Apart from this, there had been no names mentioned; but Addie knew that both Mamma and Papa, that afternoon, had thought—as he was thinking now—had thought, behind their spoken words, of Marianne. And now jealousy—that heritage from both his parents—sprang up in the boy’s breast, jealousy no longer vague and formless. He felt it with a keener pang because Papa, at this moment, cared more for Marianne than for him. He felt too, for the first time, that, though he did not mean to, he loved his father better than his mother: his father who was like a child, who was himself a boy, a brother, a friend to him, something more than a father almost. In their brotherly comradeship, they had seemed gradually to lose sight of the difference in age, of filial respect; and in Addie’s love for his father there was an element—not yet fully developed, but slowly gathering strength—of protection almost, a feeling that he was perhaps not yet the stronger, but that he would become so when he was a little older. It was a strange feeling, but it had always come natural to him, that way of looking upon his father as a younger brother to be loved and protected.
It was perhaps all for nothing, useless, he thought, and worthless. It was Marianne that Papa cared for now. And he remembered how he had sometimes thought that Papa was so young that one could imagine him with a very young wife, a young girl like Addie’s cousins, a girl like ... Marianne.
So it was to happen ... Papa and Mamma ... would separate ... and....
He felt the sadness of it all ... and his heart was very heavy ... and his lips became still more compressed because he did not want to cry. He wanted to stand firm against the cruelties of life; and, if Papa could do without him, if Mamma also thought it better so, if perhaps it was also better for Mamma and would make her happier, why, then it was all right and he could bear it with strength and fortitude. He was a child, a boy; but he felt vaguely that soon the world would open before him. He must forget everything therefore: everything about his parents, their ill-assorted lives, in which he had been the only comfort and consolation. No, it would all be different in future; and, if nothing else could be done, well then, it must be like that. When Papa, later on, was tired or in the blues or anything, he would not lay his head on Addie’s knees, just like a little brother, and go to sleep: Marianne would comfort him instead.
Addie tried to suppress that feeling of jealousy, but it kept on shooting through him, like a painful, smarting sting.... But suddenly, in the dark room, in the silent house—the servant was no longer singing—Van der Welcke woke, drew himself up, rubbed his neck, which was stiff with lying down.
“Well, you’ve had a good long nap!” said Addie, making his voice sound rough.
There was nothing in that voice and in the boyish phrase to suggest the jealousy, the melancholy and the great sorrow that was weighing down his childish soul.
Van der Welcke seemed to be waking up to life and reality after his vain attempt to lose himself in that mad devouring of distance. He remembered his conversation with his wife, in which she had been so unusually gentle, so indulgent, showing such self-effacement and self-sacrifice ... so much indeed that he had had to kiss her in spite of himself.
“I have been speaking to Mamma,” said he.
But he was silent again, could get no further.