2
It was Quaerts’ turn to sit out from the card-table; and, though Dolf pressed him to go on playing, he rose:
“I want to go and talk to Mrs. van Even,” Cecile heard him say.
She saw him come towards the big drawing-room, where she was still sitting with Amélie—Jules still at her feet—engaged in desultory talk, for Amélie could never maintain a conversation, always wandering and losing the threads. She did not know why, but Cecile suddenly assumed a most serious expression, as though she were discussing very important matters with her sister; and yet all that she said was:
“Jules ought really to take lessons in harmony, when he composes so nicely....”
Quaerts had approached; he sat down beside them, with a scarcely perceptible shyness in his manner, a gentle hesitation in the brusque force of his movements.
But Jules fired up:
“No, Auntie, I want to be taught as little as possible! I don’t want to be learning names and principles and classifications. I couldn’t do it. I only compose like this, like this....” And he suited his phrase with a vague movement of his fingers.
“Jules can hardly read, it’s a shame!” said Amélie.
“And he plays so nicely,” said Cecile.
“Yes, Auntie, I remember things, I pick them out on the piano. Oh, it’s not really clever: it just comes out of myself, you know!”
“But that’s so splendid!”
“No, no! You have to know the names and principles and classifications. You want that in everything. I shall never learn technique; I’m no good.”
He closed his eyes for a moment; a look of sadness flitted across his restless face.
“You know a piano is so ... so big, a great piece of furniture, isn’t it? But a violin, oh, how delightful! You hold it to you like this, against your neck, almost against your heart; it is almost part of you; and you stroke it, like this, you could almost kiss it! You feel the soul of the violin quivering inside its body. And then you only have just a string or two, two or three strings which sing everything. Oh, a violin, a violin!”
“Jules....” Amélie began.
“And, oh, Auntie, a harp! A harp, like this, between your legs, a harp which you embrace with both your arms: a harp is exactly like an angel, with long golden hair.... Ah, I’ve never yet played on a harp!”
“Jules, leave off!” cried Amélie, sharply. “You drive me silly with that nonsense! I wonder you’re not ashamed, before Mr. Quaerts.”
Jules looked up in surprise:
“Before Taco? Do you think I’ve anything to be ashamed of, Taco?”
“Of course not, my boy.”
The sound of his voice was like a caress. Cecile looked at him, astonished; she would have expected him to make fun of Jules. She did not understand him, but she disliked him exceedingly, so healthy and strong, with his energetic face and his fine, expressive mouth, so different from Amélie and Jules and herself.
“Of course not, my boy.”
Jules glanced at his mother with a slight look of disdain, as if to say that he knew better:
“You see! Taco’s a good fellow.”
He turned his footstool round towards Quaerts and laid his head against his knee.
“Jules!”
“Pray let him be, mevrouw.”
“Every one spoils that boy....”
“Except yourself,” said Jules.
“I! I!” cried Amélie, indignantly. “I spoil you out and out! I wish I knew how not to give way to you! I wish I could send you to Kampen or Deli![1] That would make a man of you! But I can’t do it by myself; and your father spoils you too.... I can’t think what’s going to become of you!”
“What is going to become of you, Jules?” asked Quaerts.
“I don’t know. I mustn’t go to college, I am too weak a doll to do much work.”
“Would you like to go to Deli some day?”
“Yes, with you.... Not alone; oh, to be alone, always alone! You will see: I shall always be alone; and it is so terrible to be alone!”
“But, Jules, you are not alone now!” said Cecile, reproachfully.
“Oh, yes, yes, in myself I am alone, always alone....”
He pressed himself against Quaerts’ knee.
“Jules, don’t talk so stupidly,” cried Amélie, nervously.
“Yes, yes!” cried Jules, with a sudden half sob. “I will hold my tongue! But don’t talk about me any more; oh, I beg you, don’t talk about me!”
He locked his hands and implored them, with dread in his face. They all stared at him, but he buried his face in Quaerts’ knees, as though deadly frightened of something....