"Well, then, Connie, here goes!"
And Gerrit gave his sister an offhand kiss.
"You're a couple of pastoral characters!" said Paul. "I can't compete with you."
"And now, Constance, a glass of champagne ... to drink to all the family and to our native land," said Gerrit; and, with Constance on his arm, he walked across the room to the buffet.
"Adelientje," said Paul, "was there ever such a madman as your husband?"
But Adolphine approached triumphant, trailing her satin train, which she thought magnificent, and, radiant with self-complacency, asked:
"Adeline, tell me now, what do you think ofmyparty?"
"Oh, beautiful, Adolphine!" said Adeline.
"Adolphine," said Paul, "your party is simply dazzling. I have been to many parties in my life, but one like to-night's, never!"
"And a good dinner, wasn't it?"
"The dinner was so good, it couldn't have been better."
"How do you like my new dress, Adeline? Just see how it fits."
She passed her hands over her bosom.
"It's a very charming dress, Adolphine," said Adeline.
"Adolphine," said Paul, "that velvet on the collar of Saetzema's coat...."
"Yes?..."
"That'sgoodvelvet."
"Yes, they're his new dress-clothes, from Teunissen's."
"And that satin of Floortje's dress...."
"Yes?..."
"That'sgoodsatin."
"Oh, what do you know about satin?"
"Every one's saying so."
"Really?"
"Yes, I heard them saying so all over the room."
"Not really?"
"Yes, as I moved about among the people, I heard it whispered on every side, like a rumour: 'Have you noticed the satin of Floortje's dress?... I say, did you notice the satin of Floortje's dress?...'"
Adolphine looked vaguely in front of her, not knowing what to believe:
"Well, that frock cost ... a hundred and twenty guilders!" she said, lying to the extent of forty guilders; and, radiant, she went on and talked to Mrs. Bruys, the wife of the editor of theFonograaf:
"And, mevrouw, what do you say tomyparty?"
"Paul," said Adeline, in gentle reproach, "I was really frightened that Adolphine would notice...."
Constance was happy. She began to realize more and more that she now had what she had missed for years: her family; she held it a privilege dearer every day that she was back in her own country, in Holland. It was as though she became more and more penetrated with the consciousness that she had found all her near ones again, that they had one and all forgiven her the past; and sometimes she imagined that it was not really twenty years since she went away: those twenty years seemed to shrink. In her brothers and sisters she recognized by degrees all the peculiarities of former days, just as though they had grown no older; and Mamma had remained exactly the same. Nor could she but admire secretly the almost childlike simplicity of Van der Welcke, who moved about calmly in the midst of her relations, though they were all utter strangers to him and though he; of course, could have no family-feeling for any of them. He was most intimate with Paul and oftenest in his company. Constance would have liked to see more of Bertha, but it was true, they lived at some distance from each other; and yet they found each other again, as sisters, in that conversation shortly after Emilie's marriage. Constance indeed was surprised that an open-hearted talk such as this was not more often renewed between Bertha and herself; but, in any case, they now felt as sisters. As for Karel and Cateau, no, they remained distant and strangers, were hardly more intimate with her than if they had been remote acquaintances; but Gerrit had conceived a sort of passion for Constance; and, inasmuch as she had shown so much tolerance towards Adolphine, the latter really seemed a little more gently disposed to her, for Adolphine remembering all Constance' admiration and praise of Floortje's trousseau, had been heard to say:
"She's not so bad, Constance; Constance can be rather nice when she pleases."
It was summer now; and Constance felt happy. Bertha and her children went to Switzerland, where Van Naghel was to join them in August, and Adolphine went for a month to the Rhine, but Mamma remained at the Hague; and Constance was delighted to see her mother every day. They often drove out together; and they would leave the carriage in the Scheveningen "Woods" or in the Hague "Wood" and walk along the paths. And Mamma always talked about the children, or the grandchildren, or the two great-grandchildren: the children of Otto and Frances, who had gone to Switzerland with the others. As Bertha was not at the Hague that summer, the old woman had transferred her partiality to Gerrit's children, thinking them nice because they were so young. And so she and Constance often went to Gerrit's and found him in the little morning-room, ready to go out, in uniform, rattling his sword, clinking his spurs; fair-haired and heavy and strong in his tight uniform and varnished riding-boots, while two small girls and two small boys, all fair-haired, flaxen-haired, with soft, pink cheeks, climbed over him where he sprawled in his big easy-chair: Gerdy and Adeletje and Alex and little Guy; while the eldest, Marietje, eight years old, lifted the little baby heavily in her arms, and a bigger baby crawled among the legs of the table and chairs in search of a broken doll. In the midst of this fair-haired medley—all the children delicately built like dolls, with their flaxen curls and their soft, pink blushes—Gerrit was like a giant, looked still taller and stronger; his uniform filled the room as he moved; romping with his children, he seemed able, with one movement, to send them all—Guy and Alex and Adeletje and Gerdy, who hung on to his arms and hands—tumbling over the floor, to the terror of Grandmamma, who thought him too rough; but Adeline was always very calm, herself also fair, softly-smiling, she too, with her delicate little fair face, her figure already assuming the rather matronly proportions of a little wife who has many children and who, although young, has lost all coquetry in regard to slenderness. She was simple and gentle, just a small, fair little woman, for ever bearing children to her great, heavy husband, as a duty of which she did not think much, because Gerrit wished it: a nature of smiling resignation, always pleasant and calm, never excited or upset because of her turbulent little brood and always calmly performing her motherly little duties. She was expecting her eighth in November; and there seemed to be always room in the small house for more and more turbulent, fair-haired children. Then Mamma van Lowe, who had come with Constance after lunch, would ask:
"Well, who's coming for a drive with Granny?..."
And usually it was so arranged that, besides Adeline herself, some four fair-haired little ones were taken into the landau: three of the children were crowded inside and Alex went on the box, entrusted to the special care of the coachman. Then Mamma van Lowe's face beamed with joy, while a long drive was taken through Voorburg, Wassenaar or Voorschoten, and the children were regaled on milk, if the opportunity offered. Or else they merely drove to Scheveningen; and Mrs. van Lowe made quite a stir at Berenbak's, every one staring at the carriage out of which, besides the three ladies, came the three little children, while Alex scrambled down from the box. The waiter would put two tables together; and ices and pastry were ordered. And, whereas, at the Van Naghels' house, the old woman enjoyed above all the veneer of state which distinguished their life, the life that reminded her of her own great days, she enjoyed herself in a different way amid that little brood of Adeline's, enjoyed all that fair-haired, merry, natural youthfulness, where there were no pretensions whatever to state: she was no longer the worldly grandmamma, interested in official dinners and receptions and the Russian minister, but the radiant grandmamma, who rejoiced at having so many dear little grandchildren, all so young. It was pleasant, she would say to Constance, that Gerrit had married rather late—he was thirty-five when he married—because through that, she said, she had so many young grandchildren. And it was nice, she said, that they were Van Lowes, the only little Van Lowes, three little sons to keep the name alive, for Karel had no children; and Ernst and Paul were sure never to marry, she thought. And, though she did not care much for the name and reckoned all grandchildren as profit, as so much to the good, she nevertheless felt most for the little Van Lowes, for the three little boys especially, for the heirs of the name which she had married. And so, while winter was the time which she enjoyed at the Van Naghels', she devoted her summer at the Hague to Gerrit and Adeline. She helped Adeline, who had to be very careful with a moderate income and such a large troop of little ones, and regularly, in the summer, the old lady dressed the fair-haired little children, gave them all something, saw that they had pretty clothes to go about in.
And Constance also delighted in this simple household, especially since Gerrit had conceived a sort of passion for her. Gerrit and Paul were her brothers now; and Dorine sulked a bit. She did not get on with Constance, she could not tell why. Constance had spoken so very nicely to her that first evening; and Dorine had helped Mamma, with all her heart, to prepare a cordial welcome for Constance among the brothers and sisters. But their natures were not made to harmonize; and Dorine was now muttering that Constance must always have men about her, that she got on best with Gerrit and Paul, who both paid court to her after a fashion. Her brothers had never paid court to her, Dorine, after any fashion. Yes, pretty women were always at an advantage, even with their own brothers. All she, Dorine, was good for was to trot about and run errands for the brothers and sisters. And yet it was very strange, but, since Bertha and Adolphine had been out of town and Dorine went oftener to Adeline's, she would ask of her own accord, "Adelientje, I'm going into town this afternoon: is there anything I can do for you?" and, when Adeline answered, "It's very sweet of you, Dorine, but really, there's nothing I want," Dorine would reply, "Well, just think again: I have to go into town, you see;" and then, if Adeline said, "Well, Dorine, if you're going in any case, would you look in at Schröder's for some pinafores for Adeletje and at Möller and Thijs' for shoes: they all want shoes," Dorine would go off at a trot and hurry, with her wide-legged, shuffling gait, to Schröder's and to Möller and Thijs', muttering to herself:
"When it's not Bertha or Adolphine, it's Adeline who manages to make use of me!"
"I think Gerrit a most companionable brother," said Constance, one evening, while Paul sat taking tea with her.
"Yes, he's a good sort, but he's queer."
"But why queer, Paul? You're always saying that and I have never taken any notice of it. Why is Gerrit queerer than Ernst or yourself?"
"Well, Ernst isn't normal either and I ... only just."
"But Gerrit, surely, is normal!"
"Perhaps. Perhaps he is. But sometimes I fancy he's not."
"But what does he do, what is there about him that's strange?" asked Constance, indignantly, like a true Van Lowe, defending her brother as soon as that brother was attacked.
"Gerrit has been married nine years. Formerly, he was a very lugubrious gentleman."
"Gerrit lugubrious!" Constance laughed heartily. "My dear Paul, your knowledge of human nature is deserting you. Gerrit, a healthy fellow, strong as a horse, an excellent officer, a jolly brother, a first-rate father with all his fair-haired little children: Gerrit lugubrious! Where do you get that idea from? Oh, Paul, sometimes, from sheer love of paradox, you say such very improbable things!"
"You did not know Gerrit as he was, Constance."
"I knew him as a boy of fourteen, when we used to play in the river at Buitenzorg. Gerrit is still always flying into ecstasies about that time and my little bare feet! Then I knew Gerrit as a cadet and as a young subaltern, twenty years ago; and he was always pleasant and gay."
"And I remember Gerrit, ten years ago, lugubrious and melancholy."
"Oh, every one has an occasional mood! Perhaps he had an unhappy love-affair: why not Gerrit as well as another?"
"I may be wrong, of course."
"When I see Gerrit, in his big chair, with all those children climbing over his legs and chest, he looks to me the very personification of happiness. Oh, Paul, and I too, I too feel happy: I can't tell you, Paul, how happy I am to be back here in the Hague! And now, now you do all care for me a little again: even Adolphine was very nice lately, before she went away; and I am happy, I am so happy!"
"You have a very gentle, noble, pastoral nature, with a strong atavistic tendency!" said Paul, teasing her. "Look, here are your husband and your boy back with their bicycles, just like two brothers, an elder and a younger brother. They make a good pair. Now, if you're so happy, don't be jealous and try and remain as pastoral all the evening as you are at this moment ... even if your husband should enter the room presently!..."
The old woman walked with slow steps along the paths of the garden, carefully examining each separate rose with her grey eyes. Her legs seemed to move with difficulty along the narrow gravel-paths that wound through the front-garden; and her frame was bent, as though deformed. In a wicker-work chair on the verandah sat the tall, old figure of the husband, his ivory forehead bulging above the pages of the newspaper which he held in his large, shrivelled hands....
Evening fell. A nameless grey melancholy fell from the pale summer sky over the country-roads, along which the peaceful villas faded into the shadows of their gardens. The old woman looked up at the sky, looked out over the road, with her hand shading her eyes, walked on again, slowly and painfully, carefully examining each separate rose.... Then she went back to the house:
"It is getting cold, Hendrik; don't stay out too long."
"No."
But the old man remained sitting where he was. The old woman went in, wandered through the sitting-room and the dining-room. She passed her pocket-handkerchief lightly over the furniture, looking to see if there was any dust on it; and, as the parlour-maid had cleared the table, she pulled the cloth straight, put a chair into its proper place, smoothed away a crease in the curtain. She went into the conservatory, looked into the back-garden. Her sad grey eyes gazed out into the grey melancholy of the darkling night. The wind rose, moaned softly through the topmost twigs of the trees.
The old woman looked round at the old man, but he remained sitting in the wicker chair, lost in the great pages of his newspaper:
"Don't catch cold, Hendrik," she repeated, gently.
"I'm coming."
But the old man remained sitting where he was. Now the old woman wandered down the passage, listened at the door of the kitchen and of a small back-room: voices sounded, the voices of the maids and the butler. Then she went up the stairs, wandered through the bedrooms, wandered through the empty spare-rooms, with a sigh, because they never came. Everything was neatly kept, hushed and quiet, as in a house that lacks life....
The old woman, bent and tottering, sighed, was restless. She wandered again through all the bedrooms and wearily made her way downstairs again, crossed the passage, entered the living-room. The old man was seated there now; the windows into the garden were closed. He had folded up his paper and, seated by the window, was still gazing out to where the road of villas grew darker and darker in the chill dimness of the late-summer evening, now beginning to rustle with the rising wind. Then, stifling a sigh, the old woman sat down at the other window, wearily folded her hands, placed her tired feet side by side on a stool.
The room grew dark, the windows turned grey, just outlined by the curtains. The road was more and more blurred in the dimness of the windy night. A grey melancholy reigned without and a grey melancholy reigned within, with those two old people, each sitting silent at a window, lonely and forlorn, drearily sunk in their own thoughts. They sat thus for a long time, quietly, without a word. Then the old woman said:
"It is Henri's birthday to-morrow."
"Yes," said the old man. "He will be thirty-nine."
And they said nothing more and stared before them. Then the old woman grew, restless again and rose from her chair with difficulty, hobbled through the room, holding on by the chairs as she went, and rang the bell:
"Light the gas and bring in the tea, Piet."
The butler lit the gas, drew the curtains and brought the tea. The old man sat down at the table with a book; and the light fell harshly on his ivory forehead and his blue-shaven face; his gnarled, bony hands cast large shadows over the book, turned the pages at regular intervals.
"Here's your tea, Hendrik."
The old man drank his cup of tea.
Then the old woman also took her book and read....
Slowly, in the course of years, she had read her Bible less and less, because she was wicked after all and because she had never resigned herself to the sacrifice which she had made, which it was her duty to make, before God and man. Then she chanced on a wonderful book which described what happened to people after death. And this book she read every evening.
But she was unable to read, this evening. As a rule, the old pair read, over their cup of tea, till ten o'clock, in silence, and then got up and went to bed. But the old woman could not read this evening. Her aching feet fidgeted on the stool, her bent body moved in vague discomfort. And she asked, still casually, nervously:
"Will Henri be thirty-nineto-morrow, Hendrik?"
"Yes."
She knew quite well that he would be thirty-nine, but she wanted to say it again, wanted to talk of her son. For fifteen long years, she had not seen him; and his birthdays, the anniversaries of the day on which she had borne him, her only child, had passed while he was very far away, too far for her to reach him and take him in her arms. For many years, she had hoped:
"Now it will come, now it will come nearer."
But it had not come nearer. Until suddenly it was very near, until suddenly it was there. Now it was here, after long, long years; and yet it was not here, it was far away....
She could not read, got up, went out of the room, across the hall. The old man stared after her, went on reading. And it was as though her disquiet kept increasing, as though a voice—one of those voices of which she had read in that strange book—said to her:
"Go, go to-morrow!"
Never had a voice spoken so plainly to her, the old woman, and as it were ordered her to go, to go to-morrow. She was very old, in years, in movement and in feeling; and she never, never travelled. She lived quietly in her house beside the country-road, summer and winter alike; and sometimes she went for a little drive in the neighbourhood: Beyond that she no longer went, for she was gouty and full of aches and pains which bent her withered back. For years and years, she had not travelled, had not sat in the train which, for years, she had heard whistling at the station, sometimes even heard rumbling. And now the mysterious voice so plainly and insistently commanded:
"Go!"
Then she went back to the room, sat down and, this time, was unable to stifle her sigh. She sighed. The old man heard, but did not know how to ask her why she was sighing. For years, for long years, there had been so little said between them. Only now, this spring, when Henri's letter came, they had spoken, but not much. A couple of days after receiving the letter, the old man said:
"I will write to him."
And that was really the only thing that had been said. But they had not lived so many years in silence, side by side, without learning to hear each other speak though both were silent. They knew, without speaking, what either said, silently in his heart. Only now, though the old man himself was thinking of Henri that night, he did not know what his wife was saying to him, silently, without words, in that one sigh; and this was because he did not read that strange book and never heard the strange voices. Therefore he sought for a word to say and found it very difficult to find a word, but at last he did speak and said, simply:
"What is it?"
He did not look up, went on reading his book as he spoke.
Then the old woman's aching feet fidgeted still more nervously on their stool; the bent shoulders shivered more nervously under their little black shawl; and she began to cry, softly.
"Come, what is it?"
He pretended to go on reading his book, because talking and crying were so difficult, and because it was easier to pretend to go on reading.
The old woman said, because his old voice had spoken gently:
"I should like to go to Henri, to-morrow."
Now they were both silent; and the old man went on reading; and the old woman, waiting for his answer, ceased crying, ceased moving her feet, her shoulders. And, after a silence, the old man said:
"Take Piet with you, then, to help you."
She nodded her head; and the tears flowed from her eyes, while she drew her book to her, inwardly pleased that he had said so much and said it so kindly. She sighed once more, this time with relief, and read on. But her eyes did not see the words, because she was thinking that to-morrow she would be going with Piet, the butler, in the train—in which she had not been for years and years—to the Hague, to see Henri.
"Go!" the voice had said. "Go!" the voice had commanded.
And she was going. It had come at last, come so near that it would be there to-morrow: not that Henri was coming to her, but that she was going to Henri, to kiss him, to forgive him....
And she read on, did not see the strange words which told what happened to people after death, but wept softly, inaudibly, over her book, wept for still contentment and peace, because he had spoken to her and had said:
"Take Piet with you, then, to help you."
When it was ten o'clock, he closed his book, stood up. And she would so much have liked to ask him if he too would come with her to-morrow, in the train, to Henri, because it was not so difficult and Piet could take the tickets. But she did not ask him, because she knew that it was even more difficult for him than for her to travel and go by train, that train which he also for years had heard whistling and sometimes rumbling. So she did not ask him, because he would certainly refuse. And without a doubt he heard within himself what she hesitated to ask him, for he said, gently:
"I shall not go; but give him many good wishes, from his father."
Then, stiffly and with difficulty, he bent his tall figure and his ivory forehead, went to her and kissed her on the brow. And she took his gnarled hand and pressed it gently. Then he went upstairs and she rang the bell.
The butler entered.
"Piet," she said, hesitatingly and shyly, and she blushed before the butler. "I am going to-morrow to the Hague, to Mr. Henri. It's his birthday. And I should like you to take me there."
The man looked up in surprise, smiled:
"Very well, ma'am, as you please."
And, as she went up the stairs, she tried to hold herself more erect; she felt younger....
And in her room she hardly slept for nervousness about the great event that was to happen on the morrow. All the night through, while the wind moaned against the panes, she lay in bed, with unclosed eyes, listening whether she could not hear in the voices of the wind yet other voices, strange voices, voices warning or commanding the living.
She had never spoken to her husband about the voices, though he was well aware that she read the strange book and disapproved of her reading it, because it could not be fit and proper reading for people who, from their childhood, had believed that the best of all books was the Bible and the best of all beliefs the belief in the Lord, from Whom every sorrow came and every blessing. And she had hidden the strange book also from the old minister, who came to see them every week, since they both, growing older each year and ailing, had ceased to go to church: she put the strange book out of the way when he was expected on a Sunday-afternoon; but she studied it without concealment from her old husband and yet in silence, as though guilty of a secret heresy. He had asked her once:
"What are you reading there?"
And she told him the strange title and said that she wanted to enquire into things, but nothing further had been uttered between the two old people, though she heard him silently express his disapproval. But, since the day when, years ago, she had yielded to her husband and consented to the superhuman sacrifice of surrendering her son to the woman whom that son had plunged into unhappiness—because this sacrifice was the duty which was required of her by divine and human equity—since that time she had had no peace, read as she might in her Bible, talk as she would with the minister, pray as she did for hours on end. She had had no peace: deep down in herself she had always borne a grudge because Heaven had laid so heavy a sacrifice upon her, the mother. Her husband had had the strength of a man who pursues the straight path, the path of duty, and he had surrendered his son and lost him without a superfluous word. But she, though she also spoke no word, had not resigned herself; and her soul had rebelled; and she had thought that she was lost for all eternity ... until a gentle ray had come, by accident, to comfort her out of the strange book which, by accident, she had taken up and opened. And, still a believer, though she no longer went to church and though, in her heart, she did not agree with the minister, did not agree with her old husband, she nevertheless endeavoured to unite, to reconcile, to blend what remained of the old faith, which had once stood firm as a rock, with the new faith; and, when she prayed, she prayed indeed to the same God of her old, former faith, but she listened also to the voices, to that part of the invisible world which hovers around us and saves us and guides us and warns and protects us and sets its soft-smiling compassion between us and the rigid immutability of the divine grace or displeasure, tempering the divine brow into a softer glance. That was her secret; and what she silently told her husband of the new faith still remained an unpenetrated secret to him in the dumb evenings when they sat together and read and he heard her, in silence, say that she believed differently from what she once did because she had found no peace in that divine immutability.
And now the day came which was Henri's birthday. She dressed very early, with difficulty and with shaking hands, and, when Piet told her that there was a train at nine o'clock, she blushed and remained quietly waiting for the carriage to be got ready and for Piet to come and tell her. She was her ordinary self at breakfast, but tried, without attracting attention, not to eat, because the bread stuck in her throat; and, when, at the breakfast-table, her husband asked if she had not telegraphed to Henri, she answered:
"No."
Almost inaudibly and silently, she thus conveyed to her husband that she wished to give Henri a surprise.
She remained sitting motionless; did not wash up the breakfast-cups that morning, as she was always wont to do; was a little uncomfortable in the presence of her husband and the parlour-maid and Piet at this omission of her usual habit. She heard the clock ticking, the seconds falling away; and she was afraid that, if Piet loitered so, she would be late, or that there would be an accident. Luckily, the morning-paper came; and the old man plunged into its pages while she remained waiting, in her cloak and her unfashionable, black, old lady's bonnet, for Piet to come and say that it was time to go. The parlour-maid washed up the breakfast-cups; and she was afraid the maid would break one, because she was not used to it. It made quite a change, throughout the house, that she was going this morning by train, to the Hague, to Henri, whose birthday it was. She was uncomfortable and she feared that the people along the road and at the station would stand looking and wondering why Mrs. van der Welcke was going on a journey. And, when, at last, Piet came to tell her, she could not get up at first, because her old legs shook so and her feet pricked her, as though they had been asleep. But she made a painful effort, stood up, gave Piet her purse; and the old man said:
"Piet, will you look after mevrouw, getting in and out of the train?"
Piet promised; and she took leave of her husband. The carriage was at the door; and she dared not look at Dirk, the coachman, because she was shy, while Piet held open the carriage-door and helped her to step in, with some little difficulty. In the carriage, she shrank back, because the woman with the vegetables was just passing and she was afraid that she might see her. Also she reflected that the people in the other villas would be sure to see the carriage drive out and wonder what was happening, so early in the morning. But, when, at the station, Piet helped her to alight and led her to the little waiting-room and went to take the tickets, she was very shy before a lady and gentleman who were also waiting and who no doubt thought it very strange that she, an old woman, should go travelling like that. Fortunately, Piet had calculated the time and she had not long to wait, at which she was very glad, because the whistling of the trains and the ringing of the bell made her very nervous, terrified lest she should miss the train, and she did not know to a minute at what time it started. But Piet came to tell her and fetched her; and she tried to walk straight and, assisted by Piet, to climb into the carriage not all too painfully and laboriously. Piet had taken a second-class ticket for himself; and she would rather have had him come into her compartment, but he had, of course, not dared, from respect for his mistress, and she had not dared ask him. But she resolved to sit very quiet until Piet came to fetch her. The lady and the gentleman were in the same compartment as herself, but they were very polite: the gentleman had bowed and the lady too; and fortunately they did not look at her again, but talked to each other in low voices. And, when the train moved off, the old woman sat quietly, with set lips, looking out of the window at the meadows speeding past.... Now she was beginning to wonder what Henri would say and she also thought of Constance and of her grandson, Adriaan. And she was a little frightened at what she had done. They might be out, or very busy with the Van Lowes, Constance' relations. She did not quite know in what way Henri and Constance lived, at the Hague. Henri, it was true, had been to Driebergen again, just once more, by himself, but she had received no distinct impression from his words, because she had hardly listened, had only sat gazing at him, her son, whom she had not seen for so many years, who had not been allowed to exist for her.... She trembled suddenly at what she had dared to do, but it was now too late. She was sitting in the train; and the train was carrying her along; and also she did not know how to tell Piet, when the train stopped, that she would rather just go back again. Then, from sheer inability to do otherwise, she at last found courage to sit still and let the train take her on until it slowed into the station at the Hague and Piet came to fetch her and helped her climb down the high steps of the railway-carriage. Piet now led her slowly and quietly through the busy crowd of people, which he allowed to flow ahead of them, and out of the station, chose a nice cab, helped her in, gave the address of Baron van der Welcke, Kerkhoflaan, and got up on the box, next to the driver. And now, seated in the cab, which rattled over the cobble-stones, she was glad, after all, that she had persevered and she thought that it was not so very difficult, after all, and believed that, after all, Henri would perhaps think it nice of her to have come without notice. It was a long drive; and she had not been to the Hague for years and had forgotten the streets and squares; but, at last, the cab stopped and she looked out while Piet climbed down from the box, rang the bell, opened the door of the cab, helped her out....
Yes, she was there now and she trembled violently when the maid opened the door and she entered the hall. She was there now. And she could find nothing to say when a door in the passage opened and Constance, amazed, came out to her. This was the second time that she had seen that woman....
"Mamma!"
"Yes, I thought I would come, because it was Henri's birthday...."
She knew—she had not failed to understand—that her son was not happy with that woman and she felt a certain disappointment that it was not Henri himself who came out to welcome her.
But the astonishment in Constance' face changed to a look of soft and glad surprise. She was very sensitive to kindness and she felt that it was kind of this old woman to come: this old lady who never went anywhere, who had come with her butler....
"How pleased Henri will be!" she said, gently, and her eyes grew moist. "How very pleased Henri will be! He is out now, on his bicycle, but he'll be back soon. Come in, take off your cloak inside: I'm afraid there's a draught out here. Good-morning, Piet: so you've brought mevrouw? Go into the kitchen, Piet, will you? Come in, Mamma. How delighted Henri will be! He is sure to be in very soon. And this is my mother, who has also come to see us this morning."
She led Mrs. van der Welcke into the morning-room; and there stood old Mrs. van Lowe. And, when Constance closed the door, the two old ladies looked at each other and were both very nervous; and Constance felt like that too, trembling in her limbs. The old ladies looked at each other; and it was as though the two mothers, with that long, long look, asked each other's forgiveness, after many long years, for their two children. Then Mrs. van Lowe approached and put out her two hands; and her words sounded very simple:
"I am so delighted to make your acquaintance, mevrouw...."
Yes, they asked, without saying so, they asked each other's forgiveness for the offence which their two children had committed, years and years ago, against each other and against themselves and against their lives. They asked each other's forgiveness with the unspeakable gentleness of two very old women who still looked upon their children, whatever their age might be, as children, as their children. They asked each other's forgiveness without words, with a glance and a pressure of the hands; and Constance understood so plainly what they were asking each other that she quietly left the room, feeling suddenly like a child, a tiny child that had behaved badly towards those two mothers.... Constance felt it so intensely that she went by herself, through the dining-room, into the conservatory and wept, very quietly, swallowing her tears behind her handkerchief. And the old ladies were left together, the two mothers, so different one from the other: one, Mrs. van Lowe, a woman who perhaps had seen much more of life and understood it better than the other, Mrs. van der Welcke, who had always lived quietly, always at Driebergen, with her Bible ... until the strange book had fallen into her hands....
They were left together and the very many things which they said to each other and asked of each other, in silence, were not audible in the simple words of Constance' mother:
"May I help you take off your hat and your cloak, mevrouw?"
And, as she assisted Mrs. van der Welcke, she apologized for Constance and said:
"I think your arrival must have agitated her; you must not mind her leaving you for a moment...."
Then the old ladies sat down side by side.
"They seem to be very comfortable," said Mrs. van der Welcke and looked around her nervously.
"I am so glad to have my child back with me," said Mrs. van Lowe.
There was very much to be said between them, but they spoke only simple words, doubtless feeling all the unuttered rest. Their thoughts went back, many years back: how hostile they had then felt towards each other's children, who had disgraced each other and their two families; if they had met each other then by chance, as now, they could not possibly have looked at each other gently, as now.... But the years had toned down the pain and the cruelty; and now it was possible and even agreeable for these two, mother and mother, to press each other's hands and to exchange glances that asked for forgiveness.
"I also came to wish Henri many happy returns. He is sure to be back with Addie for lunch," said Mrs. van Lowe.
But Constance returned; and now, in her own house, in her own drawing-room, she felt shy and quite different from what she felt when, offended and slighted, she had stood before Henri's parents, at Driebergen, on that first and only visit. It was as though the combined presence of those two mothers made her like to a child that had done wrong. She felt as she had never felt before, felt small and childlike; and, when, as was often her habit, she went to sit close by Mrs. van Lowe, she took her mother's hand and laid her head upon her mother's breast and no longer controlled herself, but wept.
And Mrs. van Lowe again looked at Henri's mother, as though she wished to say:
"If it can be, do not condemn my child too severely, even as I do not judge Henri too severely."
And, because there now flowed through her soul a gentle happiness that had its source in contentment, Constance felt the poignancy of that moment of Henri's home-coming when, tired after his ride, he walked in with Addie and found his mother there, his mother, who never left her house, sitting there in his house, between Constance and Mrs. van Lowe....
Had some bond really been established at last, after long years? Had those who could find no point of union that other morning, at Driebergen, at last come closer? Was there really some sort of tie? And was it just that it took a very long time—years and years and then months after that—for things to become more or less easy and pleasant?... In this mood, Constance' voice instinctively had a softer note; and she felt at the same time a child to those two mothers and very old to herself, very old in this lulling of passion and anger and nerves. Would it be like this with her now, would her life just go on in a succession of more and more placid years, would she just live for her son? She asked herself this, deep down in her soul, almost unconsciously; and a shadowy melancholy floated over her, because of those two old mothers, because of Henri, because of herself. Was that how old age approached, like this, with these gentler years? She was forty-two, she was not old, but, still, was old age approaching in this way, so softly? And, while she asked herself this, in a passive, melancholy mood, devoid of anger and passion, there hovered about her a vague feeling that she would now grow old and that she had never lived.... Never lived.... Never lived.... It hovered, that shadowy discontent, in the midst of her gentle content.... Never lived.... She did not know why, but she thought for just one moment—a ghost of a thought—of Gerrit, of Buitenzorg, how they two, the little brother and sister, used to play in the river.... It was as if it had not been she, that little girl with the red flowers, as if it had been another little girl.... Never lived.... But what ought she to have done to feel that she had lived, now that she was growing old? Vanity, balls, her marriage, Rome, her love-affair, the scandal: was that living? Or was it all a mistake, mistake upon mistake, fuss and excitement about nothing?... Now, now it was over. Existence was becoming placid, less bitter, more kindly; but, still, she felt it, she had never lived....
But she did not know what she ought to have done to make her now feel that she had lived; and she let the strange feeling be lulled to rest in the soft melancholy that filled her, because of this gentle kindliness that had come now, with the years, the grey haze of years. She sighed the strange thought away and she thought that it had to happen and that it could not have been otherwise and that even so she would never have known anything different.... Never lived.... But, then, had hundreds of men and women around her ever lived?... And she now shook herself free of this strange mood; and, laughing softly, happy in spite of her melancholy, she saw that the table was laid and asked the two mothers to come in to lunch.
Was it the grey haze of years then?... Was she growing old and were things becoming easier and more pleasant?... And had she never lived?...
"I do think it so very nice," she said, "to have both the Mammas together at my table...."
In a small town like the Hague, the sudden appearance of Constance and her husband, after many years, could not but be the occasion for an interchange of gossip that was not easily silenced. The Van Lowe family had connections in various sets—the aristocratic set, the upper official world, the military set, the Indian set—and, just because of these connections in more than one set, there arose a cross-fire of criticism and condemnation, neither of which had lost any of its sharpness, even though people had not given a thought to Constance for years. On the contrary, the gossip was a sort of raking up of all that could be remembered of former days, a repetition of all the criticism and all the condemnation which these very people, for the most part, fifteen years ago, had passed among themselves, from one to another, as so much current coin. If it had sometimes seemed to Constance as though the period of her absence contracted and was no longer twenty years, to all those people who knew her, or knew her relations, or knew relations of her relations, that interval had no existence whatever; and it was as though the scandal dated from yesterday, as though she had married her lover, Van der Welcke, yesterday. And, while she herself, in her gentle happiness and melancholy contentment at being back among her kinsfolk, in her country, for which she had longed so greatly abroad, while she noticed nothing of this cross-fire, through which she walked quietly—in the street, at the time of the two weddings, at Scheveningen and now—it continued among all those people—acquaintances, friends, relations—continued, never ceased fire. To all of them she had remained the Mrs. De Staffelaer of old, who had never returned to the Hague since her marriage and who was now back with Van der Welcke. At visits, at tea-parties, at evening-parties, at the Witte or the Plaats, at Scheveningen, everywhere, the rapid cross-fire began, as a pleasant sport for all of them:
"You know, Mrs. De Staffelaer...."
"Van Lowe that was...."
"Yes, the one who went off with Van der Welcke...."
"Yes, I remember: she married him...."
"Yes, she's back."
"Yes, so I hear."
"Yes, she was out driving yesterday with old Mrs. van Lowe."
"So she's back again?"
"Yes, she's back!"
In this way the cross-fire began, suavely and rapidly, as a conversational sport.
"And so she is received by her relations?"
"Yes. And even at Driebergen."
"Is it really twenty years ago?"
"No, it can't be as long as that."
"She has a child."
"Yes, a boy; but not by Van der Welcke."
"The father's an Italian, I hear."
"Yes, an Italian diplomatist."
In this way the fire continued, brisk, crackling, fiercer and fiercer, until it went off like a brilliant and acrid fire-work:
"Well, I don't think the family will likethatso very much!"
"You need only look at Van Naghel's face...."
"Or at the Van Saetzemas'."
"Why don't they keep her in the background?"
"Yes. What did she want to come back for at all?"
"I call it an impertinence."
"She was always intriguing as a young girl."
"That marriage with old De Staffelaer...."
"And what is she ferreting round for now?"
"Yes, what on earth is she ferreting round for in the Hague?"
And they ferreted round for what she was ferreting round for in the Hague. They ferreted very deep, very far, after the brilliant cross-fire; they dug up, among themselves, all the sand of their suspicions and flung it about one another's ears:
"They had a very expensive establishment abroad and were unable to keep it going any longer."
"She wants to be near her mother because she's afraid that, when the mother dies, there will be trouble about the will."
"It was he who wanted to come back, for the sake of an old mistress of his."
"She wants to go to Court."
"No, it's he who wants to go to Court."
"Yes, they both want to go to Court."
"She wants to go to Court...."
"She wants to go to Court...."
"She wants to go to Court...."
"But what a piece of impudence!"
"Even if she was in that set once...."
"That is no reason...."
"Why she should dream...."
"Of being presented...."
"Now...."
"Well, you'll see: this winter...."
"She wants to go to Court...."
"To Court...."
"But that's not the only reason."
"No, he too is afraid that his parents will disinherit him, as far as they can...."
"And now he proposes...."
"To soften them, by means of the child...."
"Which isn't even his!"
"What difference does that make?"
"The old people don't know!..."
And they ferreted very industriously and dug up the sand and kept up their cross-fire as a sport for the tea-parties and evening-parties, at the Club and at Scheveningen.
"Look here," said others, "Van der Welcke behaved like a gentleman."
"What! To run away with another man's wife?"
"No, but to marry her afterwards."
"There aren't many who would have done it."
"She's older than he."
"Six years older."
"No, four years."
"No one else would have done it."
"No, no one."
"And he was a deucedly decent fellow."
"Always was."
"Always was."
"She was older than he, she knew the world...."
"And she seduced him; he was quite a youngster."
It all sounded as though the years, the many years, had never existed.
"Yes, but, you know, it's sometimes difficult, for a woman who's young and pretty...."
"Then why did she marry such an old man?"
"Out of vanity, nothing but vanity."
They judged, defended and condemned her as though the years, the many years, had never existed.
The acquaintances of the Van Lowes, or of their acquaintances, or the relations of their relations were no worse than other people. But they met one another at tea-parties and at evening-parties, at the Witte and at Scheveningen, and they must have food for conversation. Whatever important things might be happening in the world, the one interest, when all was said, was to discuss, over and over again, a case like that of Constance. They disliked neither her nor Van der Welcke; and her case even attracted their interest, if not their sympathies. Only, the Van der Welckes must not think that their memory was so poor that they did not remember the "case" jolly well.... Only, the Van der Welckes ought not to have come back to the Hague, bringing fresh scandal into the exalted morality of the different Hague sets.... Only, there must be no question that people who were so much talked about should dream of being presented to Court....
"And nevertheless they do intend to be presented...."
Constance, in her quiet happiness, noticed none of it; and Van der Welcke, who, at the club, was within nearer range of the cross-fire, did indeed sometimes observe a look and gesture, sometimes overheard a word, but thought it of no consequence, even when it caused him a moment's irritation.
After the summer holidays, Addie, who was now in the third class at the Grammar School, sometimes went to his Van Saetzema cousins on a Sunday afternoon, rather against the grain, for there was not much love lost between them. But, as he had not failed to notice that the three boys tired his mother greatly when they came to the little house, however much she liked to keep up the relationship, he made it a sort of duty to go to them once a fortnight, or so, either for a walk or for a bicycle-ride. It was more natural to him to go about with boys who were his seniors; he had made a couple of older friends at the Grammar School; and even Frans and Henri van Naghel, who were young fellows of twenty-three and twenty-four, said that it might sound very funny, but they always thought it jolly when Addie looked in. But, to please his mother, who disapproved of this tendency to spend his time with his elders, he would go and walk or bicycle with the three Van Saetzemas, while despising them in his heart for unmannerly young louts, stupid as well as ill-bred and, in addition, having their mouths ever full of coarse talk and suggestive jokes. They were not fond of Addie, but they looked up to him a little, just because they knew that the older cousins, the Van Naghels, the undergraduates, thought Addie a nice boy, though he was as young as the Van Saetzemas, while looking upon the Van Saetzemas themselves as mere brats not worth noticing. But, for this very reason, they did not see how Addie could care to go to Uncle Gerrit's and play with all those babies there. They thought him a queer boy, they did not really like him; but his intimacy with Frans and Henri van Naghel gave Addie a sort of manly, grown-up air which they secretly envied. And so, in order, in their turn, to appear manly and grown-up before Addie, they could never, walking or bicycling, pass a woman without exchanging a coarse word or phrase or disapproval, like young men-about-town who know all about everything.
Then Addie chuckled inside himself, for he could never laugh outright, even though he wanted to:
"You fellows sometimes call me an old fogey," he said, "but, whenever you pass a woman, you talk like old fogeys of things you know nothing about."
"Oh, do you know more than we do?"
"I don't say that, but I haven't my mouth always full of it."
Then they were angry, because their assumption of rakishness made no impression, and they did not understand how Addie could flatly admit his innocence and ignorance. They, on the contrary, were ashamed of their innocence and ignorance, were burning to lose both as quickly as possible, had not the courage to do so yet, though they sometimes did go down the Spuistraat of an evening. And Addie thought to himself:
"Mamma ought just to hear them, or to see them lounging along the streets; then she wouldn't ask me every Sunday if I have been out with Jaap and Piet and Chris!"
And, though they did not like Addie, they were flattered when he came and asked:
"Are you fellows coming for a ride this afternoon?"
They did not like him and they gave him all sorts of nicknames among themselves: Old Fogey, the Baron, the Italian....
Then Marietje would ask, gently:
"Why do you always talk so unkindly of Addie?"
And then the three boys laughed and teased Marietje with being in love with "the Baron."
But Marietje, who was sixteen, shrugged her shoulders, feeling grown-up already: in a year's time, she was going to boarding-school, near Cleves. No, she, who was sixteen, was not in love with a little cousin of thirteen, with a child; but she thought him a nice boy all the same. The three brothers and their friends had never danced, or talked, or bicycled with her, or paid her any attention, whereas Addie behaved like a gallant young cavalier. In that noisy, fussy, bawling household, the girl had always been a little fragile, a little pale, a little quiet, like a small, gentle alien that could not cope with the hard voices of Mamma and the sisters and the rough horseplay of the brothers; and Addie talked so nicely, so pleasantly, so politely, so gallantly, so very differently from Chris and Piet and Jaap.
"The Italian wasn't here last Sunday."
"Then he's sure to come to-day."
"He always comes once a fortnight."
"That's the Italian fashion."
"Why do you boys always call Addie the Italian?" asked Marietje.
Now the three burst with laughing:
"That's nothing to do with you."
"Little girls shouldn't ask questions."
"I think it a silly nickname," said Marietje, "and it means nothing."
They burst out laughing again, full of importance and worldly wisdom.
"That's because you don't know."
"If you knew, you'd think it witty enough."
"It's a damned witty nickname."
"Chris, what language!"
"So you want to know why Addie is an Italian?"
She shrugged her shoulders, played the grown-up sister:
"I think you're silly, just like children. That nickname means nothing."
They burst with laughter once more:
"Don't you know what they do in Italy?"
"In Rome?"
She looked at them, her louts of brothers; she vaguely remembered incautiously-whispered remarks about Aunt Constance, about the time when she was still the wife of the Netherlands minister at Rome, of that old uncle De Staffelaer whom she had never known.
"Well, look here: what do you think the name means?..."
She grew uncomfortable, fearing that they were suggesting something improper which she did not understand:
"I don't know," she said, "and I don't care."
"Then you shouldn't call it a silly name."
But now Marietje was really interested and so she asked Caroline, a little later:
"Do you know why the boys call Addie the Italian?"
"Because they're silly," said Caroline.
"No, there must be some reason, but they wouldn't tell me."
Now Carolientje was puzzled in her turn and she asked her mother, later:
"Why are the boys always calling Addie the Italian, Mamma?"
"I don't know," said Adolphine, sharply.
But the girls, both curious, continued to talk about the nickname and they sounded Karel and also Marianne and Marietje van Naghel.
No, none of them, either, knew what the name meant. But Karel was determined to find out and did find out:
"I know," he said to his little sister, Marie.
"I know," Marie whispered to the Van Saetzema girls.
But Marietje van Saetzema did not yet quite understand, but she would not let this appear, because Caroline would have thought her such a baby. If Auntie had never married an Italian, how could she have a son who was an Italian?
The nickname came to the ears of Herman Ruyvenaer, the youngest son of Uncle and Aunt, a lean little brownsinjoof fifteen, who mentioned the nickname at home to his sisters Toetie, Dot and Pop.
"Allah, it's too bad!" said the girls. "It's a shame of those boys, Mamma; just listen...."
"Oh, no, I don't believe it," said Aunt Ruyvenaer, when she heard. "Gossip, I say;kassian, Constance!"
But Uncle Ruyvenaer told her that it was so.
"But how do you know?"
"Adolphine told me herself."
"Oh, nonsense, she wasn't there!...Kassian, that boy and his mother!"
And Aunt Lot and the girls refused to believe, were indignant; and Auntie called her husband an old gossip. But the nickname was often on the lips of the young boy- and girl-cousins and of their friends at home and at school. Once, Addie thought he heard a boy shout to him, by way of an abusive epithet:
"Italian!"
He did not understand, did not even apply the word to himself and walked on.
Another time, however, bicycling with the Van Saetzema boys, along the Wassenaar Road, he grew angry because Jaap was trying his hardest to run over a cat:
"Leave the animal alone," cried Addie, furiously, "or I'll punch your head!"
"Oh?" roared Jaap. "You would, would you, Italian?"
Addie did not yet understand. But he had a vague recollection of hearing the name before. He did not at once recall the incident of that other boy:
"Why do you call me an Italian?" he asked.
The others were frightened, pulled Jaap's sleeve.
"That's nothing to do with it," growled Jaap, taken aback. "You say you're going to punch my head."
But Addie, in a flash, remembered the boy and that shout in the street near the school:
"Out with it!" he cried. "Why do you call me an Italian?"
Chris and Piet tried to smooth things over:
"Come, don't bother; he's talking rot."
"But why an Italian?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing!"
"Yes, there's something. I mean to know!"
"Keep your hair on; it's nothing."
"Out with it!" cried Addie, scarlet with rage. And he flew at Jaap's throat.
"Oh, hang it! Shut up!" shouted the two others.
But Jaap and Addie were struggling. Their boyish hatred suddenly burst forth:
"Out with it! Why do you call me an Italian?"
Addie was very strong, stronger than Jaap, who was a year and a half older than he and taller. He got him down: his small, hard knuckles were at Jaap's throat; and he was nearly strangling him. The others pulled him off:
"That'll do, I say! Shut up!"
They pulled Addie away from Jaap; and now Jaap, furious because he had been beaten, purple in the face, half choking, unable to control his hate, cried out:
"Because you're not the son of your father!"
"Hold your jaw!" shouted Piet and Chris to Jaap.
But the word was spoken and Addie was like a madman:
"You hound! You hound!" he yelled.
And he tried to fling himself on Jaap again.
The two other boys held him back. And a sudden reasonableness came to soothe Addie's passion: he must not let himself go like that, against that cur of a Jaap. When that young bounder lost his temper, he didn't know what he shouted and raved, "Italian!" and "Not the son of your father!" Addie shrugged his shoulders:
"I've had enough of cycling with you chaps. I can spend my Sundays better than in tormenting cats and quarrelling and fighting."
And he sprang on his bicycle and rode away.
"Italian!" Jaap screamed after him once more, forgetting everything, except his hatred.
Addie looked round; and he saw that Chris and Piet, both furious, were thrashing the very life out of Jaap.
He rode away, mastering his nerves. No, he could never again, to please Mamma, spoil his Sunday holiday with those cads of boys. This was the last time, for good and all! Besides, he felt that they liked him as little as he them. And then, suddenly, his thoughts went back to the strange word, the word of abuse, and to the boy who, once before, had shouted it after him in the street. That time, he had not imagined that it was he whom the boy meant.
Try as he would to keep calm, he was too much excited to go straight home and perhaps meet Papa and Mamma. He therefore rode to the Bezuidenhout, hoping to find Frans van Naghel in: Henri was not at the Hague, was working hard at Leiden.
He found Frans at home, in the two elder boys' sitting-room, smoking with a couple of friends.
"Well, old man, what is it?"
And he took Addie outside.
"I've been fighting with that cad of a Jaap. He called me an Italian, Frans. What did he mean?"
Frans started; and Addie noticed it, became suspicious.
"Oh, nothing, old man: it's just that he's an ass!"
"No, Frans, there must be some reason why he called me that; and I mean to know the reason."
"Don't worry about it, old chap."
"And the other fellows licked Jaap because he said it. And then Jaap also said ..."
"Well, what else did Jaap say, old man?"
"That I ... that I was not the son of my father."
Suddenly, while he was unbosoming himself in the warmth of Frans' sympathy, a light flashed across him. He remembered the mysterious fits of sadness of Mamma's, scenes with Papa, during those early days at the Hague, when he had vaguely noticed in his mother something as though she were asking for forgiveness, humbling herself before Grandmamma, before the uncles and aunts. And all this, taken in connection with Papa and Mamma's former residence in Italy, in Rome, caused to flicker before him as it were a reflection of cruel truths. As he looked at Frans, these cruel truths flickered up before him again. He had read much for his years; his school, his school-friends had soon revealed some of the mysteries of life to him, though he was still a boy, though he was still a child, with a child's innocence in his soul and his eyes, with the soft bloom of that innocence on his child's skin and his child's mind, even though there was something of a little man about him. And, suddenly, he saw everything: the rage of the boys because Jaap had given himself away, their confusion and now Frans' confusion....
"Not the son of your father?" repeated Frans. "They're asses, those three louts.... Come, Addie, don't have anything more to do with those clod-hoppers. When they're coarse, they're very coarse and they don't know what they're saying."
"Yes," said Addie, with sudden reserve, "that's what it must be, that's what it is."
"Come, Addie, come for a walk, will you, with the two Hijdrechts? We were going to the Witte; but, if you'll come with us, old man, we'll go to Scheveningen instead."
The boy's senses suddenly became very acute and he heard a sort of pity in Frans' voice. He began to feel very unhappy, because of that pity, restrained himself spasmodically from sobbing, gulped it all down: all about Italy and that he was not the child of his father. And he hesitated whether he had better hide somewhere, all alone, or stay for sympathy, with Frans....
"Come along, old man, come with us," said Frans. "Then we'll go to Scheveningen."
And he went at once and told the other two students, the Hijdrechts, of the change of plan.
"Then I'll leave my bicycle here," said Addie.
He went with the three young men, who, for his sake, did not go to the Witte; and they walked to Scheveningen. And it was as though he heard that note of pity in the Hijdrechts' voices too. Then, suddenly, on the New Road, he saw the three Saetzemas cycling back to the Hague.
"There are our three nice gentlemen," said Frans.
The three boys nodded as they passed:
"Bejour!"
But Addie did not nod back.
Scheveningen was overcrowded, with its Sunday visitors; but the Hijdrechts were quite amusing and Frans was always pleasant.
It was late, close upon six, when he decided to go home.
"Well, good-bye, old man," said Frans.
Addie pressed Frans' hand, wanted to thank him for the walk, but was too proud, because of that pity, and could not:
"I'll come and fetch my bicycle to-morrow," was all he said, dully.
And he went home slowly, alone. He felt as though he could not go home; as though he would have liked to walk somewhere else, anything to escape going home. He felt as though, suddenly, he had to drag with him a heavy sorrow, too heavy for his years, and as though it lay on his chest, on his throat, on his lungs. But he reached home at last, about half-past six.
"How late you are, Addie," said Constance, a little annoyed. "We've been waiting for you for the last half hour. Have you been with the three boys?"
"Yes," said Addie.
"Oh, then, it's all right," she said. They sat down to dinner, but Addie was quiet, did not eat.
"What is it, my boy?" asked Van der Welcke.
"Nothing," said Addie.
But his parents were not used to seeing their child like that and insisted on knowing what was the matter.
"I've been fighting with Jaap," said Addie. Constance, already a little annoyed, flared up at once:
"Fighting? Fighting? What about, Addie? There's always something with the three boys."
"Oh, nothing!" said Addie, evasively.
"Come," said Van der Welcke, "all boys have a fight now and again."
But Addie did not speak, remained stiff and silent. He did not answer, would not say why he had fought with Jaap. And he was reasonable, tried to eat something, so as not to upset his mother; but the food stuck in his throat. They hurried through dinner. When Addie was gloomy, everything was gloomy, there was nothing left, life was not worth the dismal living, Constance' new and gentle happiness was gone, gone....
"Shall we go and bicycle a bit, my boy?" asked Van der Welcke. "Or are you tired?"
"Yes, I'm tired."
"Remember, Addie," said Constance, coldly, "that we are going to Grandmamma's and that you have to change."
"Yes."
He got up, went upstairs, to his boy's room, not knowing what to say next, what to do with himself, where to sit, what book to take up; he remained standing, aimlessly, in the middle of the room, with that bottled-up sorrow of a whole afternoon lying heavy on his chest and lungs: that sorrow which he had dragged with Frans and the Hijdrechts to Scheveningen, quietly, without sobbing, amid that bustling crowd of Sunday visitors.
He stood there, aimlessly, dejected, when the door opened and Van der Welcke entered:
"Come, Addie, my boy, tell your father. What is it?"
"Papa," he began, yearning now, burning to know....
But he could not go on. It was his first sorrow and it was so heavy, so oppressively heavy.
"Come, my lad, what's the matter?"
"Papa...."
"Tell me, come on, tell me."