The Later Life

THE BOOKS OF THE SMALL SOULS

By

LOUIS COUPERUS

Translated by
ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS

The Later Life

By
Louis Couperus
Author of “Small Souls,” “Footsteps of Fate,” etc.
Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos

New York
Dodd, Mead and Company
1915

Copyright, 1915

By Dodd, Mead and Company

Translator’s Note

The Later Life is the second of The Books of the Small Souls, following immediately upon Small Souls, the novel that gives the title to the series. In the present story, Couperus reverts, at times and in a measure, to that earlier, “sensitivist” method which he abandoned almost wholly in Small Souls and which he again abandons in The Twilight of the Souls and in Dr. Adriaan, the third and fourth novels of the series.

Alexander Teixeira de Mattos.

Chelsea,
22 March, 1914.

The Later Life

Chapter I

Van der Welcke woke that morning from a long, sound sleep and stretched himself luxuriously in the warmth of the sheets. But suddenly he remembered what he had been dreaming; and, as he did so, he gazed into the wardrobe-glass, in which he could just see himself from his pillow. A smile began to flicker about his curly moustache; his blue eyes lit up with merriment. The sheets, which still covered his body—he had flung his arms above his head—rose and fell with the ripple of his silent chuckles; and suddenly, irrepressibly, he burst into a loud guffaw:

“Addie!” he shouted, roaring with laughter. “Addie, are you up?... Addie, come here for a minute!”

The door between the two rooms opened; Addie entered.

“Addie!... Just imagine ... just imagine what I’ve been dreaming. It was at the seaside—Ostende or Scheveningen or somewhere—and everybody, everybody was going about ... half-naked ... their legs bare... and the rest beautifully dressed. The men had coloured shirts and light jackets and exquisite ties and straw hats, gloves and a stick in their hands ... and the rest ... the rest was stark naked. The ladies wore lovely blouses, magnificent hats, parasols ... and that was all!... And there was nothing in it, Addie, really there was nothing in it; it was all quite natural, quite proper, quite fashionable; and they walked about like that and sat on chairs and listened to the music!... And the fishermen ... the fishermen, Addie, went about like that too!... And the musicians ... in the bandstand ... were half-naked too; and ... the tails ... of their dress-coats ... hung down ... well ... like that!”

Van der Welcke, as he told his dream in broken sentences, lay shaking with laughter; his whole bed shook, the sheets rose and fell; he was red in the face, as if on the verge of choking; he wept as though consumed with grief; he gasped for breath, threw the bed-clothes off:

“Just imagine it ... just imagine it ... you never ... you never saw such a stretch of sands as that!”

Addie had begun by listening with his usual serious face; but, when he saw his father crying and gasping for breath, rolling about in the bed, and when the vision of those sands became clearer to his imagination, he also was seized with irresistible laughter. But he had one peculiarity, that he could not laugh outright, but, shaken with internal merriment, would laugh in his stomach without uttering a sound; and he now sat on the edge of his father’s bed, rocking with silent laughter as the bed rocked under him. He tried not to look at his father, for, when he saw his father’s face, distorted and purple with his paroxysms of laughter, lying on the white pillow like the mask of some faun, he had to make agonized clutches at his stomach and, bent double, to try to laugh outright; and he couldn’t, he couldn’t.

“Doesn’t it ... doesn’t it ... strike you as funny?” asked Van der Welcke, hearing no sound of laughter from his son.

And he looked at Addie and, suddenly remembering that Addie could never roar with laughter out loud, he became still merrier at the sight of his poor boy’s silent throes, his noiseless stomach-laugh, until his own laughter rang through the room, echoing back from the walls, filling the whole room with loud Homeric mirth.

“Oh, Father, stop!” said Addie at last, a little relieved by his internal paroxysms, the tears streaming in wet streaks down his face.

And he heaved a sigh of despair that he could not laugh like his father.

“Give me a pencil and paper,” said Van der Welcke, “and I’ll draw you my dream.”

But Addie was very severe and shocked:

“No, Father, that won’t do! That’ll never do.... it’d be a vulgar drawing!”

And his son’s chaste seriousness worked to such an extent upon Van der Welcke’s easily tickled nerves that he began roaring once more at Addie’s indignation....

Truitje was prowling about the passage, knocking at all the doors, not knowing where Addie was:

“Are you up, Master Addie?”

“Yes,” cried Addie. “Wait a minute.”

He went to the door:

“What is it?”

“A telegram ... from the mistress, I expect....”

“Here.”

He took the telegram, shut the door again.

“From Mamma?” asked Van der Welcke.

“Sure to be. Yes, from Paris: ‘J’arrive ce soir.’”

Van der Welcke grew serious:

“And high time too. What business had Mamma to go rushing abroad like that?... One’d think we were well off.... What did you do about those bills, Addie?”

“I went to the shops and said that mevrouw was out of town and that they’d have to wait.”

“I see. That’s all right.... Can you meet Mamma at the station?”

“Yes. The train’s due at six.... Then we’ll have dinner afterwards, with Mamma.”

“I don’t know.... I think I’d better dine at the club.”

“Come, Father, don’t be silly!”

“No,” said Van der Welcke, crossly, “don’t bother me. I’ll stay on at the Witte.”

“But don’t you see that means starting off with a manifestation? Whereas, if you wait in for Mamma peacefully and we all have dinner together, then things’ll come right of themselves. That’ll be much easier than if you go staying out at once: Mamma would only think it rude.”

“Rude?... Rude?...”

“Well, there’s nothing to flare up about! And you just come home to dinner. Then you’ll be on the right side.”

“I’ll think it over. If I don’t look out, you’ll be bossing me altogether.”

“Well, then, don’t mind me, stay at the Witte.”

“Oho! So you’re offended, young man?”

“Oh, no! I’d rather you came home, of course; but, if you prefer to dine at the Witte, do.”

“Dearly-beloved son!” said Van der Welcke, throwing out his hands with a comical gesture of resignation. “Your father will obey your sapient wishes.”

“Fond Father, I thank you. But I must be off to school now.”

“Good-bye, then ... and you’d better forget those sands.”

They both exploded and Addie hurried away and vanished, shaking with his painful stomach-laugh, while he heard Van der Welcke break into a fresh guffaw:

“He can laugh!” thought the boy.

Chapter II

Van der Welcke had dressed and breakfasted and, because he felt bored, took his bicycle and went for a long ride by himself. He was very often bored these days, now that Addie was working hard at the grammar-school. Without his boy, he seemed at once to have nothing to do, no object in life; he could see no reason for his existence. He would smoke endless cigarettes in his den, or go bicycling, or turn up once in a way at the Plaats, once in a way at the Witte; but he did not go to either of his clubs as often as he used to. He saw much less of his friends, his friends of former days, the men of birth and position who had all won fame in their respective spheres, though Van Vreeswijck continued his visits regularly, appreciating the cosy little dinners. Van der Welcke generally felt lonely and stranded, found his own company more and more boring from day to day; and it was only when he saw his boy come back from school that he cheered up, enjoyed life, was glad and lively as a child.

He loved the quick movement of it; and he cycled and cycled along the lonely, chill, windy country-roads, aiming at no destination, just pedalling away for the sake of speed, for the sake of covering the ground. If he were only rich: then he’d have a motor-car! There was nothing like a motor-car! A motor-car made up for this rotten, stodgy, boring life. To rush along the smooth roads in your car, to let her rip: tock, tock, tock, tock, tock-tock-tock-tock! Ha!... Ha!... That would be grand! Suppose his father were to make him a present of a car.... Ha!... Tock-tock-tock-tock!... And, as he spurted along, he suggested to himself the frantic orgy of speed of a puffing, snorting motor-car, the acrid stench of its petrol-fumes, the ready obedience of the pneumatic-tyred wheels while the car flew through the dust like a storm-chariot over the clouds. It made him poetic—tock-tock-tock-tock, tock-tock-tock-tock—but, as long as his father lived, he would never have enough money to buy himself a decent car!

Life was stodgy, rotten, boring.... If only Addie had finished school! But then ... then he would have to go to the university ... and into the diplomatic service.... No, no, the older his boy grew, the less he would see of him.... How wretched it all was: he did not know whether to wish that Addie was older or not!... To think, it wasn’t a year ago since the child used to sit on his knee, with his cheek against his father’s, his arm round his father’s neck; and Van der Welcke would feel that slight and yet sturdy frame against his heart; and now ... now already he was a lad, a chap with a deep voice, who ruled his father with a rod of iron! Yes, Van der Welcke was simply ruled by him: there was no getting away from it! Suppose he wanted to stay and dine at the Witte that night: why the blazes shouldn’t he? And he knew as sure as anything that he wouldn’t! He would come home like a good little boy, because Addie had rather he did, because otherwise Addie would look upon it as a manifestation against Constance.... She too was coming back, after Addie had written that it really wouldn’t do, financially. She had run away like a madwoman, two months ago, after that pleasant business at the last Sunday-evening which they had spent at Mamma van Lowe’s, after the furious scene which she had made him, Van der Welcke, because he wanted to hit their brother-in-law, Van Naghel, in the face. Mind, it was for her, for his wife’s sake, that he wanted to hit Van Naghel in the face. For her sake, because that pompous ass had dared to say that he wasn’t keen on Constance calling on Bertha’s at-home day ... but that in other respects they were brothers and sisters! The disgusting snob! That old woman, that non-entity, that rotter, that twopenny-halfpenny cabinet-minister, who had got on simply because old Van Lowe, in his day, had kicked him upstairs step by step!... Van der Welcke was still furious when he thought of the fellow, with his smooth face and his namby-pamby speeches. He hadn’t been able to control himself that time: his wife, at any rate, was his wife; his wife was Baroness van der Welcke; and he couldn’t stand it, that they should insult his wife and before his face too; and, if Paul had not prevented him, he would have struck the snobbish ass in the face, thrashed him, thrashed him, thrashed him! His blood still boiled at the thought of it.... Well, there it was! Paul had held him back ... but still, he would have liked to challenge the fellow, to have fought a duel with him!... He grinned—pedalling like mad, bending over like a record-breaker at the last lap of a bicycle-race—he grinned now when he thought of the despair of the whole family, because their revered brother-in-law Van Naghel, “his excellency,” whom they all looked up to with such reverence, might have to fight a duel with a brother-in-law who was already viewed with sufficient disfavour at the Hague!... Well, it hadn’t come off. They had all interfered; but it wasn’t for that reason, but because dear old Mamma van Lowe had taken to her bed—and also for Addie’s sake—that he had not insisted on the duel. Yes, those Dutchmen: they never wanted to fight if they could help it! He, Van der Welcke, would have liked to fight, though Van Naghel had been a thousand times his brother-in-law, a thousand times colonial secretary. And it wasn’t only that the whole family had thought the very idea of a duel so dreadful; but his wise son had interfered, had taken up a very severe attitude to his father, had reproached him because he—still “a young man,” as Addie put it in his amusing way—wanted to insult and strike a man of Uncle van Naghel’s age, even though it was for Mamma’s sake! And Addie had gone to Frans van Naghel, the eldest son, the undergraduate, of whom he was very fond; and Frans was furious, wanted to take his father’s place and fight in his stead. But Addie had said that Papa was in the wrong, that Papa had lost his self-control; and he had calmed Frans and told him, his father, positively, that it was his, Van der Welcke’s, duty to apologize to Uncle van Naghel! That boy, that boy, thought Van der Welcke, thinking half-angrily of his son’s perpetual tutelage. It was really too silly: if he didn’t look out, the brat would twist him round his little finger entirely. A little chap like that, a schoolboy of fourteen ... and yet the beggar had managed so that Frans did not challenge Van der Welcke and that Van der Welcke had sent Van Naghel a note of apology, a note the thought of which made him boil even now, made him rant and curse at the thought that he had let himself be persuaded by the fourteen-year-old schoolboy. And then he had had to express his regret to Mamma van Lowe into the bargain; but that he didn’t mind, for she was an old dear and he thought it too bad that the wretched affair should have made her ill. And so the fourteen-year-old schoolboy had succeeded in hushing up a Hague scandal, just like a grown-up man.... When you came to think of it, it was simply absurd, incredible; you would never have believed it if you read it in a book; and it was the positive truth: the schoolboy had prevented the cabinet-minister or his son from fighting a duel with the schoolboy’s father!... And now Van der Welcke had to choke with laughter at the thought of it; and, as he spurted along the roads, like a professional, with his back bent into an arch, he roared with laughter all by himself and thought:

“Lord, what an extraordinary beggar he is!”

But the boy’s mother, after scene upon scene with him, the father; his mother, furious that her husband should have dared to raise his hand against that revered brother-in-law, “his excellency;” his mother, driven out of her senses, with every nerve on edge after all that she had had to endure that Sunday: his mother the boy had not been able to restrain; a woman is always more difficult to manage than a man; a mother is not half so easy as a father! Constance, after one of those scenes which followed one upon the other as long as the atmosphere remained charged with electricity, had said:

“I’m sick of it all; I’m going away; I’m going abroad!”

And even the fact that she was leaving her son behind her did not bring her to reason. She packed her trunks, told Truitje to keep house for the master and Master Addie as she herself used to and went away, almost insolently, hardly even saying good-bye to Addie.... They thought at first that she would do something rash, goodness knows what, and were anxious because they didn’t know where Constance had gone; but the next day there was a telegram from Paris to reassure them, telling them that Constance was going to Nice and meant to stay some time. Then letters came from Nice and they had no more fears, nor had Mamma van Lowe; they all thought the change might even do her good; and she continued pretty sensible. She wrote to her mother, to Addie; she wrote to Truitje, impressing upon her to look after the house well and after the master and Master Addie and to see that everything was going on all right when her mistress returned. And this sensible, housewifely letter had done more than anything to reassure Mamma van Lowe and the two of them; and now they didn’t grudge Constance, Mamma, her trip, for once in a way. But it was an expensive amusement. Constance, it was true, had taken some money of her own with her; but still, since they had come to the Hague, Van der Welcke no longer made anything out of wine- and insurance-commissions; he was no longer an agent for the Brussels firms; and they had not much to live on and had to be very economical. And so Van der Welcke, after seven weeks had passed, was obliged to tell Addie that it wouldn’t do for Mamma to stay on at Nice, in an expensive hotel, and that he had better write to her. And the schoolboy had written asking his mother to come back now, telling his mother that that would have to do and that there was no money left. And Constance was coming home that evening.

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?”

“Nothing, nothing, it’s a song: Ottocar in his motor-car!...”

“Well, I’m off ... to meet Mamma. Good-bye, you mad old Dad!”

“Good-bye, my boy.... Come here a moment....”

“What’s the matter now?...”

“Old chap, I feel so lonely sometimes ... so terribly alone ... so forlorn.... Tell me, Addie, you’ll always be your father’s chum, won’t you?... You won’t leave me, like all the rest? You’ll stay with your old father?”

“But, Daddy, what makes you so sentimental suddenly?”

“Oh, no, I’m not sentimental ... but, my dear boy, I’m so awfully bored sometimes!”

“Then why don’t you find more to do, Daddy?”

“Oh, my boy, what would you have me do?... Oh, if I only had a car!”

“A car?...”

“A motor-car! Like Ottocar!”

And Van der Welcke burst out laughing:

“He at least had one!” he bellowed, amidst his laughter.

“Father, you’re mad!”

“Yes, to-day ... because of that dream, those wonderful sands.... Oh, how I wish I were Ottocar!... My boy, my boy, I’m so terribly bored sometimes!”

“And just after you’ve had a jolly bicycle-ride!”

“All on my own ... with my head full of all sorts of wretched thoughts!...”

“Well, to-morrow, Wednesday afternoon, we’ll go together.”

“Do you mean it? A long ride? To-morrow? To-morrow?”

“Yes, certainly, a long ride.”

“You brick! My own Addie! My boy! My boy!”

He was as grateful as a child, caught his son in his arms:

“Addie, let me give you one more hug!”

“Well, be quick about it, Father, for I must really go, or I shall be late.”

Van der Welcke put his arms round him, kissed him on both cheeks, and flew upstairs. He undressed, flung his clothes to right and left, washed his face in a huge basin of water, shaved quickly, dressed himself neatly. He did all this with much fuss and rushing about, as though his toilet was a most important affair. Then he went downstairs. The table was laid. It was nearly seven. Constance would be there in no time. And, sitting down in the drawing-room with a cigarette, looking round the room—Constance’ room all over, in which he sat as a stranger—he hummed, while he waited for his wife and his son:

“And Ottocar had a motor-car; but I—have—none!...”

Chapter III

Addie ran up the stairs to the platform just as the train from Paris steamed in. He hurried along, looking into the windows.... There was Mamma, there was Mamma! And he flung himself on the handle, pulled open the door, helped Constance to alight.

“Ah!” he said. “There you are! There you are at last!”

She laughed, kissed him, her handsome, sturdy boy:

“My boy, how could I do so long without you?”

“Ah, so you see! You’re surprised at it yourself! Come, make haste, I’ve got a cab. Give me your luggage-ticket.”

He swept her along; and, in the cab, while they were waiting for the luggage:

“Tell me, Addie,” she said, “is there really no money left?”

“Do you imagine that, when you go spending seven weeks at Nice, in a first-class hotel, there’ll still be money?”

“I never thought of it like that,” she said meekly.

He laughed, thought her tremendously amusing. She laughed too, they both bubbled with mirth, Constance glad at seeing him, at finding him looking so well and in such good spirits.

“Mamma, you’re hopeless!” he exclaimed. “Did you really never think that there was no money left?”

“No,” said Constance, humbly.

And they both started laughing again. He shook his head, considered her incorrigible:

“And I’ve got some bills too, for the things you bought when you went away.”

“Oh, yes!” she said, remembering. “But they can wait.”

“I told them that you were abroad and that they’d have to wait.”

“Of course,” said she.

And they arrived in the Kerkhoflaan in excellent spirits.

“Well, Truitje, have you looked after the master and Master Addie nicely?”

“I did the best I could, ma’am.... But it’s just as well you’re back again....”

“Well, Constance?”

“Well, Henri?”

“Did you have a good time?”

“Yes.”

“You’re looking well.”

“Thanks.... Oh, have you waited dinner for me?”

“Well, of course!”

“I’ll go and wash my hands and I’ll be down immediately.”

“Mamma never thought for a moment ... that there was no money left,” said Addie.

“Nonsense!” said Van der Welcke.

But he seemed to consider it quite natural; and, when Constance came downstairs, he said, laughing:

“Didn’t you think that there was no money left?”

Constance glanced up, imagining that he meant to make a scene. But he was smiling; and his question sounded good-humoured.

“No!” she said, as if it was only natural.

And now they all went into fits of laughter, Addie with his silent convulsions, which made him shake up and down painfully.

“Do laugh right out, boy!” said Van der Welcke, teasing him. “Do laugh right out, if you can.”

They were very gay as they sat down to dinner.

“And just guess,” said Constance, “whom I met in the hotel at Nice, whom I sat next to at the table d’hôte: the d’Azignys, from Rome.... The first people I met, the d’Azignys. It’s incredible how small the world is, how small, how small!”

He also remembered the d’Azignys: the French ambassador at Rome and his wife ... fifteen years ago now....

“Really?” he asked, greatly interested. “Were they all right?”

“Oh, quite,” she said, “quite! I remembered them at once, but didn’t bow. But d’Azigny was very polite; and, after a minute or two, he spoke to me, asked if he wasn’t right in thinking I was the Baronne de Staffelaer. ‘Baronne van der Welcke,’ I replied. He flushed up and his wife nudged him, but after that they were very charming and amiable all the time I was at Nice. I saw a lot of them and, through their introduction, I went to a splendid ball at the Duc de Rivoli’s. I enjoyed it thoroughly. I wore a beautiful dress, I was in my element once more, I was a foreigner, everybody was very pleasant and I felt light-hearted again, quit of everything and everybody, and I thought to myself....”

“Well, what did you think?”

“Oh, if only we had never gone back to Holland! If, when Brussels became so dull, we had just moved to a town like Nice. It’s delightful there. As a foreigner, you need have nothing to trouble about, you can do just as you like, know just whom you please. You feel so free, so free.... And why, I thought, must Addie become and remain a Dutchman? He could just as well be a Frenchman ... or a cosmopolitan....”

“Thank you, Mamma: I don’t feel like being a Frenchman, nor yet a cosmopolitan. And you’d better not say that to Uncle Gerrit, or you can look out for squalls.”

“Addie, I’ve met with so many squalls in my dear Holland that I feel like blowing away myself, away from everybody....”

“Including your son?”

“No, my boy. I missed you. I thought of you every day. I am so glad to see you again. But I did think to myself that we should have done better never to come back to Holland.”

“Yes,” said Van der Welcke, thoughtfully.

“We could have lived at Nice, if we liked.”

“Yes,” Van der Welcke admitted, a little dubiously, “but you were longing for your family.”

She clenched her little hand and struck the table with it:

“And you!” she cried. “Didn’t you long for your parents, for your country?”

“But not so much as you did.”

“And who thought it necessary for Addie? I didn’t!” she exclaimed, in a shrill voice. “I didn’t for a moment! It was you!”

“Oh, d——,” said Addie, almost breaking into an oath. “My dearest parents, for Heaven’s sake don’t begin quarrelling at once, for I assure the two of you that, if you do, I’ll blow away and I’ll go to Nice ... money or no money!”

Van der Welcke and Constance gave one roar and Addie joined in the laugh.

“Oh, that boy!” said Van der Welcke, choking with merriment. “That boy!”

Constance uttered a deep sigh:

“Oh, Addie!” she said. “Mamma does and says such strange things, sometimes ... but she doesn’t mean them a bit. She’s really glad to be back again, in her horrid country ... and in her own home, her dear cosy home ... and with her son, her darling boy!”

And, throwing her arm round his neck, she let her head fall on his breast and she sobbed, sobbed aloud, so that Truitje, entering the room, started, but then, accustomed to these perpetual, inevitable scenes, quietly went on laying the dessert-plates.

Van der Welcke fiddled with his knife.

“Why can’t those two manage to get on better together?” thought Addie, sadly, while he comforted his mother and gently patted her shoulder....

Chapter IV

“And shall Mamma show you what she looked like at the Duc de Rivoli’s?”

Dinner was over and she was sitting by her open trunk, while Truitje helped her unpack and put the things away.

“I had my photograph taken at Nice. But first here’s a work-box for Truitje, with Nice violets on it. Look, Truitje: it’s palm-wood inlaid; a present for you. And here’s one for cook.”

“Oh, thank you, ma’am!”

“And for my wise son I hunted all over Nice for a souvenir and found nothing, for I was afraid of bringing you something not serious enough for your patriarchal tastes; and so I had myself photographed for you. There: the last frivolous portrait of your mother.”

She took the photograph from its envelope: it showed her at full-length, standing, in her ball-dress; a photograph taken with a great deal of artistry and chic, but too young, too much touched up, with a little too much pose about the hair, the fan, the train.

He looked at her with a smile.

“Well, what do you think of it?” she asked.

“What a bundle of vanity you are, Mamma!”

“Don’t you like it? Then give it back at once.”

“Why, no, Mummy: I think it awfully jolly to have a photograph of you....”

“Of my last mad mood. Now your mother is really going to grow old, my boy. Upon my word, I believe Truitje admires my portrait more than my son does!...”

“Oh, ma’am, I think it’s splendid!”

“How many did you have done, Mummy?”

“Six. One for Granny, one for Uncle Gerrit, one for Uncle Paul, one for you, one for myself....”

“And one for Papa.”

“Oh, Papa owns the original!”

“No, give your husband one.”

“Henri!” she called.

He came in.

“Here’s a portrait of your wife.”

“Lovely!” he exclaimed. “That’s awfully good! Thanks very much.”

“Glad you like it. My husband and my handmaid are satisfied, at any rate. My son thinks me a bundle of vanity.... Oh, how glad I am to be back!... Here’s the ball-dress. We’ll put it away to-morrow. I shall never wear the thing again. A dress that cost six hundred francs for one wearing. Now we’ll be old again and economical.”

They all laughed, including Truitje.

“Oh, how glad I am to be back!... My own room, my own cupboards.... Truitje, what did you give your masters to eat?”

“Well, just what you used to, ma’am!...”

“So it was all right? I wasn’t missed?...”

“Oh, but you mustn’t go away for so long again, ma’am!” said Truitje, in alarm.

Constance laughed and stretched herself out on her sofa, glad to be home. Van der Welcke left the room with his photograph, Truitje with her work-box.

“Come here, Addie. Papa has had you for seven weeks. Now you belong to me ... for an indefinite period.”

She drew him down beside her, took his hands. It struck him that she looked tired, more like her years, not like her photograph; and, his mind travelling swiftly to his father, he thought his father so young, outwardly a young man and inwardly sometimes a child: Ottocar in a motor-car....

“It’s strange, Addie,” she said, softly, “that you are only fourteen: you always seem to me at least twenty. And I think it strange also that I should have such a big son. So everything is strange. And your mother herself, my boy, is the strangest of all. If you ask me honestly if I like being ‘vain,’ I mean, taking part in social frivolities, I shouldn’t know what to answer. I certainly used to enjoy it in the old days; and, a fortnight ago, I admit I looked upon it as a sort of youth that comes over one again; but really it all means nothing: just a little brilliancy; and then you feel so tired and empty ... and so discontented....”

She stopped suddenly, not caring to say more, and looked at the photograph, now lying on a table beside her. It made her laugh again; and at the same time a tear trembled on her lashes. And she did not know if it gave her a peaceful feeling to be growing old ... or if she regretted it. It was as though the sun of Nice had imbued her with a strange, dull melancholy which she herself did not understand.

“To live!” she thought. “I have never lived. I would so gladly live once ... just once. To live! But not like this ... in a dress that cost six hundred francs. I know that, I know all about it: it is just a momentary brilliancy and then nothing.... To live! I should like to live ... really ... truly. There must be something. But it is a mad wish. I am too old. I am growing old, I am becoming an old woman.... To live! I have never lived ... I have been in the world, as a woman of the world; I spoilt that life; then I hid myself.... I was so anxious to come back to my country and my family; and it all meant nothing but a little show and illusion ... and a great deal of disappointment. And so the days were wasted, one after the other, and I ... have ... never ... lived.... Just as I throw away my money, so I have thrown away my days. Perhaps I have squandered all my days ... for nothing. Oh, I oughtn’t to feel like this! What does it mean when I do? What am I regretting? What is there left for me? At Nice, I thought for a moment of joining in that feminine revolt against approaching age; and I did join in it; and I succeeded. But what does it all mean and what is the use of it? It only means shining a little longer, for nothing; but it does not mean living.... But to long for it doesn’t mean anything either, for there is nothing for me now but to grow old, in my home; and, even if I am not exactly among my people, my brothers and sisters, at any rate I have my mother ... and, perhaps for quite a long time still, my son too....”

“Mummy ... what are you thinking about so deeply?”

But she smiled, said nothing, looked earnestly at him:

“He’s much fonder of his father,” she thought. “I know it, but it can’t be helped. I must put up with it and accept what he gives me.”

“Come, Mummy, what are you thinking about?”

“Lots of things, my boy ... and perhaps nothing.... Mamma feels so lonely ... with no one about her ... except you....”

He started, struck by what she had said: it was almost the same words that his father had used that afternoon.

“My boy, will you always stay with me? You won’t go away, like everybody?...”

“Come, Mummy, you’ve got Granny and Uncle Gerrit and Uncle Paul.”

“Yes, they are nice,” she said, softly.

And she thought:

“I shall lose him, later, when he’s grown up.... I know that I shall lose him....”

It made her feel very weak and helpless; and she began to cry....

He knelt down beside her and, in a stern voice, forbade her to be so excitable, forbade her to cry about nothing....

It was heavenly to have him laying down the law like that. And she thought:

“I shall lose him, when he’s grown up.... Oh, let me be thankful that I have him still!...”

Then, tired out, she went to sleep; and he left her, thinking to himself:

“They both feel the same thing!”

Chapter V

She tried tyrannically to monopolize her son, so that Van der Welcke became very jealous. It was the next day, Wednesday afternoon.

“Are you coming with me to Granny’s?”

“I promised Papa to go cycling.”

“You’ve had seven weeks for cycling with Papa.”

“I promised him yesterday that I would go for a long ride to-day.”

She was angry, offended:

“The first day that I’m home!...” she began.

He kissed her, with a shower of tiny little kisses, tried to appease her wrath:

“I promised!” he said. “We don’t go cycling together often. You will have me to yourself all the evening. Be sensible now and nice; and don’t be so cross.”

She tried to be reasonable, but it cost her an effort. She went alone to Mrs. van Lowe’s. She saw two umbrellas in the hall:

“Who is with mevrouw?” she asked the maid.

“Mrs. van Naghel and Mrs. van Saetzema.”

She hesitated. She had not seen her sisters since that awful Sunday-evening. She had gone abroad five days after. But she wanted to show them....

She went upstairs. Her step was no longer as timid as when she climbed those stairs ten months ago, when she first came back among them all. She did not wish to seem arrogant, but also she did not wish to be too humble. She entered with a smile:

“Mamma!” she cried, gaily, kissing her mother.

Mrs. van Lowe was surprised:

“My child!” she exclaimed, trembling. “My child! Are you back? Are you back again? What a long time you’ve been abroad!”

“I’ve enjoyed myself immensely. How d’ye do, Bertha? How d’ye do, Adolphine?”

She did not shake hands, but just nodded to them, almost cordially, because of her mother, who looked anxiously at her three daughters. Bertha and Adolphine nodded back. Carelessly and easily, she took the lead in the conversation and talked about Nice. She tried to talk naturally, without bragging; but in spite of herself there was a note of triumph in her voice:

“Yes, I felt I wanted to go abroad a bit.... Not nice of me to run away without saying good-bye, was it, Mamma dear? Well, you see, Constance sometimes behaves differently from other people.... I had a very pleasant time at Nice: full season, lovely weather.”

“Weren’t you lonely?”

“No, for on the very first day I met some of our Rome friends at the hotel....”

She felt that Bertha started, blinked her eyes, disapproved of her for daring to speak of Rome. And she revelled in doing so, casually and airily, thought it delicious to dazzle Adolphine with a list of her social triumphs, very naturally described:

“People we used to know in Rome: Comte and Comtesse d’Azigny. He was French ambassador in those days. They recognized me at once and were very kind; and through the introduction I went to a glorious ball at the Duchesse de Rivoli’s. And, Mummy, here’s a portrait of your daughter in her ball-dress.”

She showed the photograph, enjoyed giving the almost too-well-executed portrait to Mamma, not to her sisters, while letting them see it. She described her dress, described the ball, bragging a little this time, saying that, after all, parties abroad were always much grander than that “seeing a few friends” in Holland, addressing all her remarks to Mamma and, in words just tinged with ostentation, displaying no small scorn for Bertha’s dinners and Adolphine’s “little evenings:”

“Everything here is on such a small scale,” she continued. “There, the first thing you see is a suite of twelve rooms, all with electric light ... or, better still, all lit up with wax-candles.... Yes, our little social efforts at the Hague cut a very poor figure beside it.”

She gave a contemptuous little laugh to annoy her sisters, while Mamma, always interested in the doings of the great, did not notice the contempt and was glad enough to see that the sisters behaved as usual to one another. And now Constance went on to say that everything had gone on so well at home, that Truitje had looked after everything, even though Constance had gone away indefinitely, an unprecedented thing, so unlike a Dutch housewife! Then she turned to her sisters with an indifferent phrase or two; and they answered her almost cordially, out of respect for Mamma....

Adolphine was the first to leave, exasperated by Constance’ insufferable tone, by all that talk about Nice, all those counts and dukes whom Constance had mentioned; and, when Constance said good-bye, Bertha also left and they went down the stairs together.

“Constance,” said Bertha, “can I speak to you a minute in the cloak-room?”

Constance looked up haughtily, surprised; but she did not like to refuse. They went into the little cloak-room.

“Constance,” said Bertha, “I do so want to say that I am sorry for what happened between us. Really, it pained me very much. And I want to tell you also that Van Naghel greatly appreciated Van der Welcke’s writing to him to apologize. He has written to Van der Welcke to say so. But we should both like to call on you one day, to show you how glad we should be to come back to the old terms once more.”

“Bertha,” said Constance, a little impatiently and wearily, “I am prepared to receive your visit, but I should really like to know what is the good of it and why you suggest it. Do let us have some sincerity ... when there is no occasion for hypocrisy. Sometimes one has to be insincere ... but there is no need for that between us now. We both know that our mutual sympathy, if it ever existed, is dead. We never meet except at Mamma’s and we don’t let her see our estrangement. Apart from that, it seems to me that things are over between us.”

“So you would rather that Van Naghel and I did not come?”

“It’s not for me to decide, Bertha: I shall speak about it to Van der Welcke and write you a line.”

“Is that cold answer all you have to say to me, Constance?”

“Bertha, a little time ago, I was not backward in showing my affection for you all. Perhaps I asked too much in return; but, in any case, I was repulsed. And now I retire. That is all.”

“Constance, you don’t know how sorry we all are that the old aunts ... spoke as they did. They are foolish old women, Constance; they are in their second childhood. Mamma had to take to her bed, her nerves are still quite upset; she can’t bear to see her sisters now; and it sometimes sends her almost out of her mind. I have never seen her like it before. And we are all of us, all of us, Constance, very, very sorry.”

“Bertha, those two old women only yelled out at the top of their voices, as deaf people do, what the rest of you thought in your hearts.”

“Come, Constance, don’t be so bitter. You are hard and unjust. I swear that you are mistaken. It is not as you think. Let me show it to you in the future, let me prove it to you ... and please speak to Van der Welcke and write and tell me a day when we shall find you at home, so that Van Naghel can shake hands with Van der Welcke. He is not a young man, Constance, and your husband is under forty. It’s true, Van der Welcke has apologized and Van Naghel appreciates it, but that doesn’t prevent him from wishing to shake hands with Van der Welcke.”

“I’ll tell my husband, Bertha. But I don’t know that he will think it so necessary to shake hands, any more than I do. We live very quietly now, Bertha, and people, Hague people, no longer concern us. And Van Naghel only wants to shake hands because of people.”

“And because of the old friendship.”

“Very well, Bertha,” said Constance, coldly, “because of the old friendship: a vague term that says very little to me. What I wished for was brotherly and sisterly affection, cordial companionship. That is no longer possible: it was a foolish fancy of mine, which has gone forever. But, as I said, I shall speak to Van der Welcke.”

They came out into the hall; the maid was waiting at the door. It was raining. Bertha’s carriage was outside, had been sent to fetch her.

“Shall I drop you on my way, Constance?”

“No, thank you, Bertha; the fresh air will do me good; I’d rather walk.”

And, as she walked, she thought:

“Oh, why did I go on like that to annoy them? And why didn’t I welcome Bertha’s visit at once?... It’s all so small, so petty....”

And she shrugged her shoulders under her umbrella, laughed at herself a little, because she had shown herself so petty.

Chapter VI

At Addie’s wish, at the little schoolboy’s wish, the Van der Welckes responded to Van Naghel’s advances and Constance sent a note. The visit was paid and the brothers-in-law shook hands. Van der Welcke himself shrugged his shoulders over the whole business; but Addie was pleased, started going for walks again with Frans and spoke to Karel again at the grammar-school, though he did not much care for him. Two days later, Marianne called in the afternoon, when the rain was coming down in torrents. Constance was at home. The girl stood in the door-way of the drawing-room:

“May I come in, Auntie?...”

“Of course, Marianne, do.”

“I don’t like to: I’m rather wet.”

“Nonsense, come in!”

And the girl suddenly ran in and threw herself on her knees beside Constance, almost with a scream:

“I am so glad, I am so glad!” she cried.

“Why?”

“That Uncle wrote to Papa ... that Papa and Mamma have been here ... that everything is all right again.... It was so dreadful; it kept me from sleeping. I kept on thinking about it. It was a sort of nightmare, an obsession. Auntie, dear Auntie, is everything all right now?”

“Yes, certainly, child.”

“Really all right?... Are you coming to us again ... and may I come and see you ... and will you ask me to dinner again soon? Is everything all right, really all right?”

She snuggled up to her aunt like a child, putting her head against Constance’ knees, stroking her hands:

“You will ask me again soon, Auntie, won’t you? I love coming to you, I simply love it. I should have missed it so, I can’t tell you how much....”

Her voice broke, as she knelt by Constance’ side, and she suddenly burst into tears, sobbing out her words so excitedly that Constance was startled, thinking it almost unnatural, absurd:

“I was nearly coming to you before Papa and Mamma had been.... But I didn’t dare.... I was afraid Papa would be angry.... But I can come now, it’s all right now....”

“Yes, it’s all right now....”

She kissed Marianne. But the door opened and Van der Welcke entered.

“How do you do, Uncle?”

He always thought it odd when Marianne called him uncle, just like that:

“Is it you, Marianne?... Constance, did I leave my Figaro down here?”

“The Figaro? No....”

He hunted for his paper and then sat down.

“Uncle,” said Marianne, “I’ve just been telling Auntie, I’m so glad, I’m so glad that everything’s settled.”

“So am I, Marianne.”

Outside, the rain came pelting down, lashed by the howling wind. Inside, all was cosiness, with Constance pouring out the tea and telling them about Nice, while Marianne talked about Emilie and Van Raven and how they were not getting on very well together and how Otto and Frances were also beginning to squabble and how Mamma took it all to heart and allowed it to depress her:

“I sha’n’t get married,” she said. “I see nothing but unhappy marriages around me. I sha’n’t get married.”

Then she started. She had a knack of behaving awkwardly and tactlessly, of saying things which she ought not to say. Van der Welcke looked at her, smiling. To make up for her indiscretion, she was more demonstrative than ever, profuse in exclamations of delight:

“Oh, Auntie, how glad I am to be with you once more!... I must be off presently in the rain.... I wish I could stay....”

“But stay and dine,” said Van der Welcke.

Constance hesitated: she saw that Marianne would like to stop on and she did not know what to do, did not wish to seem ungracious; and yet....

“Will you stay to dinner?” she asked.

Marianne beamed with joy:

“Oh, I should love to, Auntie! Mamma knows I’m here; she’ll understand....”

Constance was sorry that she had asked her; her nerves were feeling the strain of it all; but she was determined to control herself, to behave naturally and ordinarily. She could see it plainly: they were too fond of each other!

They were in love! Long before, she had seemed to guess it, when she saw them together, at her little dinners. The veriest trifle—an intonation of voice, a laughing phrase, the passing of a dish of fruit—had made her seem to guess it. Then the vague thought that went through her mind, like a little cloud, would vanish at once, leaving not even a shadow behind it. But the cloud had come drifting again and again, brought by a gesture, a glance, a how-do-you-do or good-bye, an appointment for a bicycle ride. On such occasions, the brothers had always gone too—so had Addie—and there had never been anything that was in the least incorrect; and at the little dinners there was never a joke that went too far, nor an attempt at flirtation, nor the very least resemblance to love-making. And therefore those vague thoughts had always drifted away again, like clouds; and Constance would think:

“There is nothing, there is nothing. I am mistaken. I am imagining something that doesn’t exist.”

She had not seen them together for two months; and she knew, had understood from a word dropped here and there, that Van der Welcke had not seen Marianne during those two months which had passed since that Sunday evening. And now, suddenly, she was struck by it: the shy, almost glad hesitation while the girl was standing at the door of Constance’ drawing-room; her unconcealed delight at being able to come back to this house; the almost unnatural joy with which she had sobbed at Constance’ knee ... until Van der Welcke came in, after doubtless recognizing the sound of her voice in his little smoking-room, as transparent as a child, with his clumsy excuse of searching for a newspaper. And now at once she was struck by it: the almost insuppressible affection with which they had greeted each other, with a certain smiling radiance that beamed from them, involuntarily, irresistibly, unconsciously.... But still Constance thought:

“I am mistaken, there is nothing; and I am imagining something that doesn’t exist.”

And the thought passed away, that they were really in love with each other; only this time there remained a faint wonder, a doubt, which had never been there before. And, while she talked about Nice, it struck her that Van der Welcke was still there ... that he was staying on in her drawing-room, a thing which he never did except when Paul was there, or Gerrit.... He sat on, without saying much; but that happy smile never left his lips.... Yet she still thought:

“I am mistaken; it is only imagination; there is nothing, or at most a little mutual attraction; and what harm is there in that?”

But, be this as it might, she, who was so jealous where her son was concerned, now felt not the least shade of jealousy amid her wondering doubts. Yes, it was all gone, any love, passion, sentiment that she had ever entertained for Henri. It was quite dead.... And, now that he smiled like that, she noticed, with a sort of surprise, how young he was:

“He is thirty-eight,” she thought, “and looks even younger.”

As he sat there, calmly, always with the light of a smile on his face, it struck her that he was very young, with a healthy, youthful freshness, and that he had not a wrinkle, not a grey hair in his head.... His blue eyes were almost the eyes of a child. Even Addie’s eyes, though they were like his father’s, were more serious, had an older look.... And, at the sight of that youthfulness, she thought herself old, even though she was now showing Marianne the pretty photograph from Nice.... Yes, she felt old; and she was hardly surprised—if it was so, if she was not mistaken—at that youthfulness in her husband and at his possible love for that young girl.... Marianne’s youth seemed to be nearer to his own youth.... And sometimes it was so evident that she almost ceased doubting and promised herself to be careful, not to encourage Marianne, not to invite her any more....

Unconscious: was it unconscious, thought Constance, on their part? Had they ever exchanged a more affectionate word, a pressure of the hand, a glance? Had they already confessed it to each other ... and to themselves? And a delicate intuition told her:

“No, they have confessed nothing to each other; no, they have not even confessed anything to themselves.”

Perhaps neither of them knew it yet; and, if so, Constance was the only one who knew. She looked at Marianne: the girl was very young, even though she had been out a year or two. She had something of Emilie’s fragility, but she was more natural, franker; and that natural frankness showed in her whole attitude: she seemed not to think, but to allow herself to be dragged along by impulse, by sentiment.... She looked out with her smile at the pelting rain, nestled deeper in her chair, luxuriously, like a kitten, then suddenly jumped up, poured out a cup of tea for Constance and herself; and, when Van der Welcke begged his wife’s leave to smoke a cigarette, she sprang up again, struck a match, held the light to him, with a fragile grace of gesture like a little statue. Her pale-brown eyes, with a touch of gold-dust over them, were like chrysolite; and they gazed up enthusiastically and then cast their glance downwards timidly, under the shade of their lids. She was pale, with the anæmic pallor of alabaster, the pallor of our jaded society-girls; and her hands moved feverishly and restlessly, as though the fingers were constantly seeking an object for their butterfly sensitiveness....

Was it so? Or was it all Constance’ imagination? And, amidst her wondering doubts, there came suddenly—if it really was so—a spasm of jealousy; but not jealousy of her husband’s love: jealousy of his youth. She suddenly looked back fifteen years and felt herself grown old, felt him remaining young. Life, real life, for which she sometimes had a vague yearning, while she felt herself too old for it, after frittering away her days: that life he would perhaps still be able to live, if he met with it. He at least was not too old for it!

It all filled her with a passion of misery and anger; and then again she thought:

“No, there is nothing; and I am imagining all manner of things that do not exist.”

Addie came home; and, with the rain pelting outside, there was a gentle cosiness indoors, at table. Constance was silent, but the others were cheerful. And, when, after tea had been served, the fury out of doors seemed to have subsided, Marianne stood up, almost too unwilling to go away:

“It’s time for me to go, Auntie....”

“Shall Addie see you home?”

“No, Addie’s working,” said Van der Welcke. “I’ll see Marianne home.”

Constance said nothing.

“Oh, Auntie,” said Marianne, “I am so glad that everything’s settled!”

She kissed Constance passionately.

“Uncle, isn’t it a nuisance for you to go all that way with me?”

“I wish I had a bicycle for you!...”

“Yes, if only we had our tandem here!”

“It’s stopped raining; we shall be able to walk.”

They went, leaving Constance alone. Her eyes were eager to follow them along the street. She could not help herself, softly opened a window, looked out into the damp winter night. She saw them go towards the Bankastraat. They were walking side by side, quite ordinarily. She watched them for a minute or two, until they turned the corner:

“No,” she said, “there is nothing. Oh, it would be too dreadful!”

Chapter VII

Van der Welcke and Marianne went side by side.

“How deliciously fresh it is now,” she almost carolled. “The wind has gone down and the air is lovely; and look, how beautiful the sky is with those last black clouds.... Oh, I think it so ripping, that everything’s all right again between you and Papa! I did feel it so. You know how fond I am of both of you, Aunt Constance and you, and of Addie; and it was all so sad.... Tell me, does Auntie still feel bitter about it? I expect she does.... Ah, I understand quite well now ... that she would have liked to come to our house ... officially, let me say! But why not first have spoken to Mamma ... or to me, who am so fond of you? Then we could have seen: we might have thought of something. As it was, Mamma was so startled by that unexpected visit.... Poor Aunt Constance, she isn’t happy! How sad that you and she aren’t happier together! Oh, I could cry about it at times: it seems such a shame!... A man and woman married ... and then ... and then what I so often see!... I oughtn’t to have said what I did before dinner, it was stupid of me; but I may speak now, mayn’t I?... Oh, I sha’n’t marry, I won’t marry!... To be married like Otto and Frances, like Emilie and Van Raven: I think it dreadful. Or like you and Auntie: I should think it dreadful. Can’t you be happier together? Not even for Addie’s sake? I wish you could; it would make me so happy. I can’t bear it, when you and Auntie quarrel.... She was sweet and gentle to-night, but so very quiet. She is so nice.... That was a mad fit of hers, to go abroad so suddenly; but then she had had so much to vex her. Oh, those two old aunts: I could have murdered them! I can hear them now!... Poor Auntie! Do try and be a little nice to her.... Has this been going on between you for years? Don’t you love each other any longer?... No, I sha’n’t marry, I sha’n’t marry, I shall never marry.”

“Come, Marianne: if some one comes along whom you get to love....”

“No, I shall never marry.... I might expect too much of my husband. I should really want to find something beautiful, some great joy, in my love ... and to marry for the sake of marrying, like Frances or Emilie, is a thing I couldn’t, couldn’t do.... Otto is fonder of Louise than of his wife; and lately Emilie and Henri are inseparable.... In our family there has always been that affection between brother and sister. But it is too strong, far too strong. It doesn’t make them happy. I’ve never felt it in that way, fond as I am of my brothers.... No, I should place the man I love above everybody, above everybody.... But I suppose you’re laughing ... at my bread-and-butter notions....”

“No, I’m not laughing, Marianne; and, just as you would like to see Aunt Constance and me happy, so I should like to see you happy ... with a man whom you loved.”

“That will never be, Uncle; no, that will never be.”

“How can you tell?”

“Oh, I feel it, I feel it!...”

“Come, I’ll have a bet on it,” he said, laughingly.

“No, Uncle,” she said, with a pained smile, “I won’t bet on a thing like that....”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Marianne....”

“I know that....”

“But you mustn’t be so melancholy, at your age. You’re so young....”

“Twenty-one. That’s quite old.”

“Old! Old! What about me?”

She laughed:

“Oh, you’re young! A man....”

“Is always young?”

“Not always. But you are.”

“A young uncle?”

“Yes, a young uncle.... A woman gets old quicker....”

“So, when you’re old and I am still young, we shall be about the same age.”

She laughed:

“What a calculation! No, you’re older. But age doesn’t go by years.”

“No. I sometimes have very young wishes. Do you know what I have been longing for since yesterday, like a baby, like a boy?”

“No.”

“A motor-car.”

She laughed, with a laugh like little tinkling bells:

“A motor-car?”

“Wouldn’t it be delightful? To go tearing and tearing over fields and roads, through clouds of dust....”

“You’re becoming poetic!”

“Yes, it’s making me poetic....”

“And the smell of the petrol?... The mask and goggles against the dust?... The hideous dress?...”

“Oh, that’s nothing!... To tear and fly along, faster and faster, at a mad pace....”

“I have never been in a motor-car....”[1]

“I have, in Brussels, in a friend’s car. There’s nothing to come up to it.”

Her laugh tinkled out again:

“Yes, now you’re most certainly like a boy!”

“I’m so young?”

“O young Uncle!”

“You oughtn’t to call me uncle, Marianne: I’m too young for it.”

The tinkling bells:

“What am I to call you then?”

“Anything you like. Not uncle.”

“Nunkie?”

“No, no....”

“But I can’t call you Henri ... or Van der Welcke?”

“No, that’s too difficult. Better say nothing.”

The tinkling bells:

“Nothing. Very well.... But am I to say U or je?”[2]

“Say je.”

“But it seems so funny ... before people!”

“People, people! You can’t always bother about people.”

“But I have to: I’m a girl!”

“Oh, Marianne, people are always a nuisance!”

“A desert island would be the thing.”

“Yes, a desert island....”

“With a motor-car....”

“And just you and me.”

They both laughed; and her little bells tinkled through his boyish laugh.

“What a perfect night!”

“Perfect: the air is so crisp....”

“Marianne....”

“Yes, Uncle....”

“No, not uncle.... You must be my little friend.... Not a niece.... I’ve never had a girl-friend.”

“Your little friend?... But I am!”

“Well, that’s all right.”

“Look, how dark it is in the Wood.... People say it’s dangerous. Is it, Uncle? No, I didn’t mean to say uncle....”

“Sometimes. Are you frightened? Take my arm.”

“No, I’m not frightened.”

“Come, take my arm.”

“I don’t mind....”

“We shall be home in a minute.”

“If only Mamma isn’t angry with me, for staying out.... Are you coming in?”

“No ... no....”

“Not because you’re still angry with us?”

“No, I’m not angry.”

“That’s all right. Oh, I am glad! I should like to give you a motor for making me so happy!”

“Those old tin kettles cost a lot of money....”

“Poor Uncle! No, I don’t mean uncle....”

“Here we are.”

He rang the bell.

“Thank you for seeing me home.”

“Good-night, Marianne.”

The butler opened the door; she went in. He trotted back, whistling like a boy.

“Wherever have you been, Marianne?” asked Bertha.

“I stayed to dinner at Aunt Constance’.”

“I was anxious about you,” said Bertha.

But she was glad that Constance had been so gracious.

“Who brought you home?”

“Uncle.”

She ran up to her room. She looked in the glass, as though to read her own eyes. There she read her secret:

“God help me!” she thought. “I oughtn’t to have gone. I oughtn’t to have gone. I was too weak, too weak.... Oh, if only they had never made it up, Papa and ... he!... Oh dear! I shall never go there again. It’s the last time, the last time.... O God, help me, help me!...”

She sank into a chair and sat with her face hidden in her hands, not weeping, her happiness still shedding its dying rays around her, but with a rising agony; and she remained like that for a long time, with her eyes closed, as though she were dreaming and suffering, both.

[1] The period of the novel is about 1901.

[2] Equivalent to vous or tu.

Chapter VIII

“And who do you think’s in town?” Van Vreeswijck asked Van der Welcke, as they were walking together.

“I don’t know.”

“Brauws.”

“Brauws?”

“Max Brauws.”

“Max? Never! What, Leiden Max?”

“Yes, Leiden Max. I hadn’t seen him for years.”

“Nor I, of course. And what is he doing?”

“Well, that’s a difficult question to answer. Shall I say, being eccentric?”

“Eccentric? In what way?”

“Oh, in the things he does. First one thing and then another. He’s giving lectures now. In fact, he’s a Bohemian.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“Yes, he asked after you.”

“I should like to see him. Does he belong to the Witte?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“He’s a mad fellow. Always was mad. An interesting chap, though. And a good sort. Has he money?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where is he staying?”

“In rooms, in the Buitenhof.”

“We’re close by. Let’s go and see if he’s in.”

Brauws was not in. And Van der Welcke left a card for his old college-chum, with a pencilled word.

A fortnight passed; and Van der Welcke began to feel annoyed:

“I’ve heard nothing from Brauws,” he said to Van Vreeswijck.

“I haven’t seen him either.”

“Perhaps he’s offended about something.”

“Nonsense, Brauws isn’t that sort.”

Van der Welcke was silent. Since the scene with the family, he was unduly sensitive, thinking that people were unfriendly, that they avoided him.

“Well, if he wants to ignore my card, let him!” he said, angrily. “He can go to the devil, for all I care!”

But, a couple of days later, when Van der Welcke was smoking in his little room, Truitje brought in a card.

“Brauws!” exclaimed Van der Welcke.

And he rushed outside:

“Come upstairs, old chap!” he shouted, from the landing.

In the hall stood a big, quiet man, looking up with a smile round his thick moustache.

“May I come up?”

“Yes, yes, come up. Upon my word, Max, I am glad....”

Brauws came upstairs; the two men gripped each other’s hands.

“Welckje!” said Brauws. “Mad Hans!”

Van der Welcke laughed:

“Yes, those were my nicknames. My dear chap, what an age since we....”

He took him to his den, made him sit down, produced cigars.

“No, thanks, I don’t smoke. I’m glad to see you. Why, Hans, you haven’t changed a bit. You’re a little stouter; and that’s all. Just look at the fellow! You could pass for your own son. How old are you? You’re thirty-eight ... getting on for thirty-nine. And now just look at me. I’m three years your senior; but I look old enough to be your father.”

Van der Welcke laughed, pleased and flattered by the compliment paid to his youth. Their Leiden memories came up; they reminded each other of a score of incidents, speaking and laughing together in unfinished, breathless sentences which they understood at once.

“And what have you been doing all this time?”

“Oh, a lot! Too much to tell you all at once. And you?”

“I? Nothing, nothing. You know I’m married?”

“Yes, I know,” said Brauws. “But what do you do? You’re in a government-office, I suppose?”

“No, Lord no, old fellow! Nothing, I just do nothing. I cycle.”

They both laughed. Brauws looked at his old college-friend, almost paternally, with a quiet smile.

“The beggar hasn’t changed an atom,” he said. “Yes, now that I look at you again, I see something here and there. But you’ve remained Welckje, for all that....”

“But not Mad Hans,” sighed Van der Welcke.

“Vreeswijck has become a great swell,” said Brauws. “And the others?”

“Greater swells still.”

“Not you?”

“No, not I. Do you cycle?”

“Sometimes.”

“Have you a motor-car?”

“No.”

“That’s a pity. I should like to have a motor. But I can’t afford one of those sewing-machines.”

Brauws roared with laughter:

“Why don’t you start saving up for one?”

“No, old chap, no....”

“I say, do you know what’s a funny thing? While you were living in Brussels, I too was living just outside Brussels.”

“Impossible!”

“Yes, I was.”

“And we never met?”

“I so seldom went into town. If I had known....”

“But what a pity!”

“Yes. And what’s still funnier is that, when you were on the Riviera, I was there too.”

“Look here, old fellow, you’re kidding me!”

“I never knew till later that you were there also that year. But you were at Monte Carlo and I at Antibes. Just compare the dates.”

They compared dates: Brauws was right.

“But that was horribly unlucky.”

“It couldn’t be helped. However, we’ve found each other now.”

“Yes. We must see something of each other now, eh? Let’s go cycling together ... or buy a motor-car between us.”

Brauws roared with laughter again:

“Happy devil!” he shouted.

“I?” cried Van der Welcke, a little huffed. “What’s there happy about me? I sometimes feel very miserable, very miserable indeed.”

Brauws understood that he was referring to his marriage.

“Here’s my boy,” said Van der Welcke, showing Addie’s photograph.

“A good face. What’s he going to be?”

“He’s going into the diplomatic service. I say, shall we take a stroll?”

“No, I’d rather sit here and talk.”

“You’re just as placid as ever....”

Brauws laughed:

“Outwardly, perhaps,” he said. “Inwardly, I’m anything but placid.”

“Have you been abroad much?”

“Yes.”

“What do you do?”

“Much ... and perhaps nothing. I am seeking....”

“What?”

“I can’t explain it in a few words. Perhaps later, when we’ve seen more of each other.”

“You’re the same queer chap that you always were. What are you seeking?”

“Something.”

“There’s our old oracle. ‘Something!’ You were always fond of those short words.”

“The universe lies in a word.”

“Max, I can’t follow you, if you go on like that. I never could, you know.”

“Tell me about yourself now, about Rome, about Brussels.”

Van der Welcke, smoking, described his life, more or less briefly, through the blue clouds of his cigarette. Brauws listened:

“Yes,” he said. “Women....”

He had a habit of not finishing his sentences, or of saying only a single word.

“And what have women done to you?” asked Van der Welcke, gaily.

Brauws laughed:

“Nothing much,” he said, jestingly. “Not worth talking about. There have been many women in my life ... and yet they were not there.”

Van der Welcke reflected.

“Women,” he said, pensively. “Sometimes, you know....”

“Hans, are you in love?”

“No, no!” said Van der Welcke, starting. “No, I’ve been fairly good.”

“Fairly good?”

“Yes, only fairly...”

“You’re in love,” said Brauws, decisively.

“You’re mad!” said Van der Welcke. “I wasn’t thinking of myself.... And, now, what are you doing in the Hague?”

Brauws laughed:

“I’m going to give lectures, not only here, but all over Holland.”

“Lectures?” cried Van der Welcke, in astonishment. “What made you think of that? Do you do it to make money? Don’t you find it a bore to stand jawing in front of a lot of people for an hour at a time?”

“Not a bit,” said Brauws. “I’m lecturing on Peace.”

“Peace?” cried Van der Welcke, his blue orbs shining in wide-eyed young amazement through the blue haze of his cigarette-smoke. “What Peace?”

“Peace, simply.”

“You’re getting at me,” cried Van der Welcke.

Brauws roared; and Van der Welcke too. They laughed for quite a minute or two.

“Hans,” said Brauws, “how is it possible for any one to change as little as you have done? In all these years! You are just as incapable as in the old days of believing in anything serious.”

“If you imagine that there’s been nothing serious in my life,” said Van der Welcke, vexed.

And, with great solemnity, he once more told his friend about Constance, about his marriage, his shattered career.

Brauws smiled.

“You laugh, as if it all didn’t matter!” cried Van der Welcke, angrily.

“What does anything matter?” said Brauws.

“And your old Peace?”

“Very little as yet, at any rate.... Perhaps later.... Luckily, there’s the future.”

But Van der Welcke shrugged his shoulders and demolished Peace in a few ready-made sentences: there would always be war; it was one of those Utopian ideas....

Brauws only smiled.

“You must come and dine one day, to meet Vreeswijck,” said Van der Welcke.

Brauws’ smile disappeared suddenly:

“No, my dear fellow, honestly....”

“Why not?”

“I’m not the man for dinners.”

“It won’t be a dinner. Only Vreeswijck. My wife will be very pleased.”

“Yes, but I shall be putting your wife out....”

“Not a bit. I’ll see if she’s at home and introduce you to her.”

“No, my dear fellow, no, honestly.... I’m no ladies’ man. I’m nothing of a drawing-room person. I never know what to say.”

“You surely haven’t grown shy!”

“Yes, almost. With ladies ... I really don’t know what to say. No, old chap, honestly.....”

His voice was full of anxious dismay.

“I think it’s mean of you, to refuse to come and dine with us, quite quietly.”

“Yes ... and then it’ll be a dinner of twenty people. I know.”

“I shouldn’t know where to get them from. We see nobody. Nobody.”

“No, no.... Well, yes, perhaps later.”

He raised his hand deprecatingly, almost impatiently:

“Come,” he said, “let’s go for a walk.”

And, as though fearing lest Van der Welcke should still find a moment to introduce him to his wife, Brauws hurried him down the stairs. Once outside, he breathed again, recovered his usual placidity.

Chapter IX

“I went last night with Van Vreeswijck to hear Brauws speak at Diligentia,” said Van der Welcke, one morning. “The fellow’s inspired. He speaks extempore and magnificently; he’s an orator. A splendid fellow, the way he spoke: it was astounding.... I knew him years ago at Leiden. He was a queer chap even then. He did not belong to any particular club, not to ours either: his family is nothing out of the way. His father has a factory, I believe, somewhere in Overijssel. He himself has nothing of the tradesman about him. He used to coach us dull beggars and help us get up our examinations. I should never have passed without him. He knows about everything, he’s not only good at law. He’s read everything; he has a tremendous memory. He’s travelled a lot and done all sorts of things, but I can’t find out exactly what. Now he’s lecturing. This evening, he’s lecturing in Amsterdam. I asked him to dinner, but he refuses to come, says he’s shy with ladies. Silly fellow!”

The newspapers printed lengthy reports of Brauws’ speeches on Peace. He spoke in all the large Dutch towns and in many of the smaller ones. When he was to speak at the Hague for the second time, Van der Welcke said, excitedly:

“Constance, you must absolutely go and hear Brauws this evening. He’s grand. You know, I can never listen to any one for more than a quarter of an hour....”

“Nor I for more than three minutes,” said Paul, who was there. “But I love to talk for an hour on end myself.”

“But Brauws: the fellow electrifies you. Though I think that Peace idea of his all rot. But that makes no difference: the chap speaks magnificently.... I’m dining with Van Vreeswijck and we’re going on together.”

Paul asked Constance to go with him. That evening, the little hall of Diligentia—the proceeds were to go to the fund for the Boer wounded—was full: Constance and Paul had difficulty in finding seats.

“All sorts of people,” Paul observed. “A curious audience. An olla podrida of every set in the Hague. Here and there, the very select people have turned up, no doubt brought by Van Vreeswijck: look, there are the Van der Heuvel Steijns; and there’s the French minister; and there, as I live, is Van Naghel, with his colleague from the Treasury.... And look, there’s Isidore the hairdresser.... A bit of everything, a bit of everything.... How brotherly and sisterly the Hague has become this evening: it makes me feel quite sentimental!”

Brauws made his entrance, to faint applause.

“The fellow’s not in evening-dress; he’s wearing a frock-coat. I suppose he’s playing the demagogue or the preacher.”

But he had to stop, for Brauws at once began to speak from the rostrum. He had nothing with him, not a note; and his voice was firm but very gentle. He began with a masterly exposition of the present political situation, sketching it in broad outlines, like an enormous picture, for all those people in front of him. His voice became clearer; his eyes looked through the hall, steady and bright, like two shining stars. Constance, who seldom read any political news, listened, was at once interested, wondered vaguely for a moment that she lived like that, from day to day, without knowing the times in which she lived. The present took shape before her in those few sentences of Brauws’. Then he spoke of Peace, which would be essential sooner or later, which was already making its joyous way into the mind of the nations, even though they were actually still waging war upon one another. It was as though wide and radiant vistas opened under his words; and his voice, at first so gentle, now rang through the hall, triumphantly confirming the glad tidings. He spoke without pausing, for two hours on end; and, when he stopped, the hall was breathless for a moment, the audience forgot to cheer. Then indeed applause burst forth, jubilant; but by that time Brauws was gone. They called him back, but he did not return; and the audience streamed out.

Constance and Paul were in the crush, when they saw Van Vreeswijck and Van der Welcke behind them.

“Mevrouw,” said Van Vreeswijck, bowing. “What do you think of our friend?”

“Wonderful,” said Constance, excitedly.

“The fellow speaks well,” said Paul, “but he is too earnest. He means all he says. People don’t like that in the long run.”

Van der Welcke protested vehemently, as he pushed through the close-packed crowd, and declared that he was converted, that he believed in Peace.

They reached the street: the hum of the crowd floated through the wintry air.

“How excited our stolid Haguers are!” said Paul.

“There’s our man,” said Van Vreeswijck.

“Yes, there he is!” exclaimed Van der Welcke.

And he darted forwards, stopped Brauws, who was walking fast and saw nobody, and seized his hand. The others drew near. Van Vreeswijck, out of politeness, stayed by Constance, waved his hand to Brauws. Van der Welcke was in a great state of excitement:

“Where are you going?” they heard him ask Brauws. “To the Witte?”

“No, my dear fellow, home.”

“Home? Can you go home now? Won’t you come to the Witte? I say, do let me introduce you to my wife, to my brother-in-law....”

Brauws started:

“No, Hans, honestly.... No, no.... What’s the good?...”

Constance heard and could not help smiling. She walked on with Van Vreeswijck and Paul.

“Yes, yes,” Van der Welcke insisted.

Brauws no doubt realized that Constance had heard, for he said, in a voice of despair:

“Very well then, Hans....”

“Constance! Paul!” cried Van der Welcke, proud of his friend, and caught them up.

He would have liked to introduce Brauws to the whole world, to the whole audience streaming out of Diligentia.

“Let me introduce you: my friend, Max Brauws; my wife; my brother-in-law, Van Lowe.”

They shook hands. Brauws remained standing in front of Constance, shyly and awkwardly. She tried to pay him a compliment that would not sound too obvious; and, like the tactful woman that she was, she succeeded. Paul also said something; they walked on, Van Vreeswijck silently amused at Van der Welcke’s excitement and Brauws’ awkwardness.

“And are you really going home? Won’t you come to the Witte?” Van der Welcke urged, in imploring tones.

“My dear Hans, what would you have me do at the Witte?”

“So you’re going home.”

“Yes, I’m going home, but I’ll walk a bit of the way with you.”

And, wishing to appear polite, he bowed vaguely to Constance, but said nothing more.

It was a delightful winter evening, with a sharp frost and a sky full of twinkling stars.

“I love walking,” said Constance. “When I’ve heard anything fine—music, a play, or a speech like to-night’s—I would much rather walk than rattle home in a cab.”

“My dear fellow!” cried Van der Welcke, still bubbling over with enthusiasm. “You’ve converted me! I believe in it, I believe in that Peace of yours!”

Brauws gave a sudden bellow.

“There, now the chap’s laughing at me again!” said Van der Welcke, in an injured tone.

“Well,” said Brauws, “shall I come and fetch you in a motor to-morrow, to reward you?”

They all laughed this time.

“Have you got one?” cried Van der Welcke, delightedly.

“No, but I can hire one,” said Brauws. “And then you can drive.”

“Can you hire one? Can you hire one?” cried Van der Welcke, in delighted amazement. “And may I really drive?”

And forgetting all about Peace, he was soon eagerly discussing motor-cars and motor-cycles....

When they reached the Kerkhoflaan, Constance asked:

“Won’t you all come in?”

Van Vreeswijck and Paul said that they would be glad to come and have a glass of wine; but Brauws said:

“Mevrouw, it’s so late....”

“Not for us.”

“Come along, Max,” said Van der Welcke.

But Brauws laughed his queer, soft laugh and said:

“What’s the good of my coming in?...”

And he went off, with a shy bow. They all laughed.

“Really, Brauws is impossible,” said Van Vreeswijck, indignantly.

“And he’s forgotten to tell me at what time he’s coming for me with his old sewing-machine....”

But next day, very early, in the misty winter morning, the “machine” came puffing and snorting and exploding down the Kerkhoflaan and stopped at Van der Welcke’s door with a succession of deep-drawn sighs and spasmodic gasps, as if to take breath after its exertions; and this monster as it were of living and breathing iron, odorous of petrol—the acrid smell of its sweat—was soon surrounded by a little group of butchers’-boys and orange-hawkers. Brauws stepped out; and, as Constance happened to be coming downstairs, she received him.

“I’m not fit to be seen, mevrouw. In these ‘sewing-machines,’ as Hans calls them, one becomes unpresentable at once.”

He was shy, looked out at the gasping motor-car and smiled at the crowd that had gathered round:

“I’m causing quite a tumult outside your door.”

“They ought to be used to ‘sewing-machines’ at the Hague by now.”

“That’s a very graphic word of Hans’.”

They both laughed. She thought his laugh attractive and his voice soft and restful to listen to.

“Mevrouw,” he said, suddenly, overcoming his bashfulness, “I hope you were not angry that I was so ungracious yesterday?...”

“But you weren’t at all ungracious.”

“Yes, I was, very. But what excuse can I make? I have lost the habit ... of just talking....”

She smiled:

“To ladies,” she said, jokingly.

“Yes, about nothing ... you know ... small talk....”

“You really needn’t apologize, Mr. Brauws. You had already said so many delightful things last night that I can quite understand....”

“Yes, but I have said nothing this morning and....”

“You wouldn’t know what to say ... about nothing. But please don’t trouble ... and make yourself at home. Henri will be down in a minute; he is very worried at not being ready.”

In fact, they heard Van der Welcke upstairs, dressing excitedly; he was rushing madly round his room and shouting:

“Addie! Addie! Pick me out a tie! Do be quick, boy!”

And Constance rose to go. Brauws stopped her:

“Mevrouw,” he said, hurriedly, “Hans asked me to dinner.”

“And you refused....”

“Well, you see, I’m such a bear. Don’t be angry and don’t let Hans be angry either and let me come and dine with you one day.”

“So you’re inviting yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Very well; we shall be delighted to see you. When will you come?”

“Whenever you like.”

“To-morrow?”

“With great pleasure.”

“Would you rather come alone, or shall I ask Van Vreeswijck to meet you?”

“Yes, certainly, Van Vreeswijck....”

“And nobody else.”

“No, nobody. But I mustn’t dictate to you.”

“Why shouldn’t you, in this case?”

Van der Welcke came rushing down the stairs, followed by Addie:

“This is jolly of you, Max! Let’s have a look at the old machine. She’s a first-rater! And here’s my boy.... Addie, eat a bit of bread and butter, quick; then we’ll drop you at your school.”

Addie laughed, quietly ate his bread and butter without sitting down:

“I’ve lots of time,” he said.

“So much the better ... we’ll drive you round a bit first. Quick, quick! Take your bread and butter with you in your hand!”

He rushed like a madman through the dining-room and hall, hunted for his hat, couldn’t find it, shouted up the stairs, made Truitje look all over the place for his gloves, created a breezy draught all through the house. At last, he was ready:

“If only I can manage the old sewing-machine! ... Tock-tock-tock-tock, tock-tock-tock-tock!... Good-bye, Constance....”

He shoved Addie in front of him, made him get into the car, settled himself:

“We’re off, Brauws!”

“Good-bye, mevrouw. Till to-morrow then!”

He ran out. Constance looked out of the window: they drove off, with Addie between them, waving his hand to her, while Brauws was showing Van der Welcke—much too quick, too wild, too impatient—how to work the “sewing-machine” and obviously asking him to be careful....

Chapter X

Constance had invited Van Vreeswijck at the last moment and he was engaged, so that Brauws was the only guest. Though Constance usually gave a deal of thought to her little dinners, she received Brauws quite simply, treating him as one of themselves; and Addie dined with them.

“And now tell me what you have been doing all these years?” asked Van der Welcke.

Brauws tried to tell him, but kept on hesitating, as though under a strange compulsion. His father was a manufacturer, owning big iron-works in Overijssel, and still carried on that huge business with Brauws’ two elder brothers, who were married to two sisters, the daughters of another manufacturer, owning a cotton-mill in the same district. But Max, who had been a queer boy from a child, had from a child felt repelled by all that factory-life of masters and men, as he saw it around him; and his father, recognizing his exceptional intelligence, had sent him to college, hoping that in this way he would carve out an honourable career for himself among his fellow-men. Max was fond of study and studied long and hard, for the sake of study. At Leiden, he became acquainted with Van Vreeswijck, Van der Welcke and other young sprigs of the aristocracy, who would gladly have admitted him to their club, putting up with him because he had plenty of money to spend and because he was clever and it amused him to help them in their examinations. Van der Welcke and Van Vreeswijck had learnt to value his friendship, but nevertheless lost sight of him afterwards, thinking that he had joined his brothers after all and was managing the factory with them. And, even as they, as youths, had hardly known their friend more than superficially, so they did not know, on leaving Leiden, that Max had not gone to Overijssel—where his father would have liked to marry him to the third daughter of the father-in-law of his two other sons—but to America, to “seek.”

“Well, but to seek what?” Van der Welcke asked, failing to understand what a rich youth could want to seek in America, if he did not see some idea, some plan, some object plainly outlined before him.

Brauws now confessed that at the time he scarcely knew what he had gone to seek, in America. He admitted that his father, the iron-master, had hoped that Max would form industrial connections in America which would have benefited the factory. But Max had formed no connections at all.

“Then what did you do?” asked Van der Welcke.

And Brauws smiled his strange, gentle smile, in which there gleamed a touch of irony and compassion—with himself, or the world, or both—a smile which sometimes broke into his big, resonant laugh. He smiled and at last said, very slowly:

“But I hardly dare confess to you, my dear Hans, what I did in America. I don’t talk about that time as a rule, because it all sounds so strange, now that I am sitting at table with you and your wife and your son. Perhaps, if I tell you what I did do in America, Mrs. van der Welcke, after the first shock of surprise, will shudder at having invited such a queer person to her table and probably think me a very bad example for Addie. So don’t let’s talk about myself or what I did in America.”

But Van der Welcke had grown inquisitive:

“No, my dear fellow, you sha’n’t get out of it like that. I can’t imagine that you did anything in America that Addie mustn’t hear about; and in any case he needn’t take you for his model. But I’m burning with curiosity and I insist on knowing what you were up to in America. Not lecturing on Peace all the time?...”

“No, not even once.”

“Well, what then?”

“But, Hans, what’s the good of talking about myself to this extent?”

“We’re all interested, Mr. Brauws,” said Constance. “We certainly are. But, if you would rather not talk about those days, we will not be indiscreet.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Van der Welcke, impatiently. “By Jingo, I will be indiscreet. Max, I must know....”

“Well, then,” said Max Brauws, very simply and shyly, as though he were making an apology. “At the risk of your wife’s never asking me to her house again: I was a porter.”

They all three looked at him and did not understand.

“A porter?” asked Van der Welcke.

“A porter?” asked Constance.

“Yes, mevrouw: just a porter and dock-labourer.”

“A dock-labourer?” asked Van der Welcke, thinking, from Max Brauws’ quiet voice, that he had suddenly gone mad.

“Yes, Hans; and, later on, I worked as a stoker in an iron-works, like my father’s.”

“As a stoker?” asked Constance.

“Yes, mevrouw, as a stoker in a factory. And then, afterwards, as an engine-driver. And then—but that was very hard work—I was a miner for a short time; but then I fell ill.”

“A miner?” asked Van der Welcke, in a blank voice, dazed with astonishment.

And at last, recovering from the astonishment, he burst out:

“Look here, Max, if you want to talk seriously, do; but don’t go pulling my leg and making a fool of me to my face. I don’t understand a word of what you’re saying, unless I’m to suppose that your father was angry with you and gave you no money and that you had to work for your bread, perhaps. But that you were a porter....”

“And dock-labourer,” said Constance.

“And engine-driver and miner, that I refuse to believe, unless your father....”

“My dear Hans, my father used to send me the same allowance that he made me at the university: three hundred guilders a month.”

“And...?”

“And I used the money ... for other things; but I lived on my wages, like a labourer, as I really was. You see, you can’t understand that; and, as I feared, your wife thinks it horrible to be sitting at table with a man who has been a porter, a dock-labourer and a stoker....”

“And a miner,” added Van der Welcke.

And he shut his eyes, as though he had received a blow on the head.

“But, mevrouw,” said Brauws, with his quiet smile, “my hands, although they are not delicate, have become fit to show again, as you see.”

And he showed his hands, big, powerful hands, probably developed by manual labour, but now neither coarse nor hard.

“But can you explain to me,” asked Constance, with a little laugh, “why you worked in those various humble capacities?”

“Shall we say, mevrouw, for the sake of being eccentric?” replied Brauws, almost coldly. “And then we will talk no more about myself. Tell me instead about Addie. Hans was saying the other day that his ambition was to enter the diplomatic service....”

But a certain constraint seemed involuntarily to make the conversation flag, as though both host and hostess were unable to understand their guest at all, as though some one of another class had actually strayed by accident into their dining-room, into the home of these born aristocrats; and Constance, perceiving this, not only wanted to avoid that constraint, but also a deeper feeling of invincible sympathy made her regret almost unconsciously any misunderstanding or unpleasantness that might arise between that strange man and Henri or herself. This deeper feeling was so faint and unconscious that, at the moment, she saw in it only her wish, as hostess, to make the passing hour as agreeable as possible for her guest; and she did not hear the deeper note in her voice when she said, with that candour and sincerity which at times gave her an exquisitely feminine charm:

“I should be very sorry indeed, Mr. Brauws, if you refused to go on speaking of yourself. You are an old and intimate friend of Henri’s; and, now that you two have met again, it would be a pity if you refused to talk about the years when you did not see each other. But I am not speaking only for my husband, who will speak for himself: I am speaking especially for my own sake. When I heard you lecturing on Peace the other day—on something which I had really never thought about, though I had heard the word vaguely mentioned by people now and then—your speech really roused ... a sort of interest in me; and I listened with keen sympathy; and afterwards I thought about that word. And, now that you tell us that you have been a common workman in America, I am very much interested to know how you came to adopt a life so very different from that of the men in my set; and, if it is not too indiscreet, I should like to ask you, as a favour, to speak about yourself and explain what at present seems so perplexing to me....”

The simple, homely meal was finished; and they went into the drawing-room.

“May I stay, Mamma?” asked Addie, who never accompanied them to the drawing-room when there was a stranger present.

She laughed; and Van der Welcke said:

“You see, even my boy is curious.”

“Our future diplomatist!” said Brauws, with his quiet smile. “Well, mevrouw, may he stay or not?”

“Of course he may stay!”

“Aren’t you afraid that the ideas of ... a labouring-man will spoil him?”

“Oh, there’s no spoiling my boy!” said she, lifting her head high and putting her arm round Addie’s shoulder with motherly pride.

“And you don’t make him vain, by saying that?”

“There’s no making him vain,” she continued, boasting a little, like a proud mother.

“So he can stay?” asked Brauws.

“He can stay.”

“Well, in that case I shall tell you more about myself.”

“Only in that case?”

“You are giving me a proof of confidence and, I might almost say, of sympathy.”

Van der Welcke took his friend by the shoulders:

“My dear Max, you pretend that you don’t know how to talk to ‘ladies’ and there you stand, like a typical courtier, paying compliments to my wife. That’s all superfluous, you know: here’s a cup of coffee; sit down, make yourself at home, choose your own chair; and now, Mr. Miner, tell your Mad Hans how, when you were in America, you went even madder than he.”

But Brauws was obviously still seeking subterfuges, as though it were impossible for him to interpret the riddle of his former existence to these people who were entertaining him so kindly; and at last he half managed to escape their pressing curiosity by saying:

“But I can’t possibly tell you all that straight away.... Perhaps later, mevrouw, when I have known you a little longer, I may be able to tell you about that time, so that you may understand it after a fashion.”

Constance was disappointed, but she said, with a smile:

“Then I must exercise patience.”

“But I exercise no patience,” said Van der Welcke. “Tell us now, Max: when you left Leiden, after taking your degree in law, a year before I did—but you were much older than I, an older student who really studied, a rara avis!—what did you do then?”

“I first went back to my father and my brothers, to the factory. And then I took such an aversion to the whole thing, to all that we represented, my father, my brothers and I, that I determined to go and lead an entirely different life. I saw that, though my father and brothers were comparatively good to their workmen, those workmen remained slaves; and we....”

He passed his hand over his forehead:

“How can I and why should I talk about all this, my dear Hans?” he said, gently interrupting himself. “You wouldn’t understand me; nor you either, mevrouw....”

“Why shouldn’t we understand you?” asked Constance.

His voice assumed a rough tone that almost frightened her:

“Because both of you, you and Hans, are capitalists—and titled capitalists at that—and because I.... But I don’t want to be rude to my host and hostess.”

“Capitalists without capital,” said Van der Welcke, laughing.

Brauws shrugged his shoulders:

“There are more of them than you think,” he said.

“So really you’re among enemies here,” said Constance, in her drawing-room voice.

“No,” said Van der Welcke, “for he in his turn has deserted to the capitalists, even the titled ones.”

“Not quite,” said Brauws, quietly, “though I admit that I have been weak.”

“I won’t press you any more, Mr. Brauws,” said Constance; but her voice urged him to continue.

“Don’t look upon yourself and Henri as my enemies, mevrouw,” said Brauws, earnestly. “Above all things, I should like to see nothing but friendship in this world of ours. But you were asking me about America: well, when I had lived for a short time with my father and my brothers in our big house near the factory, it became too much for me; and I went away, to lead my life just as if I had been born among workmen ... so as to study them more closely, do you understand?... No, you don’t understand; and how can I go on?...”

“Max, you’re being dull. And you’re absurd too.”

“I’m sorry, Hans, I simply can’t talk about myself: you see, I’ve tried to, two or three times over.”

“Then we won’t worry you any more,” said Constance.

A constraint seemed to have come upon them, a barrier which rose between their words at every moment. Addie, disappointed, left the room quietly. In a little while, Brauws took his leave, awkwardly, almost rudely. Constance and Van der Welcke exchanged a glance when they were alone. Van der Welcke shook his head:

“The fellow’s mad,” he said. “Always was; but, since he’s joined the proletariats in America, he’s stark, staring mad. He was so jolly yesterday, coming with that old sewing-machine. He is a good sort, there’s something nice about him. But he’s quite mad. Vreeswijck is much better company. We won’t ask him again: what do you say, Constance? The fellow’s really mad; and, besides, he doesn’t know how to talk and, when all is said, he was impertinent, with his ‘titled capitalists.’ Indeed, I ought really to apologize to you for asking such a queer fish to your house.”

“He is different from other people,” she said, “but I think that, however much he may differ from you, he likes you.”

Her husband burst out irritably:

“You women,” he exclaimed, “are simply impossible! Who would ever have thought that you could have found a word of excuse for Brauws! Why, I was afraid that you would cover me with reproaches and point out to me that, even though we see nobody, you wouldn’t want to receive a socialist friend of mine. But there’s no understanding women!”

He was dissatisfied, out of temper, because of Brauws and that spasmodic conversation; and his tone seemed to invite a scene. But Constance raised her eyes to his very calmly and said, so gently and quietly that the voice did not sound like hers to his ears:

“Henri, your friend Brauws is a man and an exceptional man; and that is enough to captivate a woman for a moment.”

“Well, you can ask him every day, for all I care.”

“I didn’t ask him.”

“No, I did, of course!”

“Don’t let us quarrel, Henri. Mr. Brauws asked himself. But, if you would rather not see any more of him, we won’t encourage him again; and then he’ll stay away of his own accord....”

Her gentle words, which he did not understand, disturbed him greatly; and he went upstairs in a temper, undressed angrily and flung himself on his bed:

“And, upon my word, he’d be upsetting Addie’s head next, with those queer notions,” he muttered, as he dug his ear viciously into his pillow.

Chapter XI

A few days had passed, when Brauws rang at the door, late one afternoon. Constance was sitting in the drawing-room and saw him through the corner window; and, as she heard the bell, she felt a shock of alarm. She was afraid, she did not know why, and listened anxiously to his deep voice in the passage.

“Is meneer at home?”

“No, sir.”

“Perhaps mevrouw is at home?”

“Yes, sir, mevrouw is in. I’ll just ask....”

Truitje entered:

“Mr. Brauws, ma’am....”

“Show meneer in.”

She still felt her heart beating with that strange, inexplicable shock of alarm. And she thought that it was because she was alone with that strange man, who had been a workman in America and who could say such rude things sometimes, suddenly.

They shook hands:

“Henri is out,” she said. “But sit down. I see in the paper that you are speaking at Arnhem to-morrow.”

“Yes, mevrouw, but I haven’t come to talk about my lectures. I’ve come to make you my very humble apologies.”

“What for?”

“Mevrouw, I’m a bear. I don’t know how to talk to people. Forgive me ... for what I said the other day.”

“But what did you say?”

“Nothing—after your friendly encouragement—but what was rude.”

“I have no great reverence for titles,” she said, quickly.

She said it so suddenly and spontaneously that it surprised even herself; and she asked herself, the next second:

“Why do I say that? And is it true, now? Or is it not true?”

She herself did not know.

“You haven’t, perhaps, but Hans has.... But I was rude especially because, after you had asked me so kindly and graciously, I still would not talk about my life.”

“But you were to do that when we knew each other better....”

“People never know each other well. Still....”

“What?”

“I don’t know.... May I tell you something about myself from time to time? Perhaps it won’t interest you as much as, from politeness, you wish me to think; but ... when I’ve done it ... I shall feel relieved.... Heavens, how difficult words are!”

“And yet you are accustomed to speak for hours!...”

“That’s a different thing. Then some one else is speaking inside me. When I myself am speaking, in everyday life, I find words difficult.”

“Then don’t make the least effort, but tell me ... gradually.”

“What did Addie think? I should like to know.”

“He was disappointed, but he did not say much.”

“He’s a serious boy, isn’t he? Tell me about him.”

She felt no more fear and talked about Addie. Brauws laughed, gently and kindly, at the pride that kept shining from her:

“I was a serious child too,” he said.

And she understood that he was making an effort, in order to talk about himself.

“I was a strange child. Behind our house was a pine-forest, with hills in it; and behind that a little stream. I used to wander all day long in those woods, over the hills and beside the stream. They would miss me at home and look for me and find me there. But gradually they stopped being frightened, because they understood that I was only playing. I used to play by myself: a lonely, serious child. It’s true I played at highwaymen and pirates; and yet my games were very serious, not like a child’s ... I still feel a thrill when I think of that strange childhood of mine.... I used to play there in those woods and beside that stream, in Holland; but sometimes I imagined that I was playing at pirates and highwaymen in America, or in the tropics. And in my childish imagination the whole Dutch landscape changed. It became a roaring river, with great boulders, from which the water fell foaming, and very dense, tropical foliage, such as I had seen in pictures; and great flowers, red and white, grew in the enormous trees. Then my fancy changed and I was no longer a pirate or robber, but became ... an oriental prince. I don’t know why I, a pure-bred Dutch boy, should have had that strange vision of the east, of something tropical, there, on those pine-covered hills and beside that little stream.... It was always like that afterwards: the tropical landscape, the spreading cocoa-trees, the broad plantain-leaves and the huge flowers, white and red ... and then I often thought, ‘Now I will find her.’ Whom I wanted to find I didn’t know; but I would run down the hills and roam beside the little river and seek and seek ... and my seeking for ‘her’ became strange and fantastic: I, an oriental, was seeking for a fairy, or a princess, I forget which. It seemed to me as if she were running there ahead of me, very white and fragile: a little child, as I was a child; a girl, as I was a boy; in white and decked with the flowers, white and red ... And my seeking for the princess, for the fairy, for the little white, fragile girl became so intense that I sometimes thought I had found her, found her in my imagination; and then I would speak to her, as in a dream.... Until ... until I woke from my waking dream and remembered that I had been wandering away from home for hours, that my mother would be anxious, that I was not fit to be seen, that I looked like a dirty street-boy, that I had only been dreaming, that there were no white or red flowers around me ... and then I would cry, boy of thirteen though I was, passionately, as if I should go mad.... And I have never told all this to any one, but I am telling it to you, because I want to ask you: Addie is not like that, is he? When you come to think of it, how children differ, at that age!”

She sat on her chair, very pale, and could not speak.

“My parents did not know that I was like that; and I told nobody about my fancies. I went to school, in the meantime, and was just the usual sort of schoolboy. I was cruel to animals, a vulgar little rascal, in the meantime; and it was only in those free hours that I wandered and dreamt. And, when I now look at your boy, who is like a little man, I sometimes think, how is it possible that he is like this and that I was like that, at the same age?”

She made an effort to smile.

“So you see,” he said, “gradually perhaps I shall be able to tell you something about my life ... at least, if it interests you....”

It seemed as if his first confession had in fact given him a greater facility, for of his own accord he now went on talking: how, when he grew a year or two older, he had shaken those fancies from him as so much child’s-play and devoted himself seriously to every kind of study, until he went to the university, where he not only read law, but really took up all the other faculties in between, while at the same time he felt attracted by every branch of knowledge:

“I was a ready learner and a quick reader; I remembered everything; and I had a sort of fever to know everything in the world, to know all there was to know and learn. That I afterwards went and travelled goes almost without saying. And then....”

It was at this moment that Van der Welcke entered. He was at first surprised, almost annoyed to see Brauws; but his warm friendship gained the upper hand:

“Hullo, anarchist!” he said. “Is that you?”

But it was very late; Addie came in; it was close upon dinner-time. Brauws said good-bye and promised to come again and fetch Van der Welcke in a “machine;” and that made up for everything to Van der Welcke.

Chapter XII

It was a howling winter night of storm and rain. Addie was doing his lessons after dinner; and Van der Welcke had gone to sit by him with a book “because there was such a draught in his room.” Constance was all alone. And she loved the loneliness of it just then. She had taken up a book, a piece of needlework; but first one and then the other had slipped from her hands. And, in the soft light of the lace-shaded lamps, she lay back in her chair and listened to the melancholy storm outside, which seemed to be rushing past the house like some monstrous animal. She was in a mood of vague excitement, of mingled nervousness and depression; and, in her loneliness, she let this strange feeling take possession of her and gave herself up to the quite new luxury of thinking about herself, wondering dimly:

“Does that sort of thing really exist?”

She found no answer to her question; she heard only the storm raging outside, the hiss of its lash round the groaning trees; and those mournful voices of the night did not include the mystic voice which alone could have supplied the answer.

“Does that sort of thing really exist?” she asked herself again.

And, in that vague emotion, she was conscious of a sense of fear, of a rising anxiety, an increasing terror. When, after a lull, the storm burst into sudden fury again, she started violently, as she had started when Brauws’ hand rang the bell....

With each shriller howl of the raging storm she started; and each fresh alarm left her so nervous and so strangely despondent that she could not understand herself....

“Does that sort of thing really exist then?” she asked herself for the third time.

And the question seemed each time to echo through her soul like a refrain. She could never have thought, suspected or imagined that such things really existed. She did not remember ever reading about them or ever talking to anybody about them. It had never been her nature to attach much importance to the strange coincidences of life, because they had never harmonized in her life with those of other lives; at least, she did not know about them, did not remember them.... For a moment, it flashed through her mind that she had walked as the blind walk, all her life, in a pitch-dark night ... and that to-day suddenly a light had shone out before her and a ruddy glow had filtered through her closed eyelids.

“No,” she thought, “in those things I have always been very much of a woman; and I have never thought about them. If by chance I ever heard about them, they did not attract me. Then why do they strike me so forcibly now? And why do I feel so strange?...”

The wind suddenly cried aloud, like the martyred soul of some monster; and she started, but forced herself to concentrate her thoughts:

“He can’t know,” she thought. “What can he know, to make him speak deliberately ... of those childish years? No, he can’t know; and I felt that he did not know, that he was only speaking in order to compare himself with Addie to Addie’s mother, in a burst of confidence. He is a man of impulses, I think.... No, there was nothing at the back of his words ... and he knows nothing, nothing of my own early years.... We are almost the same age: he is four years older than Henri. When he was a child, I was a child. When he was dreaming, I was dreaming. Does that sort of thing really exist? Or is it my fancy, some unconscious vein of poetry inside me, that is making me imagine all this?... Hush, hush ... it is becoming absurd! It is all very pretty and charming in children: they can have their day-dreams; and a young man and a young girl might perhaps give a thought to them afterwards, in a romantic moment; but, at my age, it all becomes absurd, utterly absurd.... And of course it’s not there: it’s nothing but a chance coincidence. I won’t think about it any more.... And yet ... I have never felt before as I do now. Oh, that feeling as if I had always been straying, blindly, with my eyes shut, in a dark night! Have I never had that feeling before, that feeling as if nothing had really existed, as if I had never lived yet, as if I wanted to live once, just once, in my life?... But no, it can never be like that, it can’t happen like that. No, that sort of thing does not exist. It is just our imagination when we are feeling restless and dissatisfied ... or when we are tired and feel that we have no energy ... or whatever it is that makes us more easily affected by all those strange things which we never suspected.... Why did I not at once laugh and say that, as a child, as a little girl, I myself...? No, no, I simply couldn’t say it; and it is better that I didn’t say it.... Now I am getting frightened at my own silliness. It is all very well for young people, for a boy and a girl, to have these fancies and even talk of them, in a romantic moment, but at my age it is simply ridiculous.... It is so long ago, so long ago; and, with all those years in between, it would be ridiculous to refer to poetic dreams and fancies which can only be spoken of when one is very young.... I sha’n’t speak of them ... and I shall never tell him. Wouldn’t it be ... utterly ridiculous?... Yet it does seem ... it does seem to me that, after those years—when, as Gerrit said, I was a dear little child, playing in the river at Buitenzorg, making up stories about fairies and poetries,[1] decked with flowers, red and white—that, after those years, I lost something of myself, something romantic that was in me then, something living that was in me then, and that, since then, I have never lived, never lived a single moment, as if all sorts of vain and worldly things had blinded me.... Oh, what thoughts are these and why do I have them? I won’t think them; and yet ... and yet, after those wonderful, fairy years, it was all over ... all over.... What do I remember of the years after? Dances, balls, society, vanity and artificiality.... Yes, it was all over by then.... And now surely that childish spark hasn’t revived, surely my soul isn’t trying, isn’t wanting to live again? No, no, it can’t do that: the years are lying all around it, the silent, dead years of vanity, of blundering, of longing, of death in life.... And besides, if my soul did want to live again, it would be too late now, for everything; and it doesn’t want to either.... It’s only because of those strange coincidences, it’s only because he spoke like that ... and because his voice it attractive ... and because I am sitting here alone ... and because the storm is blowing so terribly, as though it wanted to open the windows and come inside.... No, hush, hush ... I won’t give way to those thoughts again, never again ... and, even if that sort of thing does really exist, it is only for those who are young and who see life with the glamour of youth ... and not for me, not for me. ... Oh, I couldn’t have told him about myself when I was a child, for it would have appeared to me as if, by telling him, I was behaving like ... a woman offering herself!... But hush, hush: all this is absurd ... for me ... now; and I will stop thinking of it.... But how lonely I am, sitting here ... and how the wind howls, how the wind howls!... The lamps are flickering; and it’s just as if hands were rattling the shutters, trying hard to open them.... Oh, I wish those lamps wouldn’t flicker so!... And I feel as if the windows were going to burst open and the curtains fly up in the air.... I’m frightened.... Hark to the trees cracking and the branches falling.... Hear me, O God, hear me! I’m frightened, I’m frightened.... Is this then the first night that I see something of myself, as if I were suddenly looking back, on a dark path that lies behind me, a dark path on which all the pageant of vanity has grown dim? For it does seem as if, right at the end of the road, I saw, as in a vision, the sun; trees with great leaves and blossoms red and white; and a little fairy child, in white, with flowers in her hair, standing on a boulder, in a river, beckoning mysteriously to her brothers, who do not understand. O my God, does that sort of thing really, really exist ... or is it only because I never, never heard the wind blow like this before?...”

These thoughts, these doubts, these wonderings flashed through her; and, because she had never heard herself thinking and doubting and wondering so swiftly, she grew still more frightened in her loneliness, while the storm howled more furiously outside. And the silent lamps flickered so violently in her drawing-room—in a sort of passionate draught—that she suddenly rushed staggering to the door. She went up the stairs; and it was as though the storm would break the little villa to pieces with one blow of its angry wing....

She went to Addie’s room; her hand was on the door-handle; she turned it. She saw her boy working at his table and Van der Welcke smoking in the easy-chair. She gave a start, because he was there, and she looked deathly pale, with terrified, quivering eyes.

“Mamma!”

“My boy, I’m frightened; listen to the storm!...”

“Yes, did you ever see such weather?” asked Van der Welcke, through the clouds of his cigarette.

“Are you frightened, Mamma?”

“Yes, my boy, my Addie ... I’m frightened ... I’m frightened....”

“And shall your boy keep you safe, safe from the wind?”

“Yes, my darling, keep me safe!” she said, with a wan little laugh. “For I’m really, really frightened ... I’ve been sitting alone downstairs ... and it blew so, it blew so: the lamps blew and the shutters banged and I’m so frightened now!...”

The boy drew her on his knees and held her very tight:

“Silly Mummy! Are you really frightened?”

She made herself very small in his arms, between his knees, nestled up against him and repeated, as in a dream:

“Yes, I’m so frightened, I’m so frightened!...”

And, without a further glance at her husband sitting there clouded in the blue smoke of his cigarette, she as it were crept into the heart of her child, whispering, all pale and wan, with a wan smile and her eyes full of anxious wonder:

“I’m frightened, Addie! Save me! Protect me!...”

[1] Malay fairies.

Chapter XIII

“I’m mad!” he thought, as, after a hasty meal at a restaurant in the town, he walked along the Hooge Weg to Scheveningen through the shrieking winter night.

The leafless branches lashed tragically to and fro, as though sweeping the scudding clouds; and the street-lamps seemed like ghostly eyes blinking here and there in the fitful darkness....

“I’m mad! Why did I tell her all that, I ... I who can never talk to women?”

He was walking against the wind, angry with himself and angry with the wind when it barred his way with its widespread hindering arms. The wind whistled very high in the air, along the topmost leafless boughs; and the boughs broke off, as though at the touch of angry fingers, and scattered all around him; and sometimes a heavier branch fell, black, right at his feet. He walked on—his legs were stronger than the wind barring his way, tugging at his flapping coat—walked with his hands in his pockets, his collar turned up, his hat pulled over his eyes; and he walked on and on without an object, only with an eager craving for the sea, for sea and air and wind, to blow and wash everything out of his brain, which otherwise would be sick with dreaming.... Was he still such a dreamer, even though all the rest of his life belied his dreams? What did he mean by suddenly going to that woman, apologizing to her that afternoon because he didn’t know how to talk and then suddenly talking, talking like a boy, telling her things—shadowy things of the past—which he had never told to anybody, because they were not things to be told, because, once told, they ceased to exist?... What interest did she take in his childish games and his childish dreams?... He had probably bored her: perhaps she had laughed at him—the cynical little laugh of the society-woman—and at his really too-ridiculous simplicity, the simplicity of a man who had thought and worked and lived and who had yet always remained a child ... in certain little corners of his soul.... He was so much ashamed at the recollection of all that he had dared to say to her, so much ashamed of the irresistible impulse which had driven him to speak to her, at such length, of his childhood and his childish imaginings, that he was now—as though to regain mastery of himself after the strange spell of her presence—that he was now fighting with the wind, to make himself feel strong again and a man.... The wind clung howling to his body, dragged itself by his legs, struck him blinding blows in the face, but he walked on: his strong legs walked on, with a sharp, regular step, ever mightier than the wind, which he trod under foot and kicked out of his path....

“I don’t know what it was,” he thought, “but, once I was alone with her, I had ... I had to say it.... How can I be of any use in the world, when I am such a dreamer?... Women! Have women ever woven into my life anything beyond the most commonplace threads? Have I ever confided in a woman before, or felt that irresistible impulse to open my heart, as I did this afternoon, in that weak moment of enchantment? Why to her, why to her? Why not to others, before her, and why first to her?... Must my life always be this clumsy groping with dreams on one side and facts on the other? But why, why should I have spoken like that: what was the overpowering impulse that made me tell her those strange things, that made it impossible for me to do anything else? Are our actions then so independent of ourselves that we just behave according to the laws of the most secret forces in and above us?... Do I know what it was in me that made me speak like that, that compelled me to speak like that? It was like an irresistible temptation, it was like a path that sloped down to delectable valleys and it was as if angels or demons—I don’t know which—pushed and pushed me and whispered, ‘Tell it all ... and go down the path.... You’ll see how beautiful it is, you’ll see how beautiful it becomes!’ She ... just listened, without speaking, without moving. What did she think? Nothing, most likely. She heard nothing, she felt nothing. If she’s thinking of me now, she thinks of me as a madman, or at least a crank.... What is she? She has been a woman of the world, of just that world which I hate.... What has her life been? She married a man much older than herself, out of vanity. Then a moment of passion, between her and Hans.... What else has there been, what else is there in her? Nothing! How utterly small they all are, these people who don’t think, who don’t live: who exist like dolls, with dolls’ brains and dolls’ souls, in a dolls’ world! What am I doing among them? Oh, not that I’m big; not that I am worth more than they, but, if I am to do anything—for the world—I must live among real people, different people from them ... or I must live alone, wrapped in myself!... That has always been the everlasting seesaw: doing, dreaming, doing, dreaming.... But there has never been that temptation, that beckoning towards delectable valleys of oblivion and that luxury of allowing myself to be drawn along as though by soul-magnetism, by the strange sympathy of a woman’s soul!... Is it then so, in reality! Is it merely a mirage of love? Love has never come into my life: have I ever known what it was? Is there one woman then, only one? Can we find, even late, like this?... Oh, I wish that this wind would blow all this uncertainty, all these vapourings out of my head and my heart ... and leave me strong and simple ... to act alone, to act alone!... And now I will not think about it any more....”

And he quickened his pace and fought more vigorously against the wind, with a wrestler’s vigour, and, when at last he saw the sea, foaming pale under the black pall of cloud and roaring with a thousand voices, he thought:

“It all came from one moment of foolishness. It had no real existence. I spoke as I should not have spoken, but what I said was nothing and is being blown out of my heart and out of my head at this very moment....”

But, the next day, waking from a calm sleep, he asked himself:

“Is it not just the unutterable things in us that matter more than anything else to us ... and to those who made us divine them?...”

Chapter XIV

A day or two later, Marianne called:

“Auntie,” she said, “I haven’t seen you for days. What’s the matter? Are you vexed with me?”

“Why, no, Marianne.”

“Yes, there’s something. You’re cross with me. Tell me that you’re not cross with me. I haven’t dined with you for an age. You are vexed with me because I invited myself. Tell me that I’m mistaken, that you’re not vexed with me. And do ask me to dinner again, one day.... It’s such a busy time just now: parties, dinners, the Court ball the other night. It was very boring.... We never see you. You never call on us. Nor Uncle either. It’s all through that Brauws man.”

Constance started, with that strange nervous catch in her throat:

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“That old friend of Uncle’s, who speaks on Peace. I’ve heard him: it was splendid, splendid. His speech was topping, I’m mad on Peace. But he takes possession of Uncle; the boys have seen them together twice, in a motor-car. It’s all through Brauws that I never see anything of either of you.... I suppose he’s been to dinner, too?”

“Once.”

“I’m jealous, Auntie. Why should he come when you don’t ask me? Doesn’t Mr. Van Vreeswijck ever come now either? If you’re angry with me, I’ll be an angel in the future, I’ll never invite myself again. But do invite me again, yourself!”

“But, you silly child, I’m not angry.”

“Yes, you are; you’re cross with me. You’re not the same. You’re different towards me. I feel it. I see it.”

“But, Marianne....”

“Aren’t you? Am I wrong?.... Tell me that you’re not cross with me.”

She knelt down by Constance, caressingly.

“Marianne, what a baby you are!... I am not cross: there!”

“Say it once more, like a darling.”

“I—am—not—cross. There: are you satisfied?”

“Yes, I believe you now. And when am I coming to dinner?”

“You little tyrant!”

“I daren’t ask myself again.”

“What do you like so much in our dinners?”

“They’re just what I do like. The other night, when I was so bored at the Court ball, I thought, ‘So long as Auntie asks me again soon, I don’t mind anything!’”

“Rubbish! I don’t believe a word of it!”

“It’s quite true.”

“Well, will you come one evening ... with Brauws and Van Vreeswijck? Then I’ll ask Uncle Gerrit and Aunt Adeline too.”

“Rather! That will be lovely. When?”

“I’ll write and let you know; don’t be so impatient.”

“Now you are a darling!”

She hugged her aunt:

“You’re looking so nice to-day, Auntie. So pretty. You are really. I say, how old are you?”

“You silly child, what does it matter?”

“I want to know. Wait, I can work it out. Mamma said there was eight years between you. Mamma is fifty. So you must be forty-two.”

“Very nearly forty-three. That’s old, isn’t it?”

“Old? I don’t know. For some women. Not for you. You’re young. And how young Uncle looks, doesn’t he? Why, Addie is more sedate than Uncle!... You don’t look forty-two, you look ten years less than that. Auntie, isn’t it strange how the years go by? I ... I feel old. One year comes after another; and it all makes me miserable.... Auntie, tell me, what makes me so fond of you?... Sometimes ... sometimes I feel as if I could cry when I am here....”

“Do I make you so sad?”

“No, not that. But, when I’m with you, I don’t know why, I’m always thinking ... even when I’m chattering ... I feel happy in your house, Auntie. Look, here are the tears!... But you ... you have tears in your eyes also. Yes, you have, you can’t deny it. Tell me, Auntie, what is it?”

“Why, Marianne, it’s nothing ... but you talk such nonsense sometimes ... and that upsets me; and, when I see other people crying, it makes the tears come into my eyes too.”

“Uncle isn’t always nice to you, is he, Auntie?”

“My dear Marianne!...”

“No, I know he isn’t. Do let me talk about it. It’s so horrid, when you’re very fond of some one, always to be silent about the things you’re thinking of. Let me talk about it. I know that Uncle is not always nice. I told him the other day....”

“What?”

“You’ll be angry when you hear. I told him the other day that he must be nicer to you. Are you angry?”

“No, dear, but....”

“No, you mustn’t be angry: I meant to say the right thing. I can’t bear to think of your not being happy together. Do try and be happy together.”

“But, Marianne dear, it’s years now....”

“Yes, but it must be altered. Auntie, it must be altered. It would make me so awfully happy.”

“Oh, Marianne, Marianne, how excitable you are!...”

“Because I feel for people when I’m fond of them. There are people who never feel and others who never speak out. I feel ... and I say what I think. I’m like that. Mamma’s different: she never speaks out. I must speak out; I should choke if I didn’t. I should like to say everything, always. When I’m miserable, I want to say so; when I feel happy, I want to say so. But it’s not always possible, Auntie.... Auntie, do try and be happy with Uncle. He is so nice, he is so kind; and you were very fond of him once. It’s a very long time ago, I know; but you must begin and grow fond of each other again. Tell me, can’t you love him any more?”

“Dear....”

“Oh, I see it all: you can’t! No, you can’t love him any more. And Uncle is so nice, so kind ... even though he is so quick-tempered and excitable. He’s so young still: he’s just like a hot-headed undergraduate sometimes, Henri said. In that scene with Papa, he was just like a game-cock.... You know, in the family, the uncles are afraid of Uncle Henri, because he always wants to be fighting duels. But that’s his quick temper; in reality, he’s nice, he’s kind. I know it, Auntie, because, when Uncle sees me home, we talk about all sorts of things, tell each other everything. You don’t mind, Auntie, do you? You’re not jealous?”

“No, dear.”

“No, you’re not jealous. And Uncle Henri is my uncle too, isn’t he, and there’s no harm in talking to him? He talks so nicely: time seems to fly when Uncle’s talking.... Tell me, Auntie, Brauws: is Brauws really a gentleman? He has been a workman.”

“Yes, but that was because he wanted to.”

“I don’t understand those queer men, do you? No, you don’t either, you can’t understand such a queer man any more than I can. Just imagine ... Uncle Henri as a labouring man! Can you imagine it? No, no, not possibly! He speaks well, Brauws; and I raved about Peace for a whole evening....”

“And since?”

“No. I don’t rave over things long. Raving isn’t the same as feeling. When I really feel....”

“Well?”

“Then—I think—it is for always. For always.”

“But, Marianne, darling, you mustn’t be so sentimental!...”

“Well, what about you? You’re crying again....”

“No, Marianne.”

“Yes, you’re crying. Let’s cry together, Auntie. I feel as if I want to cry with you; I’m in that sort of mood, I don’t know why. There, see, I am crying!...”

She knelt down by Constance; and her tears really came.

“Dear, you mustn’t excite yourself like that. Some one is coming; I hear Uncle....”

The girl recovered herself quickly as Van der Welcke entered the room. He stood for a moment in the doorway, smiling his gay, boyish smile, his blue eyes glowing with happiness. She looked at him for a second.

“Well, Marianne ... I haven’t seen you for ever so long....”

“Yes, you’re always in that old car with Brauws.... And I’ve been an absolute butterfly. Only think, at the Court ball, the other night, just as the Queen entered the ball-room....”

She sat down and told her little budget of news in a voice that seemed to come from far away. The dusk crept in and shadowed the room, obliterating their outlines and the expression of their faces.

Chapter XV

“Isn’t she coming?” asked Adolphine, with a sidelong glance at the door.

It was Sunday evening, at Mamma van Lowe’s, and it was after half-past nine. It had been like that every Sunday evening since Constance returned from Nice: the sidelong, almost anxious look towards the door; the almost anxious question:

“Is she coming?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised if she did to-night,” said Floortje. “If so, she’s coming late, so as not to stay long.”

Mother and daughter were sitting at the bridge-table with Uncle Ruyvenaer and Jaap; and the cards fell slackly one upon the other, uninterestingly, with a dull flop; and Floortje gathered in the tricks mechanically, silently and greedily.

“What a frump Cateau looks to-night!” said Adolphine, with a furtive glance at the second card-table.

“Like a washerwoman in satin,” said Floortje.

“I say,” said Uncle Ruyvenaer, burning to say something spiteful: he was losing, couldn’t get a hand, kept throwing his low cards, furiously, one after the other, on Floortje’s fat trumps. “I say, it’s high time Bertha interfered!”

“Why, what are you talking about?”

“What am I talking about? What everybody’s talking about: that Marianne is running after Van der Welcke in the most barefaced fashion.”

“Aunt Bertha had better be very careful, with such a rotten cad as Uncle van der Welcke,” Floortje opined.

“I passed them the other evening on the Koninginnegracht,” said Jaap.

“And what were they doing?”

“How were they walking?”

“They had hold of each other.”

“How?”

“Well, he had his arm around her waist.”

“Did you see it?”

“Did I see it? And he kept on spooning her all the time.”

“And Bertha,” said Adolphine, “who just acts as if she saw nothing.... Good heavens, what a frump Cateau looks to-night!... She doesn’t seem to be coming, does she?”

“No, she doesn’t seem to be coming now.”

“How does Mamma take it, her staying away?”

“Mamma seems to get on without her,” answered Uncle Ruyvenaer.

“Mamma can’t really be fond of her.”

“Or else Granny would insist on her coming,” said Floortje.

“It’s much quieter, now that she’s staying away.”

“Well, I don’t mind a bit of a kick-up,” said Jaap.

“Have you had to-day’s Dwarskijker, Jaap?”

“Yes, but they’ve stopped putting in anything about us.”

“It’s really a piece of cheek on her part, not to come any more on Sundays....”

“And to go rushing off to Nice....”

“And not even arrange to be back on New Year’s Eve.”

“Yes; and then we hear about ‘longing for the family.’”

“And even on New Year’s Eve....”

“She takes good care to keep away.”

“Yes,” said Adolphine sentimentally, “on New Year’s Eve we ought all to be here.”

“Just so,” said Uncle Ruyvenaer. “I agree.”

“Then, if you’ve had a quarrel....”

“You make it up again....”

“And start quarrelling again, with renewed courage, on the first of January,” grinned Jaap.

“But—I’ve always said so—what Constance has not got is ... a heart,” Adolphine continued, pathetically.

“Do you know what I think?” said Floortje, sinking her voice.

“What?”

“That she encourages Marianne.”

“What for?”