty-five per cent., declares he will have nothing more to do with me. Well, let him do the other thing. I don’t care a straw for him. And at Michaelmas we may really go a-begging, for this time nothing remains to us but what we stand up in. But this I tell you: this time I shall not survive the blow. An honorable man must set some value on himself, and if one fine morning you see me swinging from the rafters, don’t be astonished.”
The mother uttered a piercing cry, and clung with both arms round his neck.
“Well, well, well!” he calmed her; “it was not meant so seriously. You women-folk are all the same deplorable creatures, a mere word upsets you.”
The mother started and stepped back from him, but when he had gone out she seated herself at the window, and looked after him anxiously, as if she feared he might already be thinking of doing himself a mischief. From time to time a shudder ran through her frame, as if she were cold.
In the following night, Paul, waking, observed that she got up, put on a petticoat, and went to the window from which the White House could be seen. It was bright moonlight--perhaps she really gazed at it. For wellnigh two hours she sat there, looking out fixedly. Paul did not stir, and when, with the approach of dawn, she came back from the window and stepped to her children’s bedsides, he closed his eyes firmly and feigned to sleep. She first kissed the twins, who were sleeping with their arms entwined; then she came to him, and as she bent down over him he heard her whisper, “God give me strength. It must be.” Then he guessed that something extraordinary was in preparation.