While Constance went in and out of the shops, on her numberless errands, Paul never left her side:
"You see," he said, glad to have some one to listen to him for the first time in his life, "what I call human wretchedness is not confined to the social question, but exists everywhere, everywhere.... Look around you, in the street. It's raining; and people are walking under dripping umbrellas. Look at those women in front of us: wet skirts; muddy shoes, worn at heel, splashing through the puddles: that is human wretchedness.... Look at that man over there: fat stomach; squinting eyes; gouty fingers clutching a shabby umbrella-handle: that is human wretchedness.... Everything that is ugly, squalid, muddy, drab, abnormal from any one point of view is human wretchedness.... Look at all those shops, where you buy—or don't buy—trashy manufactured things that have blood clinging to them, things which you are now pretending that you need for your house: that is human wretchedness.... It's all ugly; and the trail of a morbid civilization shows through it all.... Look around you, at those big, lying letters, those gaudy posters: that is human wretchedness. One cheats the other; and the whole thing has become such a matter of system that nobody is really taken in. It's the same with politics and religion as with a pound of sugar or a box of throat-lozenges. It is all humbug and all human wretchedness. And it drags on, piecemeal, through any average human life. It is all squalid, vulgar, insincere, selfish, ugly and full of human wretchedness. You think me a pessimist? Far from it. I am an idealist: in my own mind, I see everything in a rosy light. My power of imagination is so strong that I see everything white and gold and blue, like the marble statues of ancient temples, with their blue sky and golden sun. But, when I take leave of my imagination, then I see that everything is human wretchedness: wars; politics; the fat stomach of our friend yonder; the rain; and those pots and pans which you're wanting for your kitchen. All life, high and low, general and individual, in the masses and in the classes, is squalid, ugly, insincere and full of human wretchedness. Look at that creature over there. What a miserable object: she is knock-kneed; her nose is a yard long; and the reason why she's in this filthy street is absurd! You think I don't know what I'm talking about, but I do. You never see anything beautiful except at the theatre, or in a book, or in a picture or an etching ... or in a great writer taking up his pen in defence of some outcast, as Zola did. But even then there is very little; and I at once see the human wretchedness through it all: the pose, the affectation—even that of soberness—the ambition to succeed, or to imitate some one or other. No one has a pure thought for purity's sake ... except a fellow like Zola. There's no beauty anywhere. Have you ever noticed, in a train, or in a tram-car, or at a theatre, all those stupid, ugly faces, those crooked bodies, either too fat or too thin, one with a blink—like this—another with a squint—like that—this one with little hairs in his ears and that one with hands that make you sick. I don't know if you understand me; but all of this, with politics and the social question and those swarms of fat stomachs like our friend's just now: all of this is what I call human wretchedness.... I may write a book about it some day; but perhaps my book itself would be merely human wretchedness...."
In the meantime, he had been following his sister into three shops, one after the other, and she had managed to make her purchases in between his philosophizings. Whenever he saw his chance, he went on speaking, walking aslant beside her and talking into her ear, constantly having to move off the narrow pavements of the Hoogstraat and Veenestraat, losing her for a moment, because they were separated by a couple of carriages going at a foot-pace, but soon catching her up again. And he never lost the thread of his thoughts:
"I see that you have never reflected much, just like most women. What I say is quite new to you. You have not even observed much. You should observe, you should note all the queer things and people about you. Not that you and I ourselves are not queer and behave queerly. We can't help it. We too stumble along in our human wretchedness. But in your boy—it was quite attractive—I saw something funny; and yet he was very serious, much too serious for a child. Your boy, your boy is certainly a man of the future. Sometimes you see a thing like that in a child: then you say to yourself, 'He'll be this, he'll be that, he'll be the other, later on, when he grows up.' Do you follow me? No, I see you don't follow me. It's just your motherly vanity that feels flattered! Oh, how small you are! That is your human wretchedness! Don't you see the sunniness in your boy? No, you don't see it. I saw it at once. It was most attractive. Not one of Bertha's or Gerrit's or Adolphine's children has it. I can't explain it to you, you know, if you don't understand.... Yes, Sissy, life is not gay. You are forty-two and I am only thirty-five, but I find it no gayer than you do. I see through everything too clearly. I should never be able, consciously, to join in anything that had to do with human wretchedness, to join in rushing after an unnecessary object. That is why I do nothing, except observe. I'm a dilettante, you see. My income is enough to live on; and I loathe myself for playing the capitalist with a bit of money like that, like the middle-classes; but I can't help it, you know. I ought to have been rich, very rich. I should have planted a castle on a mountain-top, amid the whiteness of the Alps, and I would have done a great deal to mend human wretchedness; but I would not have had it around me. I hate it so: I turn sick at the smell of a beggar; and meantime my heart breaks and I feel a physical compassion for the poor devil. It's the fault of my stomach or my nerves: they simply turn. It's very unfortunate when you're built that way.... How do you like my new overcoat, with the velvet turn-back cuffs? They're rather neat, aren't they? Pity they're getting wet. But it's good velvet, it doesn't spoil.... And yet, yesterday, I was really alarmed when I saw my back in two looking-glasses. I had no idea that I had such a rotten back, a back full of human wretchedness, in spite of my fine overcoat. The line went like that, with a sort of hump. It was terrible; it upset me for all the rest of the day. Then, in the evening, I sat down at my piano and playedIsolde's Liebestod; and then it all passed.... You can't make your little brother out, eh? A mad chap, you think, what? Yes, I am—almost—the maddest of the bunch. Bertha is very well-balanced; only, her eyes are always blinking.... Karel: what he might have become, I don't know; but now he is a round nought, kept in equilibrium by the roundness of Cateau with her owl's eyes.... Then you have Gerrit: he looks well-balanced, but isn't; puts on a jovial and genial air; and is a melancholy dreamer all the time. You don't believe it? You'll see it for yourself, when you know him better.... Next come you: well, you yourself tell me you've had a strange life with your two husbands.... After that, they all go down-hill: Ernst behaves very oddly; Dorine too is sometimes queer, with that everlasting trotting about; and I look at all their queerness and have a tile loose myself.... So you think we are a very sensible family? My dear Constance, we have a great crack running right through us, slanting, like that! But we are nice people and we don't let the world know. You wait: you'll see. And now, Sissy, here's your tram and here I leave you..."
He helped her in; and she saw him walk away under his umbrella, carefully drying with his handkerchief the velvet turn-back cuffs of his new overcoat.
Those were busy days at the Van Naghels, full of all kinds of excitement. Emilie was to be married in three weeks; and in a fortnight Van Naghel and Bertha expected their son Otto back from India, with his young wife and their two children.
Otto had taken his degree early, married and gone to Java at twenty-four with a billet in the civil service. But he was unable to stay, because his wife had fallen ill on the day of their arrival at Batavia and she had been ill ever since. It annoyed Van Naghel to see his son's career interrupted, even though he was still young and Van Naghel could easily find him another appointment in Holland. But he had always been against this match: a delicate Dutch girl, with no money. They would have to take charge of the children, in Holland; and, though he was well off, though his wife had some money of her own, though he had his salary as a minister, it was, all told, scarcely enough for the very expensive establishment which they kept up: the eldest son on his way home from India with his wife and two children; two boys, Frans and Henri, who had been at Leiden for over two years and who were obviously in no hurry to take their degrees; three girls who were all out, the second of whom was now going to be married; another boy, of sixteen, and a girl of fourteen; theirsalon, to gratify Van Naghel's ambition, an officialsalon, a meeting-place for members of the higher government-circles, while the diplomatic set just passed through it; so expensive an establishment, from first to last, that Bertha had to work miracles of economy to keep things going on fifty thousand guilders, more or less, a year. And everything was growing dearer: the two boys, Frans and Henri, cost almost three times as much as Otto had cost; Emilie and Marianne, of whom the former had been out three years and the other just one, had much grander ideas, in every way, than Louise, who had been out six; the boys at Leiden were both to take part in the masque this year; Emilie was receiving a trousseau that cost three times as much as the one which Bertha had had in her day from Papa and Mamma van Lowe; Marianne must have her simplest dresses lined with silk; Karel, the schoolboy, a tall, thin, weakly lad, but nevertheless a member of all sorts of football-, cricket- and tennis-clubs, had an allowance for pocket-money that was positively ridiculous; and Bertha saw tendencies in her youngest girl that made her anxious for the future. And so, outwardly, it was a great house full of movement: Papa a minister, the girls presented at Court, the boys spending money lustily; and, inwardly, there was many a despondent conversation between Van Naghel and Bertha as to how they could possibly economize: of course, Otto must be helped first; the boys, of course, must take their degrees first; the girls, of course, were bound to go out; and Karel, of course, was obliged to keep up his football- and cricket-clubs. They might give one dinner less each winter, but that was really the only thing. And, if the boys, after taking their degrees, were to cost as much money as Otto was costing now; if Louise and Marianne also got married and had to have the same trousseau as Emilie: if it was to go on like that, always and always, with never a moment for taking breath and saving a little: then they did not know what they were to do; for, let Bertha calculate as much as she pleased, the thing was not to be done on fifty thousand guilders a year.
Then, if Van Naghel lost his temper, he reproached Bertha, saying that it was all her fault, that she was a Van Lowe, that the Van Lowes had never been able to calculate, that the Van Lowes' own housekeeping had been run on much too extravagant a scale, in the old days; but Bertha, blinking her eyes unmoved, reminded him that he owed his career to Papa van Lowe, to Papa's connections in the years, following upon his term as governor-general, when he still had a great deal of influence in Holland; and she showed him her housekeeping-accounts, in which she had carefully made the different entries, telling him that, if he absolutely insisted upon living on the scale they did, it could not be done for less, with the best will in the world.... And, seeing no way out of it, they made friends again and did not mention the subject of money for another month; and, outwardly, it was the regular household of a minister of state, full of solid Dutch comfort, with a tinge of modernity superadded: the children very much up-to-date, but the parents, nevertheless, sensible people of weight and distinction, quite aware how far they themselves could go and how far they could let the children go. The real position was not even suspected by a soul. Bertha never spoke to anybody, not even to her mother, of anything that had the faintest connection with money. To their relations and friends, the house in the Bezuidenhout spread its broad front with such an air of solid dignity, the staircases, the drawing-rooms and dining-room with their stately, handsome furniture, the children's rooms—more modern in style, but still with no flimsy affectation of tawdry elegance—all made so great an impression of imperishable prosperity that no one could ever have suspected that the two parents sometimes sat reckoning up for hours at a time to see whether they could reduce their expenses by as much as a thousand guilders that month. In this house of theirs, notwithstanding all the bustle, the dinners, the approaching wedding, the approaching home-coming of the eldest son, for whom a set of rooms was being prepared on the top floor, everything seemed to go so methodically, without any trouble—busily, it is true, but quite harmoniously—that no one would ever have suspected the least difficulty. Mamma van Lowe was constantly at Bertha's during these days and even neglected Constance a little; but she loved this bustle: the alterations on the top floor; the fuss about the trousseau; the rehearsals of the wedding-theatricals; the long tables to be laid, the flowers to be arranged, the visits to be discussed; dresses brought home; the undergraduates constantly at the Hague, noisy, merry and young: the old woman loved all this; it reminded her of her own house in the old days; it was like a repetition of her young life: only, she thought, she herself had often worried about money, even though Van Lowe had been able to save during his term as governor-general, and Bertha was so entirely without financial cares! How delightful that was! And she, as the grandmother, also interested herself in Emilie's trousseau; she gave her advice and never thought about money; she slowly climbed the stairs to the top floor, to see the nursery which had been got ready for her two great-grandchildren on the way home from India, proud of that fourth generation, delighting in that large family, that busy household, all that movement, which she missed so greatly in her own house, where her quiet life was interrupted only by those family-gatherings every Sunday evening. Yes, she loved being with Van Naghel and Bertha; she loved to see her son-in-law take a prominent place in society, as her husband had done in his time; she loved the solid, dignified, official house; and the modernity of the children, although now and again she would shake her head in disapproval, made her smile for all that, because she thought that people must go with the times and that Van Naghel and Bertha were very sensible not to hold the reins too tightly. It was true, there were manners which she did not like: that going out of young girls alone, letting themselves in at night with their latch-keys; but then it was only to a few personal friends, said Bertha, and it was impossible to make other arrangements. Yes, the old woman loved being here, in the house of her eldest daughter; and, though she cared for all her children, because they were her children, she felt more in her element at Bertha's than in the comfortable, middle-class, selfish house of Karel and Cateau, whom she blamed for having no children; and, though, she also liked Gerrit and Adeline's younger household, with the children ranging from eight years down to ten months, a troop of fair-haired mites, things were too simple and everyday for her there, did not remind her of her ancient splendours; she could not stand Gerrit sometimes, when he made fun of his old mother for mentioning, quite casually, that she had met the Russian envoy at Bertha's. And going to Adolphine and Van Saetzema's always vexed her: it was as though she did not recognize her child in Adolphine, with her badly-arranged, common house and Adolphine so bitter and so envious and jealous of Bertha, especially now that Floortje was engaged and her trousseau, of course, could not be as fine as Emilie's. Yes, she went to Adolphine's and discussed the trousseau there also, but she did not care about it: not because it was simple—a trousseau could be very nice in spite of that—but because Adolphine was always so spiteful, with her perpetual "Yes, that's good enough for us; but, of course, at Bertha's!..." She felt herself a mother to all her children—had she a favourite? She thought not—but she was very fond of going to Bertha's, because she found her own past there.
And what the old woman loved above all things in Bertha's house was the mutual sympathy, the family-affection which she had always fostered in her own house, which she still fostered, thanks to the institution of those Sunday evenings, to keep the children together at all costs. Yes, in Van Naghel and Bertha that sentiment, that constant thought for the children was very strong; and there was one thing which Mamma van Lowe had not done and which Bertha was doing, which was to receive the son again, after he had once left the house, now that he was returning with a sick wife and two little children. It touched her: oh, how good they were to their tribe; and what a thousand pities that that little doll-wife was so ill! And the children, too, had that same family-affection among themselves. Otto had always kept up a busy correspondence with his eldest sister, Louise, who was twenty-five and came next to him in age; the two Leiden boys were exceedingly nice to their three fashionable little sisters and Henri was even a little bit jealous because Emilie was engaged; only Karel was perhaps rather too much out of doors and away from the family-circle for so young a boy, with all his clubs and his importance; and, because of that, Marietje, the youngest girl, of fourteen, was left a good deal alone. And yet they all liked Marietje: her big brothers, the other girls.... Yes, that was the charming thing with all those children: the family-affection, the fondness for one another, the pride in the names of Van Lowe and Van Naghel, the refusal to suffer any outsider to say a word against a member of the family, even though criticism was not spared within the home itself. But that any acquaintance should dare to reflect upon a member of the family, that they would none of them permit. They had felt that fondness, that tenderness, even for Constance, because she was a sister. And the old lady remembered, in so far as concerned Constance, the philosophical reflexions of her youngest son, Paul; the trouble which Dorine had taken to assemble all the brothers and sisters on that first Sunday-evening; the ready compliance of all her children, for, out of respect to her, none of them had criticized that erring sister in front of her. She saw it in all of them: the family-affection for one another. They all felt themselves to be brothers and sisters; they stood up for one another, even though there were differences of opinion sometimes and even jealousy; they felt united within the family-circle.
That was the crowning glory of her old age, as a mother and grandmother. It represented to her a beautiful idea, a natural ideal, an illusion attained: a comfort for the peaceful declining years of the lonely woman in her big house. That she preferred to be lonely in her big house and would not have Dorine, nor Ernst, nor Paul to live with her was an eccentricity which in no way detracted from her cult of the beautiful idea, from her perfect happiness at seeing the ideal realized, the illusion attained. She had a happy old age. She had also had much sorrow in her big household, in spite of all her splendour, but not more than her natural share: money-troubles, because neither Van Lowe nor she was economical; two children lost, one after the other; while Constance' false step was certainly a very heavy blow, under which she suspected that Van Lowe had really succumbed, suffering silently and incessantly because of the grief which his favourite daughter had caused him.... But she, though she too had suffered, had shown greater elasticity, had not counted all that sorrow for more than her human lot, such as might befall any large household. And that she now, in her extreme old age, had all her children gathered about her in the same town, in a close family-circle, in an affectionate family-life: this she considered a great happiness; she thanked God for it. She had no more religion of the church-going kind than was held to be correct in her circle, which was very different from the orthodox Calvinistic circle of a few old Hague families; but she was grateful to God in her heart. She thanked God for her happiness, for her happy old age. All was well, now that she had Constance back also, back with the others at the Hague. Next to Buitenzorg, the Hague had always been to her the ideal place of residence. The Court was there; and her husband had taught her to love splendour. There was an atmosphere of official eminence in their circle in which she took pleasure as in an element that had become natural to her and in which Van Naghel and Bertha also had attained their distinction and their high position. Karel had returned to the Hague, after burgomastering elsewhere; and in him she had her son back again, although, in her secret heart, she did not like Cateau. Gerrit, who had been a subaltern at Deventer and Venlo, was now a captain at the Hague. And the other children had never left the Hague; she had always been able to keep them round her.
She was happy and she was not unthankful. She was even thankful that Otto was returning—although the reason, his wife's illness, was a sad one—because she would see her great-grandchildren. They were her first; she felt a new joy because of them, an unknown emotion. She had felt something like it when Otto himself was born, her first grandchild; but now that feeling was almost more intense, perhaps because it was a fourth generation, a continuation of the family, even though they were Van Naghels and not Van Lowes. She was a woman: she did not care so much about the name. Bertha was her daughter, Otto her grandson, his children her grandchildren. She traced them back in this way to herself and the sound of the name mattered less to her. They were her children, her grandchildren, her great-grandchildren; and she loved them all, with one great love, with a clannish love. That she lived alone in her big house was because she was old and could bear bustle only when it was expected, when she could prepare for it. The Sunday evenings were bustling, but they did not tire her. But to have Paul or Dorine living with her, to be for ever hearing them going in and out would have worked on her nerves. She wandered daily through all the rooms of the big house to see if everything was tidy and in its place. Dorine was slovenly; and Paul was anything but easy to get on with; and Ernst, with his collection of curiosities, she would never be able to have with her, because she was afraid of all the microbes that hang about those old things. But nevertheless she loved them all and she was glad that they lived at the Hague and that she saw them regularly. She was like that and no otherwise.
And she now came every day to Bertha's, waiting for Otto and his children, until Constance grew jealous and reproached her, saying that she never came to her new house near the Woods.
The Van Naghels gave an evening-party at the Oude Doelen Hotel, two days subsequent to the signing of the marriage-contract between Emilie and Van Raven: a dinner, for relations and intimate friends, of nearly a hundred covers. After that, the young people were to do some theatricals; and, after that, there was a dance. Dinner was over; and Adolphine asked Uncle Ruyvenaer:
"Were you at their dinner-party two nights ago?"
"What dinner-party?"
"The day before yesterday, after the contract. They gave a dinner at their house. About sixty people. Only their smart friends and their Court set. We were not asked. Mamma went. But none of the brothers and sisters."
"I did not even know there was a dinner. We called in the afternoon to congratulate the bride and bridegroom."
"Well, that evening they gave their grand affair. To-night is only a small party for us and the rag-tag of their acquaintance. The other night, Bertha wore a low-necked dress and a train. To-night, she has a high frock."
Uncle laughed:
"Yes," he said, "these parties at hotels are always scratch affairs. The dinner was only so-so."
"Regular hotel-food."
"H'm. The champagne was good," said Uncle, who had drunk his fill.
"How badly Van Naghel spoke! Does he speak as badly as that when he introduces his Indian budget? And what a figure Van Raven's mother cuts! She looks like I don't know what!"
"Still, they're smart people."
"Yes, of course they're smart, or Bertha would never have seized upon him for her daughter! He's a fast creature, that future nephew of mine. And how Emilie hangs on to him! If Floortje hung on to Dijkerhof like that, I should give her a good talking-to when we got home. Emilie behaves just like a street-girl."
Uncle was in a good humour, because he had plenty to drink; he was puffing a bit and would have liked to undo a button of his waistcoat: that dress-waistcoat of his was getting rather tight for him.
"How pretty Floortje is looking, Adolphine. That white suits her."
She laughed happily; she felt flattered:
"Yes, doesn't it? It makes Emilie look so pale."
Mamma van Lowe passed on Otto van Naghel's arm:
"Is Frances better, my boy?"
"Yes, Granny, she's pretty well to-day. But she gets tired so soon."
He was tall and thin, with a scowl above his hard Van Lowe eyes, his grandfather's eyes. His two years in Java had made him so bitter that it was painful for his grandmother and his parents to listen to him.
"What a pity, Otto, that you had to leave India!"
"Oh, bah, Granny, what a country! It's all very well for you to talk: you know India as the wife of a resident and as the wife of the governor-general. But for young people, starting life...."
"Papa would have helped you, you know...."
"A lot of help Papa could have given!... A beastly country; a dirty, wretched country!"
"But, Otto, I thought it delightful."
"No doubt, in your palace at Buitenzorg. That goes without saying. But were you ever clerk to the magistrates at Rankas-Betoeng?"
"No."
"No, of course not. And that with a wife who topples over like a ninepin, twice a week, with the heat, flat on the floor!"
"Otto!"
"Oh, come, Grandmamma! It's the most confounded, beastly, filthy country I ever was in. We had much better sell those colonies to England; she'll only take them from us, one day, if we don't."
"Otto, really I'm not used to this language!"
"Oh, yes, Granny, I know all that official bombast about India! But we can't all be governor-general or colonial minister. If I ever become that, I shall begin to worship India at once."
"You're upset because Frances is ill."
"Ill? Ill? It takes a woman to be ill. She's not even that. She's a reed. If you blow upon her, she breaks."
"She was a delicate little thing as a girl, Otto."
"Well, but look here, Granny: I can't turn her into a robust little thing, can I?"
"For shame, Otto! Don't be so bitter. You've got two darling little children."
"Yes, children; I wish I hadn't. I'm sorry for the poor little devils.... Is the show beginning now? Tableaux-vivants, arranged by dear old Louise.... A play without words by Frans and Henri.... Stale things, these wedding-parties, always. I thought ours insufferable."
"My dear Otto, you're in an intolerable humour."
"I'm always like that now, Granny."
"Then I strongly advise you to exercise a little self-control, or you will never have any happiness in life, in your own or your wife's or your family's."
"The family doesn't affect my happiness."
"What do you mean, Otto?"
"Why, I don't live and move and have my being in my family, Granny!"
"Oh, really, my boy, you're too horrid! Take me back to my seat. I see your mother beckoning to me: she wants me to sit between her and Aunt Ruyvenaer. The performance is beginning...."
"Ye-e-es," Cateau was whining to Van Saetzema, Van der Welcke and Karel. "An evening-party of six-ty peo-ple. And the Rus-sianMinisterwas there, and the Mis-tress of theRobes."
"Well, after all, if they have so many acquaintances," said Karel, under his breath, by way of excuse.
"Ye-e-es, but, Ka-rel, none of the fam-ily. Van der Wel-cke, wereyouinvited, by chance?"
"No."
"Oh, not you ei-ther? Well, I should havethoughtthat she would have asked Con-stance...."
"Why?" asked Van der Welcke, coldly.
"We-ell, because she used to go toCourt, in theolddays. And youtoo, didn't you, Van der Welcke?"
"Yes, I too," said Van der Welcke, drily.
"Van der Welcke," said Karel. "Did you get that card of mine?"
"What card?"
"Why, when you were expected in town, I called and left a card on you."
"So did I, you know, Van der Welcke," interrupted Van Saetzema.
"Oh, yes," said Van der Welcke. "It was very civil of you fellows. Well, I'll leave a card on you one of these days."
"Oh, I didn't mention it for that!" said Van Saetzema.
"I didn't mention it on that account!" echoed Karel, swelling with geniality. "Only I should have thought it a bore if it had been mislaid."
"Ye-es," whimpered Cateau. "Because then it would have looked as if we weren't friend-ly.... How red thebridelooks, Saet-ze-ma! That white makes Em-ilie look soveryred."
"Yellow, rather," said Van Saetzema.
"Ye-es," droned Cateau. "Now your Floortje, Saet-ze-ma, looks sosweetin white. And what anicefellow Dij-kerhof is! Such a thoroughman. But how pale Ber-tha looks!"
"Green, rather," said Van der Welcke, very seriously.
Cateau looked up, with her owl's eyes:
"Green?" she repeated, cautiously. "Do you re-ally think Ber-tha looksgreen, Van der Wel-cke? Yes, she is tired, no doubt."
"To-morrow," thought Van der Welcke, "all the Hague will know that I thought Bertha looked green...."
A tableau was discovered in the distance. The idea was Paul's and he explained it to Constance:
"You see, it represents Luxury. The great wheel crushing down upon Marietje and Carolientje is Industry; and Floortje is Luxury, standing in a dancing attitude on Industry and scattering gold and ropes of pearls at twopence a rope. It's not quite clear, perhaps, Luxury standing upon Industry and crushing Marianne and Carolientje. Floortje is fidgeting and giggling. Oh, I must tell you, Adolphine was delighted when she heard that Floortje, her Floortje, was to be Luxury and to crush Bertha's Marianne!"
Constance, surrounded by all her family, was in a gentle, happy mood:
"Oh, Paul, it's a very nice, motherly feeling on Adolphine's part, to like to see her child happy before another...."
Paul spluttered with laughter:
"So you think that Floortje is happy as Luxury, on the top of Marianne and that Marianne suffers badly underneath! Connie, how sentimental you are to-night and what silly things you say!... But you're looking very nice. Come, let's go and sit down here. Your hair is turning grey, but I have an idea that you leave it untouched for some coquettish reason, because it goes so well with your young features. It's a very pretty shade of grey. It's not old hair. But you're young still, you know. And you're looking nice, very nice...."
"I believe you're making fun of me...."
"I love good-looking people; and one sees so few of them. Just glance round the room: all ugly people; one walks crooked, another has a stoop, this one's bust sticks out for miles, that one has a fat stomach. I can't stand parts of the body that bulge: it makes me sick to look at them.... Yes, to be accurate, nearly everybody's ugly. Do you know, if you were to take all the heroines out of all the novels in the world, you'd just get one heap of pretty women. No novelist ever dares take an ugly, squinting, crooked or hump-backed heroine. If I were a rich man, I'd offer a prize for a hideous heroine.... Yes, look at Aunt Lot," and he imitated Mrs. Ruyvenaer's Indian accent, "glitteringwith diamonds;and her two hands patting her brown satin stomach. Another stomach; and I can't stand stomachs.... But good-natured, all the same, is Auntie! Look at Uncle: he's unbuttoned his waistcoat, the rude fellow!... Have you noticed my waistcoat, Connie? It's white drill, it's very smart.... I say, Connie, look at Mamma: what a grand old woman, the way she walks, laughs and talks! Now that's something like: you see at once that she's a great lady. Look at old Mrs. Friesesteijn beside her: common, noisy, spiteful; a figure like a charwoman's. Hideous, hideous!... Look at Ernst, Connie. Would you ever believe that was a brother of mine? Just like an old Jew; and what a dress-coat, what a dress-coat! Where on earth did the beggar get it cut? He spends all his money on jugs and vases!... Look at Gerrit, Connie. He's pretending to be gay again, the jolly hussar, with the broad chest all over lace frogs. Poor fellow, he's dying of melancholy! You don't believe me? It's true, I assure you.... Look at Adolphine, Connie. Just like a bird talking slander: pip, pip, pip! How Bertha's ears must tingle! Great Heavens, those eyes of Bertha's, always blinking! She ought to have something done to them.... Look at Dorine, Connie. She always looks repulsive.... As a matter of fact, Connie, there are only two good-looking people in the room: Mamma and yourself...."
"And you, Paul...."
"Your husband has a good figure too: he has an attractive back. I have an eye for nice backs. I don't like my own back; and yet my coat sits well, doesn't it? A dress-coat is a very tricky thing. Nowadays, there is hardly a tailor who can cut a good dress-coat. Yes, my waistcoat is very smart: just look at it. The buttons are smart, aren't they? They are uncut sapphires. Yes, you have a smart little brother.... Come, take my arm and let's walk round the room. Have you heard: they're all furious, the Ruyvenaers, the Saetzemas, Karel and Cateau, because they were not asked to the first party? The idea was to give it before the signing of the contract, but Otto's arrival came and upset it. He's another failure, that Otto, with his little tissue-paper wife.... Look at those Van Ravens, Connie. They're hanging on for all they're worth to Van Naghel and Bertha, lest they should be degraded at being seen with the Saetzemas.... Tell me, Connie: are you glad to be back? Are you really fond of all these relations?... I don't believe I have that family-affection which you and Mamma have; and Bertha; and Dorine. Bertha has it in her own house; Dorine and Mamma go scattering kindnesses broadcast over all the children and grandchildren.... I say, Connie, this is what people call enjoying themselves, because two of them are going to get married. But look all round: there's not a soul really enjoying himself. And that's what Van Naghel and Bertha spend a couple of thousand guilders on: giving them some dinner and a dance and letting them gaze at my Luxury, with Floortje dancing on top of Marianne. Look at those faces. Not one is naturally cheerful. Nature, nature, Connie: there's no such thing as nature among people like ourselves! We have not a gesture, not a word, not even a thought that is natural. It's all pose and humbug with every one of us; and nobody is taken in by it. Really, it's a disgusting business, a society like ours, what one calls good society. Can't you understand an anarchist loving to fling a bomb into the midst of us: for instance, at Uncle Ruyvenaer's stomach? No anarchist likes a stomach: the stomach is the trademark of the bourgeois.... Now they're going to dance: look how hideously they're spinning round the room. Just like palsied sparrows. We human beings are much too solemn and heavy to dance with any grace. Look, it's almost ghastly. Through all that pretence at elegance and smartness and dancing and gaiety, you can see that one has a stomach-ache and another a head-ache, that Van Naghel is thinking of how they went for him in the Chamber yesterday and Adolphine wondering how she shall make her wedding-parties seem only half as grand as Bertha's. . .."
She let him talk and he never ended: he could go on prattling for ever. His mother, sisters and nieces often told him to stop, moved away and left him in the midst of his outpourings; but Constance liked him, saw, indeed, a good deal of truth in what he said, in spite of all his humbug. He saw through the people around him with an insight which surprised her and which she was startled to find was not wholly inaccurate. It was certainly true that these people were not simply natural and merry. They had come there from politeness to Bertha and Van Naghel; but, in reality, one was tired, the other envious....
"Auntie," said Emilie, who was walking round the room on Van Raven's arm, "if Paul once gets hold of you, he'll never let you go...."
She called her youngest uncle by his Christian name. She was really a pretty girl, though Paul did not see any good-looking people there, and, by the side of her, her future husband was such a pale, insignificant person that people wondered why she had accepted him. She was rather thin, but there was something dainty, uncommon and original about her in her cloudy white frock; she had a pair of charming eyes of a strangely-twinkling gold-grey, like an unknown jewel; her hair was reddish, with a glint of gold in it; and there were a few tiny freckles on the clear-white complexion which often goes with that hair. She had a pretty laugh, a soft voice, a coaxing way of being nice and saying pleasant things; and, above all, she possessed an innate distinction and, as she passed, white and gleaming, she had something, one would almost have said, of a very beautiful alabaster ornament, or of a snowy azalea in the sunlight: a luminous fairness, dainty and transparently veined with palest blue. Constance knew that Emilie had a talent, something more than the usual girlish accomplishment, for painting, but that, in her busy life as a young society-girl, she had never had the opportunity to develop it. And Constance wondered at Van Raven, pale, thin, stuttering, stammering, spruce and yet awkward, with one shoulder higher than the other and his three hairs of a moustache twisted up towards his eyes. He was at the Foreign Office and he belonged to a family whose rigid Dutch orthodoxy was shocked by much in the Van Lowes, in the Van Naghels and especially in the Indian element of the Ruyvenaers: nevertheless, in view of the general reputation for wealth enjoyed by the colonial secretary, they had considered his daughter a suitable match for their son. Van Naghel and Bertha were making her a handsome allowance.
When Emilie and Van Raven passed on, exchanging civilities with the guests, Constance expressed her surprise to Paul:
"Can she really be fond of him?"
"She? Not a bit of it! Then why is she marrying him, you ask? That's just the mystery. Van Naghel and Bertha are not husband-hunters, like Adolphine. Louise has had three proposals and refused them all. And why Emilietje—that delicate, white little thing, who really has something nice about her: something artistic, something dainty, something exquisite and, I should say, almost something natural—why she accepted that weedy ass, who puts on German ways on the strength of a fortnight in Berlin, with his moustache twistedà la Kaiserand his stiff military bows, I really cannot tell you. Bertha, who was very glad when Otto got married, cried when Emilietje accepted this chap. The fellow's as stupid as my foot.... Those are neat socks of mine, aren't they?... Yes, Connie, why do some people get married? Adolphine and Saetzema: why? I ask you, in Heaven's name, why? Otto and Frances: why?"
She felt that he had it on his lips to say:
"And you and Van der Welcke: why?"
But he did not; and he ran on:
"Marriage is a terrible thing, I think. To pick out one among hundreds and say, 'I'll marry you, I'll live with you, I'll sleep with you, I'll eat with you, I'll have children by you, I'll grow old with you, I'll die with you: are you willing?' Great God, Connie, how is it possible that people ever get married? It's a toss-up always: I shudder when I think of it!"
"Paul, tell me: who are all these people?"
She knew hardly one of the acquaintances: some sixty people lost among the forty members of the family. This was the first time that she had "gone out" again at the Hague; and, although many of the guests had asked to be introduced to her, she had not talked much, had forgotten the names at once. Paul, greatly in his element, explained to her where the people had come from, to what set they belonged: people who did not know or never saw one another, or else did not bow although they knew one another, brought together at this wedding-party because one family knew the Van Naghels and the other the Van Ravens. It was doubtless because of these foreign elements that the party was so stiff, that the conversation was constantly flagging, that the people who did not dance wandered aimlessly around, watching the dancers with a look of resigned martyrdom. Emilietje moved about among them, white, diaphanous and very charming: with Van Raven at her heels, she exchanged a word with every one. Van Naghel and Bertha also were quietly busy as host and hostess, as society-people who are used to that sort of thing and who go through it mechanically, really thinking of what they will have to do next day. The members of the family kept on popping up among the mere acquaintances. And, in the midst of them all, the most fidgety was Dorine: she was very fussy, as usual, worked herself into a fever collecting things for the cotillion, did not dance, but just trotted about: Paul christened her the camel.
It was strange, perhaps, but Constance felt happy and contented at Paul's side. She had seen nothing of the sort for years; and she felt a certain peace and satisfaction at being in the midst of her own relations. Tears were constantly coming to her eyes: she did not know why. At the first Sunday-evenings at Mamma's, she had not felt this family-affection so intensely, perhaps because she was still too timid. Oh, how had she ever managed to live through those fourteen lonely years at Brussels! For years she had felt the delight of love, sympathy and friendship only for her child; and now she felt it for all of them. Through her there passed once more that feeling which was so strong in Mamma: an inward glow which she had not known for years, a good, comfortable feeling that she could now grow old, that henceforth she could devote herself to her child, in the familiar atmosphere of home and domesticity. And she did not notice, did not suspect that the family and the acquaintances were stealthily examining her, judging her and condemning her.
"She's a fast woman," said Mrs. Van Raven, Emilie's future mother-in-law, to Mrs. Friesesteijn. "It's a great trial for the Van Naghels to have this sister turning up from Brussels."
"After fourteen years," said the old lady, sharply, eager for news, for scandal, "after fourteen years, to give occasion for rooting up all those old memories!"
And Mrs. Friesesteijn was delighted that Constance had done so.
"She killed her father."
"I knew De Staffelaer. No one ever had a word to say against him."
"During all those years, her husband's people refused to know her."
"I hear that she is intriguing like anything to go down to them now."
"The child is not Van der Welcke's."
"No, his father was an Italian."
"She's really a most improper person."
"Marie's her mother, after all: one can't blameher."
"But the family...."
"Ought to have stopped her...."
"From coming to the Hague."
"That's what I think, mevrouw."
"Yes, so do I."
"She's living on her husband's people."
"Well, the Van Lowes all got something from the father, you know."
"It wasn't much."
"No, not much."
"It's a very unhappy marriage."
"Yes; and the boy is shockingly brought up."
"They let him do as he likes."
"Just think, mevrouw:the boy took the house for them!"
"You don't mean it!"
"Yes, really!"
"What a state of affairs: it's all so immoral!"
"What did she come to the Hague for?"
"She was bored in Brussels. And she wants to thrust herself forward here, at Court."
"So I heard."
"Yes, that's so. Old connections, you see: the Van Naghels and so on. She wants to go to Court."
"Oh, but the Van Naghels will take good care that she doesn't."
"At least, they will if they're wise."
"What an example for the girls, that aunt of theirs!"
"You know, De Staffelaer found her in Van der Welcke's arms."
The two old ladies whispered:
"No!"
"Yes, really!..."
"He's a low fellow, too."
"Yes, there's a woman in Brussels."
"If they had only stayed there!"
"How very select Aunt Constance is to-night," said Floortje to Dijkerhof.
"She's been sitting with Paul the whole evening," he answered.
"Of course, no one is good enough for her!"
"No. When you've been the wife of a diplomatist...."
"And afterwards Baroness van der Welcke...."
"What did they come to the Hague for, exactly?"
"Mamma thinks, because she is afraid that, when Grandmamma, who doesn't look far ahead, dies...."
"Well, what then?"
"Well, that she won't get her full rights."
"Oh, nonsense!"
"I tell you, she doesn't trust us."
"But, surely there's a will; and, in any case, the law ..."
"Yes, but she doesn't know that, by Dutch law, all the children share and share alike. And, to make sure of what she's to get, she wants to be on the spot when Grandmamma dies. They owe a heap of money."
"And does he do nothing for a living?"
"No. He used to sell wine at Brussels."
"Nice people, those relations of yours, though they are barons and diplomatists!"
"Oh, we don't look upon them as relations! Mamma said so distinctly."
"And so," said Mr. Van Raven to Van Naghel and Van Saetzema, "you think they came to live here merely ..."
"Because they were feeling very lonely in Brussels."
"But the family...?"
"Were against it. I myself discussed with Mamma van Lowe whether if wouldn't be better to advise them not to ..."
"And?..."
"Well, Mamma is the mother, you see. When all is said, Constance is her daughter. We all of us gave way. And then it is so very long ago that...."
"I must say," said Mr. Van Raven, emphasizing his words, "that it was verygenerousof you all."
"Yes, Van Naghel took a very generous view of the case," said Van Saetzema, who looked up greatly to his brother-in-law—a minister, an excellency—flattering him, keeping on friendly terms with him.
"And we all did, all of us, as Van Naghel thought right."
"Still, one never knows," said Mr. Van Raven, thoughtfully. "But, forgive me: she is your sister-in-law; and it isverygenerous,mostgenerous of you...."
Two aunts of Adeline's stopped the fair-haired little mother:
"Adelientje!"
"Yes, Auntie?"
"That new sister of yours: do you like her?"
"Is she nice?"
"Yes, Auntie, really very nice."
"But she's been an improper woman."
"Oh, Auntie!"
"Yes, yes, yes, my girl, we know all about it; you be careful."
"And don't become hand-in-glove too quickly."
"You're so thoughtless, Adelientje."
"And Gerrit is so good-natured."
"Take care, both of you!"
"A woman like that can do him harm in his career."
"Oh, come, Auntie! If the Van Naghels receive them!"
"Yes, but the Van Naghels disapprove of them strongly."
"Still, she's their sister."
"Everybody's talking about them. People say...."
"What?"
"That Constance is not ... well, that she's not her father's child!"
"But Auntie, that's a frightful thing to say!"
"Because the Van Lowes were always so respectable, she can't...."
"No, she can't be a daughter of...."
"Of old Van Lowe's."
"I say, Auntie, this is scurrilous!"
"Adelientje!"
"Auntie, I won't listen to another word!"
Cousins of the Van Saetzemas', talking with the IJkstras, relations of Cateau's:
"Poor dear Adolphine!"
"She's furious!"
"What at?"
"Oh, all sorts of things! First, because the Van Naghels gave a party at which the whole family were ignored."
"Oh, well, that certainly was rather...."
"Then, because Adolphine has no room in her house to give a party at which she would ignore the family in her turn."
"And because of the seat which she was given at dinner this evening."
"And because of Emilietje's two witnesses: her Uncle Van Naghel, the Queen's Commissary in Overijssel, and Karel van Lowe, whereas she says that Van Saetzema is older than Karel and therefore...."
"And also because of Emilietje's frock, because that flimsy white thing came from Brussels and cost three hundred francs."
"What a heap Van Naghel must be spending on the wedding!"
"No, it's Bertha: it's the Van Lowes who always throw money about."
"Exactly, that's what I say: Adolphine does the same thing, just as though she could afford it."
"That's because all of those Van Lowes are eaten up with pride and conceit."
"Yes, since the father became governor-general, they have always acted like megalomaniacs."
"The old lady is a regular peacock."
"And Bertha, with her smart acquaintances!"
"And then that Mrs. van der Welcke: she's got a nice past to look back upon! And she behaves as though she were the Queen!"
"They're quite an ordinary family, the Van Lowes."
"Yes, they're nobodies: the grandfather was a grocer."
"No!"
"Yes, I assure you!"
"And that mad Ernst, who's always studying the family-papers to discover if they are not of noble descent!"
"Oh, he's mad, if you like!"
"In fact, they're all a little bit mad."
"Yes, there's a strain of it in all of them."
"A strain? Something more than a strainIcall it. And it's continued in the Van Naghels."
"Adolphine's the best of the lot."
"She's a megalomaniac, though, for all that."
"I say, this Mrs. van der Welcke: what has she come here for?"
"Well, she thinks the whole thing has blown over. It was fifteen years ago, you see. And she's married to Van der Welcke."
"Not according to Dutch law."
"No, but she can get married again."
"Yes, but they are not, they arenotmarried according to Dutch law."
"Well, in that case,Idon't look upon them as married at all!"
"Not according to Dutch...."
"No, but...."
"Yes...."
"No...."
"Yes...."
The party ended and the guests departed.
Next day, Emilie and Marianne van Naghel were hard at work in their boudoir. They shared a sitting-room between them; Louise, the eldest sister, had one to herself. Emilie was taking down water-colours from the wall:
"The room was so bright and cheerful!" she said, softly, and put the drawings together.
Marianne suddenly burst into sobs. The room was all topsy-turvy, because Emilie was collecting her belongings, and the wall-paper now showed in fresh, unfaded rectangular patches.
"What on earth do you want to marry that horrid man for!" cried Marianne, sobbing. "We were so happy, the two of us; we were always together. With you married, I shall have no one; and I hate the idea of arranging my room all over again."
Emilie seemed to be staring blankly into a blank future:
"Oh, come, Marianne: I shall still be at the Hague!"
"No, I've lost you!" sobbed Marianne, passionately. "What did you see in that man, whatdidyou see in him?" She embraced her sister violently and insisted. "Tell me, tell me: what did you see in that man?"
"In Eduard? I love him."
"Oh?" said Marianne. "Is that all it means, loving a man? Is that love?"
A maid entered:
"Freule, there's a box come from Brussels, with your dresses. Mevrouw wants to know if it can be brought up at once, so as not to make a litter downstairs."
"Yes, they can bring it up."
Overwrought, Marianne had sunk into a chair and closed her eyes. She was in a state of nervous excitement, while Emilie, with strange calmness, was collecting boxes, portraits, ornaments.
"Emilie," said Marianne, resignedly, "what a mess you're making!"
"Never mind, I'm taking it all away."
"Yes, that's just it: everything's going away, everything's going away!"
"Marianne, do control yourself."
Two maids came dragging along a packing-case.
"Where shall we put it, freule?"
"Leave it there, in the passage."
Bertha came upstairs:
"Unpack it at once, Emilie, or the things will crease."
"Do you think it's my wedding-dress?"
"I expect so."
"Then it can go on the bed."
"No, it had better be hung in the wardrobe."
The servants opened the packing-case and produced cardboard boxes. A third maid entered:
"A bill from Van der Laan's, mevrouw."
"Marianne, here's my key-basket; just pay it, will you? It's sixty-six guilders."
The two Leiden boys came upstairs:
"Jolly beastly, I call it," said Frans. "You never find any one in the drawing-room, when you come home. Either it's a party, or else everything's upside down."
"Bless my soul, girls," said Henri, "look at the state your room's in!"
"I say, shall I help you unpack?"
"Mevrouw, I can't understand what the young mevrouw'sbaboe[10]says...."
"Mau apa,[11]Alima?"
"Njonja moeda[12]asks ifnjonja besar[13]would mind coming upstairs," said thebaboe, in Malay.
"Yes, I'll come at once."
"What are you all doing here?" asked Marietje, at the door. "Mamma, has Emilie's dress come? May I see?"
"If you please, mevrouw, the old mevrouw and Mrs. van der Welcke are downstairs.... Shall I ask them to wait in the drawing-room?"
"Granny!" shouted Frans over the balusters.
"Half a moment!" said Henri, rushing down the stairs. "I'll fetch Granny and Auntie."
Marianne began sobbing again:
"My dear child, what's the matter now?" exclaimed Bertha.
"I'm going mad!" cried Marianne.
Emilie kissed her.
Old Mrs. van Lowe came slowly up the stairs, gallantly escorted by her grandson, and was met on the landing by her other grandson.
"Granny, Emilie's wedding-dress has come and she's going to try it on!" cried Marietje, excitedly.
"Am I in the way?" asked Constance.
"No, of course not, Constance," said Bertha.
"Come in."
All the doors of the boudoir and bedroom were open. Louise came in—she usually kept out of the way at busy times—and, together with Bertha and the lady's maid, shook out the white dress, which straightway filled the whole room with a snowy whiteness....
"What is it,baboe?" asked Mrs. van Lowe. "Njonja moedaasks ifnjonja besarwould come upstairs," repeated thebaboe. "But perhaps if thekandjeng njonja besar[14]could come...." she added, piling on the titles out of respect for the old lady, who had once been thenjonja besar Bogor.[15]
"Then I'll go up," said the old lady. "Constance, will you come too?..."
Very slowly, a little tired after the stairs, the old lady climbed up, with her hand on the baluster-rail. Constance followed her. On the top floor, there was a sudden draught; doors slammed.
"Baboe.... Is there a window open?"
Thebaboeran about stupidly, unfamiliar as yet with Dutch doors and windows.
In a sitting-room, they found Frances, Otto's wife, with the two children.
"But, Frances, you've got a window open!"
"Oh, Grandmamma, I was suffocating!"
"Baboe, shut the window at once! Frances, how could you!"
"I can't,kandjeng!" sighed thebaboe, pressing with the strength of a gnat on the bars of the solid Dutch window.
Constance helped her, pushed down the window.
"This is Aunt Constance, who has come to make your acquaintance, Frances. But Frances, you're still in yoursarongandkabaai!"[16]
"Isn't that allowed, Granny? How d'ye do, Aunt?"
"Child, how Indian you've become in these few years!" cried the old lady, angrier than Constance remembered ever seeing her. "How is it possible, how is it possible! Have you forgotten Holland? In March, with the window open, in a tearing draught, with both the children, you insarongandkabaaiand Huig in a little shirt! Do you want to kill yourself and the children?Baboe, put abaadjeonsinjo![17]Frances, Frances, I spent years and years in India, but even in India I was nearly always dressed; and, when I came back to Holland, I had not forgotten Holland in the way in which you, a purely Dutch girl, have forgotten it in these few years!"
The old woman had taken the child on her own lap and was dressing it more warmly.
"Grandmamma, how you're grumbling.... It'd be better if you told cook to make Ottelientje'sboeboer[18]properly: the child can't eat that starch they give her. And she toldbaboethat she had no time to cook it differently. The whole house has gone mad because Emilie is getting married. We really can't stay here, on the top floor at Papa and Mamma's."
"Frances, dress yourself first, or I shall get really angry."
"Allah, Grandmamma!" cried Frances, irritably; but, when Constance gave her the same advice, she flung a wrapper over hersarongandkabaaiand remained like that, with her bare feet in slippers.
"No wonder you're always ill!" grumbled Grandmamma, still busying herself with the child.
"Oh, Aunt Constance, I wonder if you would run down to the kitchen and tell cook that Ottelientje can't have herboeboermade like that?"
"My dear Frances," laughed Constance, "the cook has never seen me, nor I her: and, if I went to her kitchen and talked about theboeboer, she would only turn me out."
"What a country to live in, Holland!" cried Frances. "My child is starving for food!"
"I'll go down to Mamma, if you like...."
"Yes, do, would you?"
Constance went downstairs. In the boudoir, Emilie, in her wedding-dress, was standing in front of a long glass. The heavy white satin crushed her, looked hard and cruel upon her, now that her hair was not done and she tired and pale.
"The bodice doesn't fit. It will simply have to go back to Brussels," said Bertha.
"It's sickening!" said Emilie; and the word sounded almost like a curse between her lips.
"Marianne, will you write the letter? I'll pin the dress up. Or no, I had better write myself. Constance, do look!"
"There's a crease here," said Constance, "but it's not very bad. Daren't you have it altered here?"
"Upon my word, I'm paying...." Bertha began, but she checked herself and did not say how much. "And to have it fit badly into the bargain!"
"Bertha, Frances asked me to come and see you."
"What about?"
"There's some trouble about Ottelientje'sboeboer."
"I'll go up," said Bertha, worn-out though she was.
The maid, holding up Emilie's train, followed her into the bedroom; Marianne and Constance remained behind alone. Constance saw that Marianne was crying.
"What is it, dear?"
"Oh, Auntie!"
"What is it?"
"Is life worth all this bother and fuss? Getting married, moving your things, dancing, giving dinners and parties, ordering dresses that don't fit and cost hundreds, being ill, having babies, eatingboeboer: Auntie, is it really all worth while?"
"Why, Marianne, I might be listening to Paul!"
"Oh, no, I'm not so eloquent as Paul! But I'm suffocating with it all, I'm stifling and I'm terribly, terribly, terribly unhappy!"
"Marianne!"
The young girl suddenly burst into nervous sobs and threw herself into Constance' arms. Around her, the room was one scene of confusion; the doors were all open.
"Marianne, let me shut the doors."
"No, Auntie, don't mind about that, but stay with me, do! It's more than I can stand, more than I can stand! I'm so tired of this rush, of this unnecessary excitement, of the party yesterday, of those tableaux-vivants, of Floortje's jealousy, of Aunt Adolphine's spitefulness, I am tired, tired, tired of everything. I can't stand it, Auntie. I'm so fond of Emilie, we've always been together, it was so nice, so jolly; and now, all at once, she's getting married to that hateful man; and she's taking away her sketches; and it's all over; and now everything's gone, everything's gone! And Henri too is so upset about it: he dotes on Emilie, just as I do, and he can't understand either what she's doing it for. She's very happy here; Papa and Mamma and all the rest are fond of her; we had such a nice life, even if it was a bit overdone and I don't care for that everlasting going out; but now it's all over, all over! I sat crying with Henri yesterday; and at the party we had to be gay; and every one thought that he was gay, the gay undergraduate; and the poor boy was miserable; and yesterday I had to appear in that tableau; and Floortje was so horrid and spiteful; and Henri and Frans had a dialogue to do; and the poor boy couldn't speak his words; and I ask you, Auntie, why all this unhappiness, when we were so happy together?"
She clenched her fists and, through her sobs, suddenly began to laugh aloud:
"Oh, Auntie!... Ha, ha!... Oh, Auntie!... Don't mind what I say! I am mad, I am mad, but it's they who are driving me mad: Mamma, the boys, the servants, thebaboe, Frances and the children! It's one great merry-go-round! Ha, ha!... Did you ever see such an everlasting rush as we have in this house?"
She was now sobbing and laughing together; and suddenly she remembered that she had let herself go too much with a strange aunt and that Mamma did not like these spontaneous confidences to strangers; and, because she wanted to recover herself, she suddenly became rather dignified and asked:
"Did you enjoy yourself fairly yesterday, Aunt Constance?"
"Yes, Marianne, I thought it very nice to be back among you all."
"Don't you like Brussels better than the Hague?"
"It was so quiet for us, lately, in Brussels."
"Rome, I should like to see Rome."
"Yes, Rome is beautiful."
They were now silent and they both felt that things of the past parted them, the new, strange aunt, who had come back from the past, and the young girl, who was suddenly afraid of it.
And, without understanding why, Marianne sighed, in the midst of this shrinking fear:
"Oh, for a joy, a real joy that would fill me entirely! No more dinners and dresses and excitement about nothing, but a real joy, a great joy!"
She felt so strange, so giddy, but she still found strength to say:
"It's a pity that you were away from us so long. We should always have liked you and Uncle very much, but now you are both so strange still, to all of us."
"Yes," replied Constance, very wearily.
And she did not understand why she suddenly felt very sad, as though, after all, for manifold reasons, she had not done well to come back, though there had been that hunger for her own people, her own kith and kin....
"A joy, a great joy!" Marianne again sighed, softly.
And she pressed her hands to her breast, as though distressed by her strange longing....