The oppressive, sultry, rainless summer days followed one after the other; and the night also waited in oppressive expectation of oppressive things, which were to happen and never happened, as though what we expected to happen immediately withdrew and withdrew farther and only hung over houses and people with heavy stormy skies: skies of blazing morning blue, until great grey-white clouds blew up from a mysterious cloudland and drifted past on high; only on the more distant horizons was there any lightning; and that came soundlessly, later in the day; the threat of a thunderstorm drove past; the foliage became scorched in the dust of advancing summer and faded with the approach of decay; and there was, almost, a sort of longing for autumn and for purple death in autumnal storms: a nature, tired with heavy, trailing summer life, that had never finally become anything and was always becoming something, never flashing forth in a bright achievement of summer but dragging her incompleteness from heavy day to heavy day, under the heavy immensity of skies, towards the later bursting delights of autumn: heavy wind, heavy rain, followed by the heavy death-struggle and unwillingness to die of that which had never been the glory of the sun and yet left no golden memory behind....
Often in those oppressive nights Marietje van Saetzema could not get to sleep, or else woke up with a sudden start. She had been dreaming that she was falling down an abyss, or gliding down a staircase or bumping her head against the ceiling, like a giant bluebottle. Then she would get up, draw the curtains and look out at the heavy night of trees, grey with darkness melting into darkness: the road beyond the house was grey, like an ashen path; the oak and beeches showed grey, their leafy tops unruffled by the wind; in the front garden the dust-covered standard roses stood erect as pikes and the roses drooped from them, grey and with the tired, pining attitude of heavy flowers hanging from limp stalks. All was grey and silent: only, in the very far distance, a dog barked. And the bedroom, still dark with the night—the nightlight had gone out—began to stifle Marietje so much that she softly opened the door and went through the attic, though Addie had forbidden her to wander about like this at night. She went carefully in noiseless slippers, pale in her night-dress, staring wide-eyed into the grey indoor twilight. She passed the doors of the maids' bedrooms and down the first flight of stairs, stepping very lightly, so that the stairs did not creak. Once on the staircase she breathed more freely, with relief at feeling something more spacious than the air of her room, the relief of unfettered movement, although the grey silence wove such strange great cobwebs all around her, through which she walked down the endless passages. She now went past Uncle's door, Aunt's door, Mamma's door, the girls' doors, past Addie's and Mathilde's empty rooms ... and she felt that she was very much in love with Addie, silently and without desire, and was always thinking of him, even though she did not always do as he told her, because she simply could not remain in her room and longed even for the out-of-door air, to feel it blowing through the filmy tissues that covered her young body. And, however much without desire, because Addie remained to her the utterly unattainable, yet there blossomed up in her a nervous passion like some strange flower or orchid or lily, seen in a waking dream, a blameless girl's dream of love, of soft, wistful lying in each other's arms and feeling the pressure of breast against breast or mouth against mouth and ecstatic thrills through all one's body.... Then Marietje would long for Addie, so that he might lay his hand upon her head: no more, that was enough for her, because she was also very fond of him, of his voice and his glance and his speech, of his care, of his sympathy, of everything abstract that came from him to her; she knew that, on his side, it was no more than gentle interest, but it was enough for her: she lived upon little like a bloodless lily, her body and soul needing no excess. She well knew at the moment that she was doing what she should not, wandering like that through the house, half awake, half asleep, because it was so fresh and cool to walk about like that half-naked. The night grew grey with dusk and there were deeper shadows in the corners, but she was not afraid, after she had once talked to Addie about the house and he had explained to her that,ifthere was anything of the past hovering about it, it could not be malign or angry, but rather well-disposed and on the alert, in case it could be of use.... He spoke to nobody but her like this; she knew that and it gave her a deep love for him, especially because he had said it so very simply and without any sort of exaggeration, as though it were the very simplest thing that he could have wished to say.... Nor did he speak like that often; once or twice at most he had spoken so; but it had reassured her greatly, ever since she had been frightened into fainting on the little staircase, all because of a sudden shadow which she thought that she saw and yet did not know if she really saw....
She was now going down by that same little back staircase, almost longing to see a shadow and always thinking of Addie; but she saw nothing. White and as though walking in her sleep, she felt her way down the narrow little stairs. They creaked slightly. She next opened a door, leading into the long hall, which was like that of an old castle, so fine with its old wainscoting. The long Deventer carpet was paled by many years' traffic of feet; the front door seemed to vanish in the grey vista; on the oak cabinet the Delft jars gleamed dimly.... She walked in a waking dream on her noiseless slippers and now opened the door of the morning-room, all dark, with the blinds down—she was very white now in the darkness and could see her own whiteness—and she looked through the drawing-room into the conservatory, where Grannie was always accustomed to sit. The conservatory-windows showed faintly like transparent greynesses; and behind them, in the dawning light of very early morning, something of the dusk of the garden melted away: in the very early light it was all ash, the conservatory full of fading ash and the garden full of ash. Not an outline was visible as yet; and she gazed and gazed ... and thought it so strange—and yet perhaps not so very strange—that such outlines as did stand out in the conservatory against the grey windows were motionless as the outlines of two dark shadows sitting each at a window, as it were an old man and an old woman, looking out at the birth of morning, which very far in the distance gave just a reflexion of paler twilight....
Marietje now closed her eyes for an instant, then raised her lids again and stared at the conservatory; and it was always that: the outline of the dark, brooding shadows, so very similar to unconsciousness, as if she were looking through atmosphere within atmosphere, invisible at other hours than those of the greyness of the ending night and the beginning of the morning melancholy.... The two irrealities remained grey against grey; and suddenly Marietje felt very cold and shivered, half naked as she was; and, in her shivering, it seemed to her that, very quickly, the shadows themselves shivered, as with a start of surprise, and disappeared, because she had dared to stare at them. Nothing was outlined any more against the conservatory-windows; only the morning between the trees grew paler: there was even a streak of white....
Marietje was cold. She left the room, forgot to shut the door after her and, going down the passage, made for the little back staircase and here also forgot to shut the door. Up, up she crept, shivering, with the noiseless tread of the soft slippers; across the attic now; and she stole into bed, quite cooled, and, after just thinking about what she had seen dimly outlined—perhaps—against the grey conservatory-windows, she fell asleep, peacefully, and dozed until late in the morning, peacefully and like a cold virgin now, with the bedclothes drawn up to her chin.
Addie was out in the afternoon when Mathilde opened Constance' telegram:
"Please come see Emilie."
"There's always something," Mathilde grumbled to herself. "Addie is physician-in-ordinary to his relations. When it's not Klaasje, it's Adèletje, or Mary, or Emilie. There's always something.... What can be the matter with her now? He's only just been home. Oh, of course, she's always ill in the summer! I expect it's the same as last year...."
She had an angry impulse to tear up the telegram and say nothing to Addie, to tell him later that it must have gone astray. She did not destroy it, however, but laid it on the table where he would see it and then went out to the tennis-club. As a rule, she took the steam-tram[1]and alighted at the Witte Brug. This time, she ran against Erzeele, with his racket in his hand, in the Bezuidenhout.
"I was waiting for you," he said.
"How nice of you!... Let's take the steam-tram."
"Why not walk?"
They stepped out, along the Hertenkamp.
"Is anything the matter?" he asked.
"Why?"
"You look so preoccupied."
"Oh, it's nothing!"
"You're out of humour."
"Need I say they want Addie again at home?"
"Who's ill this time?"
"Emilie."
"Mrs. van Raven?"
"Yes, she calls herself Mrs. van Naghel now."
"I know. She's the one who ran away with her brother, years ago."
"There was rather a scandal about that, wasn't there?"
"People didn't exactly know...."
"I don't like her. She's ill every summer. Then she becomes funny. And then she has to see my husband of course. Hence the telegram from Mamma."
"The other day ... Mrs. van der Welcke saw...."
"Saw what?"
"That I was holding your hand."
"What about it? You're a friend. We've known each other for years, since we were quite young.... Do you know, Mamma warned me against you...."
"Against me?"
"She was afraid that...."
"What?"
"You would fall in love with me."
"I am in love with you."
"Now, Johan, you're not to say that."
"You know I always have been."
"You were in love with Gerdy."
"For a minute only.... With you I have always been in love. Long ago. At our Cinderella dances.... In love? I've always loved you."
"You must not talk like that. I ... I love my husband."
"Yes, I know you do. But he doesn't make you happy."
She was silent. She did not wish to go on and say that she felt Addie so far above her, unattained and incomprehensible, that everything was coming to escape her, that her love was escaping her, that she felt herself sinking slowly, slowly, in a vague abyss, that it was only the children who made her find Addie again, every day, for a moment. She was silent. But there were tears in her eyes. Her healthy temperament, now slightly unnerved, had a need of much happiness for itself, even as a healthy plant needs much air and much water and does not know what it means to pine. The melancholy that sometimes overcame her was not native to her.
"Let's take the tram," she said. "I feel tired."
"It's better for you to walk," he said.
His voice was authoritative; and she allowed herself to be coerced: it was a hot afternoon and she dragged herself along mechanically beside him, both carrying their own rackets.
"Mamma's quite right, Johan," she said, abruptly. "It won't do for us to see each other so often, for me to talk to you so ... intimately."
"And why not, if you feel unhappy, if you want to unburden yourself to me?"
"No, no, it doesn't do.... Come, let's take the tram: we shall be too late for our tennis."
He looked out mechanically for the tram. They were at the corner of the Waalsdorp road; and he said:
"Look here, walk a little way with me. I don't feel like tennis. Do you?"
She let herself be dragged along and turned down the lonely, green road. She seemed to surrender feebly to his wishes; and she became aware that she was in a profound state of melancholy, a hesitation of not knowing things, of wavering, of feeling unhappy.
"Everything could have been so different," she said, almost crying.
"What do you mean? When?"
"If Addie...."
"If he what?"
"I don't know," she said. "I'm tired of thinking about it. It is not his fault."
"No, it's your fault."
"My fault?"
"Yes! Nothing would keep you from marrying him.... And I loved you."
"You? But you never asked me!"
"But you knew that I loved you. Yes, everything could have been different, oh, everything could have been so very different!"
She suddenly began to cry.
"Tilly!"
"Oh," she said, sobbing, "don't let us talk like this! Let's go to the tennis-club."
"No, no, I don't want to."
She turned.
"Tilly...."
"No, I won't go any farther. I'm going to the club. It'll distract me ... to play tennis."
She turned back; he followed her.
"Tilly, you're so unstrung. If you were a little calmer, I should tell you...."
"What?"
"That I can't bear to see you unhappy. Oh, I love you, I love you! Let us go away ... together."
"Go away? Where?"
"With each other. I love you, I love you, I have always loved you."
She stopped with a start:
"You're mad!"
"Why?"
"To suggest such a thing," she said, with a scornful laugh. "You're mad. You think that I...."
"Want to be unhappy all your life?"
"That I should consent to run away with you. I love my husband ... and my children ... and you imagine...."
"Yes," he said, "it was mad of me to suggest it. You love your husband, not me. You never allow me anything, not anything."
"Nothing ... at all?" she asked, scornfully.
"Nothing ... that counts," he retorted, hoarsely, roughly.
She shrugged her shoulders:
"You men always want ... that. Our happiness does not always consist ... of that."
"No, but ... if you loved me ... entirely...."
"Johan!" she cried.
They crossed the bridge and entered the Woods.
"If you ever dare speak to me like that again...."
"Very well, I won't."
"But you're always doing it.... We'd better not see each other at all."
"Not see each other?"
"No."
"I won't have that," he said. "I won't have that either."
"And if I insist?"
"Even so."
"You don't make me any happier by talking like that; you make me even unhappier than I am."
"Oh, Tilly, I can't bear to see you unhappy!... What are we to do, what are we to do?"
"I don't know," she said, in a dead voice.
"You don't care for me."
"Not in that way. Why shouldn't we be friends?"
"That's nonsense. Friendship between a man and a woman? That's one of those notions which you picked up, I dare say, at Driebergen, among neurotic people. Between a man and a woman there's only ... yearning. I want you and I am in hell because I haven't got you."
"Yes, it's always ... that," she said; and she thought of Addie.
"Oh, if you would only go with me ... out of this."
"Would that make me happy?"
"I should live for you entirely. I have a little money...."
"That would make me happy, would it? To leave my husband, to leave my children?"
"Your husband, your children? But I should be there!"
"Yes, but...."
"You don't care for me."
"Not like that."
"All the same, you would become happy.... You never found happiness in your husband—you say so yourself—because you don't understand him. You would understand me."
She began to cry again:
"Oh," she said, "don't go on talking like that!"
"Do you care for me, Tilly, do you care for me?"
"Yes, Johan, I do care for you."
"Well?"
She stood still:
"Listen," she said, looking him straight in the eyes. "I care for you." Her voice sounded loving in spite of herself. "I care for you ... very much indeed. At this moment, perhaps even more than for Addie ... I'm not quite sure. A time may come ...maycome, when I shall care for you evenmore... certainly more than for Addie."
"Oh," he cried, "but then...."
"Don't speak," she said. "Listen to me. What you're asking of me ... I refuse."
"Why?"
"Because I am an honest woman.... Because I am naturally an honest woman.... Because I always mean to be an honest woman.... I could never do what you ask me to.... Because, even if I had to say good-bye to my husband, I should never, never be willing to say good-bye to my children."
"You love your children better?"
"Better? I love them in a way which a man like you simply cannot understand."
"Tilly! Tilly!"
"Be quiet!... There are people coming.... Be quiet!"
"Oh, Tilly, what then?"
"I don't know," she said, dully. "Oh, come along to the club; we'll play some tennis!"
She quickened her pace; he followed her, lurching like a drunken man.
[1]Running from the Hague to Scheveningen through the Dunes, as opposed to the electric tram running through the Scheveningen Woods.
[1]Running from the Hague to Scheveningen through the Dunes, as opposed to the electric tram running through the Scheveningen Woods.
When Addie found the telegram he at once took the train to Driebergen. It was evening when he arrived.
"What's the matter with Emilie?" he asked his mother.
"She's crying all day long," said Constance. "It's just like last year."
He went straight upstairs to Emilie's room and found her sobbing, sobbing in Adeline's arms.
"I'm at my wits' ends what to do with her," said Adeline.
"Leave me alone with her for a moment, Aunt," whispered Addie. "Here," feeling in his pocket, "here's a letter from Guy, posted in New York. You'll see that he has found work, thanks to Mr. Brauws' introduction."
Adeline left the room; Emilie went on sobbing. She flung herself on the floor, with her face against a chair and her hair dishevelled, her thin hands grasping the chair.
"Addie!" she cried. "Addie! Is that you?"
"Yes, Emilie."
"Oh, it's suffocating me, it's suffocating me!... Let me tell you about it!..."
He sat down and she came to him with the movement of an animal creeping towards him. She stammered incoherent words, but he understood them: he knew the words of old; he knew what she was saying: it had been the same thing last year and the year before. At the beginning of each summer there was some fit of madness which mastered her, a fit in which she lived all over again through things that had happened in the years long ago. Oh, it was a terrible secret which she always carried about with her, which no one knew, which no one had ever known! In the dark room, with the closed sun-blinds, the secret stifled her and had to be told, because it stifled her in her heart and throat.
"I must tell it you, Addie.... It was during those last days, those terrible days in Paris. Eduard, my husband, was in Paris and ... and he had been threatening me.... You remember, youmustremember: I told you as much as that, didn't I?... He had come to look for me in Paris. He hated me ... and he hated, oh, how he hated Henri!... Henri, my poor brother, my brother!... Addie, Addie, let me tell you everything!... Whatever people may have thought, whatever people may have said, none of it's true, it's all false! He was my brother, my own brother; and I loved him as a brother, though perhaps too much; and he loved me as a sister, though perhaps too much.... Oh, people are so wicked, so utterly wicked! They thought, they said ... As for me, I would never speak. Oh, Addie, your parents and you, your kindest and dearest of parents, never asked me a question, but took me to live with them in their house, which has become my sanctuary, where I can lead my cloistered life! Oh, Addie, I shall be grateful for ever and ever to your dear parents ... and to you! They never asked me anything, they have been like father and mother to me; I have been able to live under their roof, though my life has been nothing but remorse and pain.... Oh, Addie, let me tell you everything!... Henri was a clown in a circus—you know about that—and I, I made money by painting. We lived ... we lived together; we were both of us happy; then Eduard came.... Oh, he was like an evil spirit! Oh, when I dream of him now, I dream of a devil! Addie, Eduard came!... And it was he ... it was he...."
"I know, Emilie, I know."
The words burst from her in a scream:
"It was he ... he ... he ... who murdered Henri!"
"Hush, Emilie."
"Oh, I can't keep silent, I can't keep silent for ever; it chokes me, it chokes me, here!"
She uttered loud, hysterical cries, twisting herself against the chair; her eyes stared distractedly out of her face; her hair hung loose about her cheeks; her features were pale and distorted.
"It was after an evening when he had been playing in the circus ... and Eduard ... Eduard...."
"I know, I know.... Hush, Emilie!"
"He waited for him ... in the passage in front of the house where we lived ... and ... and he called him names ... they quarrelled.... Then ... then hestabbedhim ... with a knife!"
"Hush, Emilie, hush!"
But she screamed it out: her screeches rang through the room. She wriggled like a madwoman against his knees; he stroked her dishevelled hair, to quiet her.
"Oh, your parents, your dear parents, Addie: they never asked me anything!... They came and fetched me: oh, Addie, that journey home, with his coffin between us, oh, those formalities at the frontiers!... Oh, Addie, your dear parents: they saved me: I was mad, I was mad, I was mad at that time! Now it's all coming back to me; I can't keep it to myself any longer!... You see, he waited for him, they began quarrelling about me and ... suddenly they were like two wild animals! Henri rushed at him ... and then Eduard stabbed him with his knife! The villain, the villain! He has been missing since then; I have never seen him again; only at night, at night I see himwith his knife! Oh, Addie, Addie, help me!"
He gripped her by the arms with all his might and sought to control her; but she resisted. She was like a madwoman; in the sultry summer heat she was overmastered by the day-long vision that loomed up regularly with the first balmy warmth of spring. She was like a madwoman; she saw everything before her eyes; she lived the past over again.
"Nobody has ever known, Addie, except you, except you!"
"Hush, Emilie, hush!"
He tried to look into her eyes, but they avoided his. She twisted and turned as though she were in the grasp of a ravisher; she dragged herself along the floor, while his hand held her arms. Suddenly his eyes met hers and he held and pierced them deeply with his grey-blue glance. She fell back helplessly against a chair; her features, now relaxed, hung slackly, like an old woman's; her lips drooped. She lay huddled and moaning, with a monotonous moan of pain. Then she began to shake her head, up and down, up and down, grating the back of her head against the chair.
"Get up, Emilie."
She obeyed, let him help her up, hung like a rag in his hands. She fell back on her bed, with her eyes closed; and he rang the bell. It was Constance who entered.
"We will undress her now, Mamma; she's much quieter. I'll ring for Aunt Adeline to help you."
He rang again and asked Truitje to go for Mrs. van Lowe. But, as soon as Emilie felt the touch of Constance' fingers, she began to moan anew and opened her eyes:
"Oh, Auntie, Auntie, you're a dear, you're a dear! You never, never asked me!"
"Perhaps it will be better to leave her now, Mamma," whispered Addie.
Constance left the room, promising to remain within call with Adeline.
Emilie lay on the bed, her eyes staring straight before her, as though she still beheld all the horror of the past; and she went on moaning in fear and pain:
"Addie, Addie, it was Eduard ... it was Eduard who murdered Henri.... Oh, nobody knows, nobody knows!... Uncle and Aunt never asked me.... People at the Hague say that it was I who made Eduard unhappy, that that is why he has gone away, disappeared.... Perhaps I did, perhaps I did make him unhappy.... I don't know, I don't know.... You see, I didn't know what I was doing when I married Eduard. I thought ... I thought it would be all right, I thought I cared for him ... Ssh, Addie, don't tell anybody, but I cared for Henri, for my brother, only. I swear, it was all quite beautiful what he and I felt for each other; there was never anything between us, never anything to be ashamed of!... But my life, Addie, my poor life, oh, my poor little life was quite wrecked, because I did not know, because I felt so strangely, because I fought against the common things of life, against my marriage, against my husband, and because all that was stronger than what I tried to do, what I myself did not really know, nor Henri, nor Henri either I...."
The heart-broken lamentation over her life moaned away in plaintive words and it was as though, after uttering herself, she sank into a dull vacancy, with her eyes wide open, staring through the room, as if she still saw all the things of the past but as if they were now vanishing after she had uttered herself. And it was the same every year: each time spring came round, the same strange, mysterious force compelled her to tell it, to tell it right out, to tell all the sad secret of her piteous wreck and failure of a woman's life, she a very small soul, crushed under too great a tragedy, under too great an affliction, something too strange, which had crushed her and yet not crushed her to death. She lived on, she had lived on for years, living her life devoid of all interest and yet still young; bonds seemed still to bind her body and soul to life; and there was nothing left for her except the pity of those who surrounded her and a dull resignation, which only once, in each year, as though roused by the warm torrents of spring or summer, burst forth into a thunder of storm.... It gathered, it gathered, she felt it threatening days beforehand, as though it were bursting within her brain; during those sleepless nights she lay with her head clasped in her hands; and it gathered, it gathered: a fit of nerves, a violent attack of nerves; and she called for Addie, the only one who knew; and she told him, she told it him again; and, after she had told it and had fallen asleep under his eyes, she woke a little calmer. Then, after days, after long, slow days, her quivering nerves became restful; she surrendered herself; and that dull resignation wove itself round her again, the summer beat hot and sultry upon her, the slow course of the monotonous days dragged her on and on. Nobody talked of it all; and then, one evening, in the garden, she found herself recovered, feeling strange and resigned, limp her hands, limp her arms, with poor Aunt Adeline beside her, quite cheered and receiving a short letter from Guy, while the girls and Aunt Constance put Grannie to bed and then Klaasje, that great big girl, who still always insisted on being taken to bed ... and while Uncle Ernst wandered round the pond, talking to himself ... and while Paul had not shown himself for three days, locking himself in his room, in the villa over there, lower down....
That was how she recovered, as if waking from a hideous dream; that was how she came to herself, in the evening, sitting in the garden with Aunt Adeline, reading and rereading Guy's letter, beside her. And a little further away sat Mr. Brauws and Uncle Henri: Uncle Henri who could not get used to Guy's absence ... and who fretted over it sometimes, with the tears standing wet in his eyes.
Addie returned to the Hague that evening; and seldom had he felt so heavy and listless, as if he knew nothing for himself. No, he knew nothing, nothing more for his poor self, as if he, as he grew older, daily lost more and more of the knowledge that is sacredly imparted for a man's own soul, like a far-lighting lamp casts its rays over the paths of his own destiny that lie dimly in the future.... Though he knew for others so often and so surely, for himself he knew nothing nowadays, nothing. Once he had known himself to be a dual personality; to-day he no longer knew which of the two he was. He felt like a prematurely old and decrepit young man, prematurely old and decrepit because life had become serious for him too early and opened out to him too early, so that he had fathomed it through and through: prematurely old and decrepit because his own life later had not trembled in the pure balance of his own twin forces of soul. He had felt fettered to the one; and it drew him down, while the other had not the power to lift him up to the height of pure self-realization....
He walked home from the station, late in the evening. He dragged himself along, his step was heavy and slow; over the dark masses of the Wood hung a sultry, pearl-grey summer night; the houses in the Bezuidenhout faded away white in the evening silence. Light rain-clouds dreamed in the sky: it would doubtless rain to-morrow; and far behind them lurked the threatening summer storm. For the present the evening sombreness drifted on as though in hushed expectation. Everything was still: the trees, the houses, the clouds. There was hardly anyone about; a last tram came rumbling out of the distance, from Scheveningen; and its bell seemed to ring through the space of the evening, very far behind him.
He walked on, dragged himself along past the houses. He was tired out, as he was every time that he practised hypnotism; in addition to this, it always broke his heart to leave Driebergen. How united he was with everybody and everything there! The house was his father's and his; the family was his mother's and his. As the child of his two parents, he felt at home there, in that great sombre house. But he no longer lived there, no longer worked there. In the crudely-bright, small, motley-painted house towards which he was wending, his wife awaited him; and he would find his children.
Healthy children, a healthy wife: he had all that. What he had longed for, in his anxiety at what he saw in his mother's family, he now possessed: a healthy wife and healthy children. How they both of them loved the children; how united they were, where the children were concerned! All their difference arose from a spiritual misunderstanding, because at first they had not known.... Know? Did he know now? Did he know that he ought never to have taken a wife like Mathilde? Did he not know that it was his fault?
There was nothing else for him to do than to continue the sacrifice, all his life long; but the sacrifice was very heavy: living and working in contradiction to his impulses, in a sphere that was not his. It was this that made him ill and prematurely old. He saw no future before him. The sacrifice was killing something deep down in himself.
He felt a sudden rebellion: it was not a man's business to sacrifice himself like that. What was done was done. Mathilde must accommodate herself somehow. He would tell her that it wouldn't do, that the Hague was killing him, that he must go back to the house out there, to the village, to the district where he was of use and able to work. She would have to go with him.
But he saw her, as a sacrificial victim, offered up for a faith which she did not share, because of his mistake in life. No, no, he could never do it, could never tell her that the Hague was killing him, that she must accommodate herself and make the best of things. It was for him, for him to make the best of things: if he wished to remain in any sense just, he must continue to sacrifice himself, though it wore him to death.
How sombre and joyless it all was! How grey it all was, far and wide around him, like the very night that hung pearl-white close by and, farther away, dug itself into abysses of threatening darkness!
As he drew nearer home, his feet lagged more heavily. And suddenly, before turning down the street in which he lived, he dropped on to a bench and remained sitting as though paralyzed, with his head in his hand.
How hard and heavy it was for him, to have to go back like that to his own house! Oh, to remain sitting, just sitting like that until he had attained certain knowledge! He closed his eyes.
He felt himself conquered, overcome.... Suddenly, as in a dream, voices struck upon his ear; and he seemed to recognize the voices. He rose mechanically and, past the houses, along the silent pavement, saw approaching the dark figures of two people walking slowly, a man and a woman. Their voices sounded clearly, though he could not catch the words; he recognized the leisurely forms. It was Johan Erzeele and Mathilde.
They did not see him. They walked on very slowly and Addie followed behind them. Johan seemed to be persistently pleading, Mathilde seemed to be refusing something. Addie's heart beat fearfully as he followed after them; and a jealousy suddenly flared up amid his dull dejection. Was she not his wife, was she not his wife? And why, lately, was she always looking for Johan and he for her? Was it not always so: always these tennis-parties together, always meeting at friends' houses where he, Addie, never went?... Where were they coming from now? Where had they been? Was he bringing her home? How intimate their conversation sounded, how sad almost! Had they grown fond of each other, in a dangerous increasing friendship?
He followed them unobserved, almost glad to have surprised them, suspicious in his jealous grief. Did not he still love his wife, notwithstanding their deep-seated differences?... He slackened his pace and followed very slowly.... After his first access of jealousy, he seemed rather to feel a certain curiosity to observe in silence, to make a diagnosis. His nature got the upper hand of him, the nature of one who is born to heal and who, before healing, diagnoses the disease. Yes, jealousy still smouldered within him; but he felt even more distinctly the craving for knowledge. Did he not still love Mathilde?... Ah, but was she indispensable to his life?
That suddenly became clear to him: indispensable to his life she was not.... His children, yes: they belonged to all of them, to all of them yonder, in the old house, the old family-house. She, his wife, did not. His children were indispensable to his life: he felt that clearly. Mathilde, Mathilde was not. For Mathilde, as he now walked behind her and Johan, he felt only the curiosity to analyze and classify the nature of the disease, nothing but that. Even the jealousy died away in him, the child of his jealous parents.... He continued to follow them. He saw Erzeele put his arm through Mathilde's.
He now quickened his pace slightly. His heels rang on the pavement through the night air, regularly, faster than before. The two in front looked round. They gave a start. He caught them up:
"I seemed to recognize you ... in the distance," he said, calmly and naturally, while they were unable to speak and Erzeele withdrew his arm.
"I have come from the station."
"I didn't expect you till to-morrow," said Mathilde, faintly, in spite of herself.
"I finished earlier. Emilie is much more peaceful.... How are the children?"
"All right."
"Where have you been this evening?"
"I went and had tea at Johan's sister's.... Johan was seeing me home."
"But now that Van der Welcke's here ... to see you home...." said Erzeele.
"Not at all," replied Addie. "Come a little way farther."
They walked on, Mathilde between the two men. Addie talked conventionally. They hardly answered. Meanwhile he observed them. His curiosity roused him, gave him a sudden new interest, as though he was treating a case of serious illness.
"I'll say good-bye here," said Erzeele, as they turned down the side-street.
They both shook hands with him and walked home more silently, suddenly dragging their feet.
Addie felt in his pocket for the key:
"It's late," he said, mechanically.
"Getting on for twelve," replied Mathilde, dully.
He saw that her eyes were red with weeping. He said nothing. They went upstairs without speaking. On reaching the nursery, they both crept in for a moment on tip-toe and looked into the little cots. The nurse was sleeping in the next room, with the door open between. They exchanged a smile, because the babies were sleeping so prettily. Then they went to Mathilde's bedroom. Once they had crossed the threshold, it seemed to him as if they were strangers.
"I'm tired," said Mathilde.
"So am I," said Addie.
He kissed her, left her and went to his own bedroom. Through the closed door he could follow her movements, heard her undressing, heard the rustle of her clothes. He sank into a chair and stared in front of him:
"I know," he thought, with his eyes very wide. "She loves him and he loves her. I ... I no longer love her.... She has never been indispensable to my existence.... I made a mistake. I did not know for myself...."
He did not sleep that night. Next morning early he said to Mathilde:
"Tilly, I want to talk to you."
"What about?"
"About ourselves."
She raised her eyebrows impatiently:
"What for?" she asked. "We have had that sort of talk so often. It leads to nothing. It tires me."
"Yes, you're looking tired ... and ill. You're not happy."
"Oh, never mind my happiness!"
"But what else did we come here for, Tilly, except your happiness?"
"That's true," she said, without interest. "You did it for my sake. It was nice of you."
"But it did no good."
"No, it did no good. And it would be better...."
"What?"
"For you to go back to Driebergen, Addie."
"I agree," he said, gently.
She started:
"What do you mean?"
"I was thinking the same thing."
"What?"
"That I ought to go back to Driebergen."
She looked at him in surprise:
"And I?" she asked.
"You remain here ... with the children."
"I don't understand."
"You stay in the Hague ... you and the children."
"And you?"
"I'll go down there."
"I don't understand," she repeated.
"I mean what I say, Tilly," he said. "It is better...."
"What?"
"That we should separate."
"Separate?"
"Perhaps. For a longer or shorter period."
She stared at him:
"Do you want a divorce?"
"I think so."
She continued to stare at him and choked down her tears:
"Addie, do you no longer love me?"
"No," he said, gently.
She looked deep in his eyes, affronted:
"What do you mean?"
"That I don't love you, any longer, enough to live with you. I beg your pardon, Tilly, if I have spoilt your life, if I have shattered your life. I have spoilt and shattered it. I beg your pardon ... if you can forgive me."
"Only a little while ago ... you told me that you cared for me."
"I thought so at the time ... It seemed to mean so much to me."
"And now?"
"Now I don't".
She rebelled with injured pride:
"Then why did you ask me to marry you?"
"Yes, that was just it."
"Just what?"
"The mistake.... Tell me, do you still love me?"
"No," she said, proudly.
"So you see: it's better...."
"That we should be divorced."
"Don't you think so yourself?"
"And the children?" she asked.
"That's my punishment," he said, gently. "They will remain with you."
"You entrust them to me?"
"I do."
"Addie!" she cried, with a sob.
"You still love me a little, Tilly...."
She only sobbed.
"But not so much as you did," he assured her. "You are in love with Erzeele."
"Erzeele?"
"Yes."
"He is a friend."
"He may become more ... later," he forced himself to say, uncleansed as yet of jealousy, because she was still his wife.
"Addie," she said, "I am to blame. If I could only have got accustomed to things, like all of you, at Driebergen ... I should have been happy."
"Yes, but it is not your fault that you couldn't."
"I don't want a divorce," she said.
"Why not?"
"For my sake ... and the children's."
"The children's?"
"For their sake especially. No, Addie, I don't want it. Unless...."
"What?"
"Unless you want it ... for your own sake, to be free, to marry somebody else."
"No."
"Then I don't want it either. If you assure me...."
"I do assure you."
"Then I don't want it either."
"And Erzeele?"
"No," she said, shaking her head. "It's not as people say."
"What do they say?"
"That he is my lover. He's not that."
"I never supposed he was."
"I value his friendship ... but I could not be his wife."
"Why not?"
"Because I am your wife."
"Do you feel that?"
"Always."
"My poor child!" he said, in spite of himself.
"Why do you pity me?" she asked, proudly.
"Because I have done you a wrong. Because I am unable to atone."
"You have done me no wrong. We loved each other very much ... then. At that time ... I thought I understood you. Now I no longer understand you. You breathe too rarefied an air for me."
"No, it isn't that. But...."
"What?"
"Nothing. So, Tilly, you don't want us to be divorced."
She looked at him anxiously:
"No," she entreated.
"Well, dear, then we won't be," he said, gently. "Only ... our present life ... is no life at all. So it will be better if...."
"If what?"
"If I don't stay with you, if I go away."
"And I?"
"You remain here, in this house, where everything is as you like it. You stay ... with our children."
"Our ... our children," she stammered.
"Perhaps later...."
"What?"
"Because of our children, we shall come together again ... when all misunderstanding has disappeared."
"I don't follow you."
"Perhaps you will later. But perhaps also ... you will become so fond of Erzeele ... that...."
She shook her head, stared before her.
"We never know," said Addie, gently.
"No," she said, pensively. "I know nothing ... nothing now. I used to think ... that you knew everything."
"I do sometimes know things ... for others. I have not known for myself."
"And now?"
"Now I know better ... for you."
"For me?"
"Yes, now Iknow, Tilly ... that it is better for you ... that I should leave you...."
"For good?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps for a long time ... only...."
"And the children? Won't you be longing for them?"
It was more than he could bear; and he said nothing, only nodded yes. Then he said:
"But they will be all right ... with you, Tilly."
It was more than she could bear either. She fell into a chair, sobbing.
"Don't be unhappy, Tilly," he said. "Wemustmake a change. If we remain as we are, we shall end by hating each other.... Don't be unhappy about parting ... when you reflect ... that it is really out of the question for us to remain together."
"You are right," she said, coldly. "So...."
"You will stay here. You will live here. That is, if you like."
"And you?"
"I? I shall go home."
She felt her jealousy of all of them, out there:
"Yes," he said, gently.
"If you don't love me," she burst out, "they will not need to console you long."
"I shall feel regret ... because I have spoilt your life ... and because I sha'n't see the children any more."
"Spoilt my life?" she said, proudly. "You have not done that."
He did not answer.
"The children?" she continued. "Why should you not see them ... when you want to?"
"Would you allow that?"
"Allow it? They are your children. I have nothing to say in the matter. In fact...."
"In fact?"
"I should not think it right ... if you did not see them often."
"Then I shall come."
"Of course.... But to go on living here ... would be too expensive."
"No, not at all. I ... I shall want nothing ... out there. Whatever I make is yours."
"I can't accept it."
"Yes, you can ... for the children. It's better, Tilly, that everything should remain as it is."
"Very well," she consented. "Only, Addie ... it's not a solution."
"There can be no solution ... until you know that you care enough for Johan Erzeele...."
"No, no, I don't!"
"That you care enough for Johan Erzeele to...."
"I don't know, I don't know ... and I refuse to discuss it."
"I understand that, Tilly. Then ... there can be no solution yet, can there? We know nothing about a solution. I am simply giving you back your life, as far as I can, and you are doing the same to me. Later we will see what happens. It will all come of itself. What do we know? We know nothing ... for ourselves. Knowledge will all come of itself. Do you understand?"
"No."
"You will, later.... You will live here, with the children; you will see me hardly at all. I shall not see the children for a time. It will be as though I were on a journey. They are so small: oh, I hope that they won't miss me and that, when they do see me again, they will know me!... So you will be alone ... with the children ... It may be that you will want me back then, that the former love will return.... In my case too, perhaps.... We shall see. It will ... it will all come of itself and we ... we know nothing.... Perhaps, in years to come, we shall be living quietly together again ... with the children. Or else...."
"What?"
"Or else you will be far away from me ... and will have found your happiness with another."
She put her hands before her eyes:
"I don't see it.... I don't know...."
"Now you are being honest. No, you don't know if you will come to care so much as that for Johan.... And I ... I will be honest too! I don't know if I shall ever care for you again.... But we must wait, Tilly; and the best thing therefore is to leave each other and ... and not to talk to each other again until it has come of itself and until we know.... You will not be alone in the world; for, if ever I can do anything for you, I will come to you. I shall never forget you."
"Yes, perhaps that will be best," she said, in a dead voice. "I shall try to look at it like that ... and to live alone ... with the children. I shall not see Johan again."
"No, no, on the contrary: you must see him."
"Why?"
"So as to know. You will never beweak."
"No, I shall never be that."
"You know how he feels towards you."
"How do you know?"
"I know you do.... You know what he feels for you. But you do not know what you feel for him."
"Addie! Oh, Addie!"
"Don't deny it. Be honest. These are the last words, perhaps, that we shall exchange for quite a long time. I am going away now."
"Now?"
"Yes.... Write to me when there's any occasion."
"Very well."
"Good-bye, Tilly."
She was silent, sat staring before her, with her hands clasped over her knees. No, she did not understand him, but she could not act otherwise than he wished.
He was gone; and suddenly she felt very lonely. She heard him upstairs packing, rummaging in his cupboards.
And she began to reflect, sadly:
"He acts differently and speaks differently from anybody else. Divorced? Oh, no, I don't want that ... if he doesn't want it for himself!... I ... at least ... not yet.... No, no, nor ever.... Oh, I don't know, I don't know!... I am fond of Johan.... If I were free now, if I were a girl still.... But Addie, the children.... I don't know, I don't know.... That was why Addie thought it would be well ... for us not to see each other ... for a time. How he will miss the children!... Oh dear, is he really, really going? Yes, I hear him upstairs ... packing.... What will people say? Not that it matters. We can say that he has to read, quietly, out there ... at Driebergen.... We can tell people something of the kind ... even if they do understand.... I simply can't go back to Driebergen. ... Oh, how will it work out, how will it all work out? That is just what Addie doesn't know either.... Do I? No, Heaven help me, I don't know any more than he does!... I am fond of Johan: shall I grow fonder of him, now that I am less fond of Addie? I don't know, I don't know.... Oh, if only I hadn't my children! ... As it is, I could wish, my God, how I could wish, for his sake and the children's, that I knew how to be happy at Driebergen, in that house of theirs, with all of them, and that I could go back to it! Shall I ever go back to it?... Shall I be Johan's wife one day, after all?... Oh, it is all so dark and uncertain!... Addie says a solution will come of itself.... We know nothing, he says.... Must I let it come as it will?... But how will it come?... Oh, even Addie, who is so wise, can find no solution!... There is ... there is no solution yet!... Will there ever be one?... Oh, if I could go back ... to the house down there!... Should Ieverbe able to? Perhaps years hence! Perhaps never! Who can tell?...Is Johan ... really fond of me? Not only because he admires me ... not only forthat?... Oh, that was the only reason why Addie loved me!... I know it now, I know it: that was his one idea, to have healthy children.... Now we are parted: parted for ever?... Or shall we come together again one day? Shall we ever become husband and wife again ... or not?... I do care for Johan. He is so matter-of-fact, so simple: I should have become very happy and simple with him, without all this thinking about things which I can't grasp or feel ... and which came haunting me down there, at Driebergen, gradually.... Oh, if I could only force myself to live there again!... But perhaps I never can! Perhaps, in three or four years' time, I shall be Johan's wife ... and have to give up the children, the poor children, to Addie!..."
Now she sobbed, because she did not know. The days and months would drift past slowly and slowly before she knew....
There is a sacred knowledge for ourselves, a knowledge so sacred that we know it only ... when the future is here....
The months drifted by.
"It is strange," said Brauws, "that we haven't heard from Addie lately."
"How long is it since we did?" asked Constance, vaguely.
"Nearly a week."
"Yes, it must be close upon a week."
"His last letters were brighter."
"Do you think the travelling is doing him good?"
"He doesn't travel as another man would. In the three months that he has been away...."
"Yes, he will have learnt a good deal that will be useful to him ... in his profession."
"His letters were cheerful."
"I'm longing badly to see him again ... Listen to the wind!"
"That's the autumn coming."
"The summer is past. This is our typical weather. Look, here, out of my window, you can see the clouds coming up over the moor as you never do downstairs, because the trees in the garden hide all the view."
"Up here it reminds me sometimes of the Hague, in the Kerkhoflaan."
"But it's wider, wider...."
"And finer."
"There, they're coming up, the clouds.... That must be rain.... They're all grey and dark purple: I have never seen such purple as in our skies down here."
"You're able to live under them now."
"Now I am. But it took so long ... that I had to get old first. I'm old now and it's all right now.... Look, look: the clouds are drifting along.... That means storm...."
"For days on end."
"Oh, I am yearning for Addie!... How long is it since we saw him? Three months, isn't it?... Three months! What an age!... We are all yearning for him...."
"His father is counting the days till he returns.... Poor Hans!"
"Poor Henri!... Even Mamma was asking the other day, where Addie was."
"She always knows him."
"Ernst and Paul can't get on without him."
"And he has an excellent influence on Alex: the boy's doing very well."
"Yes, he's grown so calm and manly ... latterly."
"Guy's letters are satisfactory, are they not?"
"Yes. It's kind of you, Brauws, to take so much interest ... in all of us."
"Well, I'm living ... with you all."
"You belong to us."
"It is like one family."
"Family.... Yes, there is such a thing as family. In the old days, I often used to think that it was just a word."
"No, it's there, only...."
"Yes, I understand what you mean.... Sometimes it does not begin to take shape until we ourselves are no longer young.... It was there for Mamma, whereas for us, at that time ... But for Mamma it was an illusion and...."
"For us ... it is indeed a reality...."
"In so far that we think so ... we old people."
"No, no, it is so."
"I am quite willing to believe it is.... Yes.... Addie ought soon to be home again."
"And then?"
"I think ... he will stayhere."
"And Mathilde?"
"There... with the children."
"That is not a solution."
"No, but Addie says...."
"That it will have to come...."
"Later, of itself."
"I dare say he's right.... How is she?"
"Reconciled ... more reconciled.... I saw her the other day."
"Don't leave her to herself."
"No, we are not doing that.... It's not her fault. And she is a good mother to her children."
"As you say, it's not her fault."
"Nor Addie's either. It's our fault: Henri's and mine."
"Why?"
"I don't know, I feel it is. It's all our fault. It's still the punishment dragging along."
"No, no!"
"Yes, it is. Our child was doomed not to be happy ... because of us."
"No."
"You know quite well that you too ... look on it like that."
"Not entirely.... If he had had certain understanding for himself...."
"He couldn't, because...."
"Hush! Say no more on that subject.... Thereisa knowledge.... which is so sacred ... Which of us has that certain understanding for himself?... We all just let it come...."
"Look how dark it's growing."
"Here comes the rain."
"It's lashing against the windows."
"Strange that, even in this weather, the house and this room don't seem sombre ... to me."
"There is an air of so much affection in the house.... If Addie would only come! If he would only come now!... Tell me, Brauws, what is your opinion? What will be the end of it? Will they ever go back to each other?"
"Possibly ... later...."
"You can't say it positively?"
"Oh, no!"
"Do you think that she cares for Erzeele?"
"It's difficult to say."
"She doesn't know, herself. Only the other day she told me so herself: she herself doesn't know.... Will the children prevent her?"
"Who can say?"
"Is it right ... that Addie should let things decide themselves?"
"Perfectly right."
"Say that ... say that again. I sometimes doubt. Is it right that Addie should let things decide themselves?"
"Yes, I am firmly persuaded that it is right."
"Is she ... strong enough?"
"I think so ... in that way ... of course she mustn't sit still, with her hands folded.... She will have to find herself."
"Oh, if she could only feel in sympathy with all of us!...Ifshe ever comes back, I swear that I shall...."
"What?"
"Nothing. I was thinking.... Then I begin to hope that she and all of us will feel alike.... And, strangely enough, I see that in everything. We all want it.Ifshe comes back, I am almost sure that we shall all ... do a great deal ... to make her ours...."
"And to make her happy...."
"Ifshe comes back.... How delightful it would be,ifshe came back ... with the children."
"Delightful?"
"I mean ... yes, I mean delightful.... Lives that have once been interlaced...."
"Are bad to pull apart. I agree.... And Hans?"
"Oh, even he ... even he will try!"
"Who knows? Perhaps one day it'll be like that."
"For the present, there's nothing to be said."
"No, nothing."
"It's all still mystery and darkness."
"Listen to the rain."
"The sky is black."
"What's the time?"
"Almost dinner-time."
"There goes the bell."
"Shall we go downstairs?"
They went down the dark staircase. The wind howled round the house. The old lady was sitting at the window of the conservatory at the back when Constance and Brauws entered.
"It's blowing hard," she said. "There are great branches falling from the trees in the garden."
"Aren't you too cold in here, Mamma?"
The old woman did not understand; and Constance put a shawl over her shoulders:
"Will you come in, Mamma, when you feel too cold?"
The old woman nodded, without understanding. She remained sitting where she was. She had already had something to eat, with Marietje to wait on her: she never sat down to table with the others.
The second bell rang.
"Come," said Constance.
Paul was there and noticed how miserable Van der Welcke looked:
"What's the matter?" he asked.
Van der Welcke was carving:
"I loathe carving," he said. "Addie always used to do it, or Guy."
"I never learnt how," said Paul, secretly fearing the gravy.
"Give it to me, Hans," said Brauws.
They were silent round the table; the wind howled outside.
"The gas is burning badly," said Constance.
"How nice-looking Mary is growing now that she's down here!" said Paul. "There, you needn't go blushing: your old uncle may surely pay you a compliment."
"Well, Uncle Paul, I'm not as young as all that myself: I'm getting on for thirty."
"And you, Klaasje," said Paul, "you're eating like a grown-up person."
"I do eat nicely now, don't I, Auntie?" said Klaasje, proudly.
Constance nodded to her with a smile.
"Only Gerdy ... she's not doing well," thought Paul. "How pale she looks!... Ah, well! Perhaps it'll all come right later for the poor child.... He or another.... Love, it's a strange thing: I never felt it."
He felt a shiver pass through him and said:
"It's cold to-day, Constance."
"Yes. We shall start fires to-morrow."
"It's blowing bitterly outside. And what a draught! I'm sure there's a draught in the house! What do you say, Ernst?"
Ernst looked up:
"There's no draught," he said. "I'm quite warm. You people are always feeling things that don't exist."
"Why is it so dark to-day?" asked Adeline, as though waking from a dream.
"The gas is burning badly," said Constance.
"Truitje," said Van der Welcke, "take the key and see that the meter is turned on full."
"Grandmamma was very tired to-day," said Marietje.
"Grandmamma hardly ate anything at all," said Adèletje.
"She's getting very old," said Constance, sadly.
The meal dragged on. They exchanged only an occasional word.
"We're very cosy, among ourselves, like this," said Constance, fondly. "Oh, I wish that Dorine would come and live here too!"
"Nothing will induce her to," said Paul.
"No, I'm afraid not."
A carriage drove up outside, drove through the garden.
"Hark!" said Constance.
"It's Addie!" said Van der Welcke.
"But he never wired!"
Gerdy had got up: she rushed outside, leaving the door open. A cold draught blew in. They all rose. The bell had rung; Truitje opened the door.
"Oh, Addie, Addie!" Gerdy exclaimed. "Is that you? Have you come back at last? We have missed you so frightfully!"
It was he. She flung herself into his arms and embraced him, with a little sob.
They all welcomed him home; they no longer noticed the draught, no longer heard the wind. They hardly ate anything now, hurriedly finishing their dinner.