Van der Welcke was in good spirits all day, perhaps through the after-effects of his dream—he kept seeing those sands before his eyes—and, pedalling along like mad, he sat shaking in his saddle, thinking of that young scamp of his, who ruled over his father and mother. It wasn’t right, it was too absurd, soon they would neither of them be able to call their souls their own; but the boy was so sensible and he was always the little peacemaker, who settled everything. Yes, the scamp was the joy of his life; and really, really, except for the boy, everything was unrelieved gloom.... If only he could buy a motor-car, or at least a motor-cycle. He must find out one day, just ask what a motor-cycle cost.... But, apart from that, what was there? Especially now that they two—Constance in particular—had wanted at all costs to “rehabilitate” themselves, as Constance called it, in Hague society and now that they had failed utterly through that scene with Van Naghel, things were stodgier than ever ... with no one to come and see them but Van Vreeswijck, with no outside interests whatever. It was his fault, his fault, his wife kept reproaching him in their scenes, almost with enjoyment, revelling in her revenge, because he, not long ago, had reproached her that it was her fault, her fault that they were buried away there, “cursing their luck in the Kerkhoflaan.” And he was sorry too because of Marianne: she used to come and dine once in a way; when Van Vreeswijck was coming, Constance would ask either Paul or Marianne, to make four; and, now that he had insulted her father, she wouldn’t come again, they were on unfriendly terms not only with the parents, but also with the daughter ... and with the sons, to the great regret of Addie, who was very fond of Frans and Henri.... His fault! His fault! Perhaps it was his fault, but he couldn’t always restrain himself, control himself, master himself. Possibly, if he had stuck to his career, he would have learnt to do it, after his training in diplomatic reserve ... or else he would always have remained an indifferent diplomatist. That might have happened too; it was quite possible!... Yes, he was sorry ... because of Marianne. She was a nice girl, so natural, so unaffected, in spite of her worldly environment; and he liked her eyes, her voice. He was sorry ... because of Marianne; but it couldn’t be helped: although he had written to her father, she would not come to the house again, she would never come again, he thought.
And he almost sighed, sadly, he did not know why, no doubt because life would be still more stodgy without Marianne’s eyes and voice. But, after all, it was only once every four or five weeks that she used to come and dine; so what did it really matter? What did it matter? No, really nothing mattered; really, the whole world was a sickening, stodgy business, rottenly managed.... Oh, if he could only have bought a motor! The longing was so intense, so violent that he was almost tempted to ask his father for one straight out. And now, while he spurted home after his long ride, he hummed between his teeth, to the rhythm of the flying wheels, a song which he suddenly made up for himself:
“A motor-car—and a motor-car: Ottocar in a motor-car—Ottocar in a motor-car!”
And burning with his longing for the unattainable, he pedalled away—Ottocar in a motor-car!—in a mad frenzy, delighting in the sheer speed of his ride, which made people turn round and stare at him, at his arched back and his piston-legs, like an automaton’s....
He came home very late, just as Addie was starting to go to the station.
“I really thought, Daddy, that you were staying at the Witte after all!” said the boy. “You’re so late!”
“No, old chap, I wouldn’t have dared do that!” cried Van der Welcke. “Ottocar—in a motor-car! I’ve been cycling my legs off and I’m tired out.”
“You’re quite red in the face.”
“Yes, I’ve had great fun! Ottocar—in his motor-car! You see, I’ve got to have my fun by myself ... when you’re cooped up at school.”
“What are you saying, Father, about Ottocar?”