"Papa, am I not...."
"What, Addie?"
"Papa, am I not your child?"
Van der Welcke looked at him in astonishment:
"What's that?" he asked and did not understand.
"No, I'm not, am I? Yes, I know now!"
"Look here, Addie, what's the matter with you?"
"I'm not your child, am I?"
"You're not my child? What do you mean?"
"I'm the child of an Italian, am I not?"
"Of an Italian?"
"And that's why they call me the Italian?"
Van der Welcke, in his amazement, did not know what to say. He stared at Addie; and his silence meant confession to Addie.
"I am Mamma's child, am I not, but not yours? I am the child of an Italian...."
"My boy, who told you that?"
"Jaap."
"But, Addie, it's not true!"
"Oh, you only say that it's not true, but it is true...."
But now Van der Welcke, after his first amazement, suddenly realized the boy's distress and caught him in his arms and took him on his knees, there, in the big chair:
"Addie, Addie, I swear to you, it's not true! My child, it's not true, you are my child, you are my boy, you are mine, you are mine, mine, mine!"
"Is it really true?"
"You're mine, you're mine, Addie! They lie, they lie! Good Lord! My boy, would I love you so madly, if you were not my boy?"
And he pressed his son to his breast, his two arms tightly round him.
"Papa, can I trust you?"
"Yes, yes, my boy! God! Those vile people! Who says it and why do they say it? And it's a lie, Addie; they lie, they lie. You're my child, mine, mine alone, my son and Mamma's son, my child, my darling! Would we, your two parents, your father and your mother, be so fond of you, so passionately fond of you, if it were not so?"
Now Addie believed and he burst into sobs. He sobbed freely, he could no longer restrain himself and he felt as if he were sobbing for the first time in his young life. It melted away, all his young, small, natural manliness melted away; and he became as weak as a child, because Papa assured him that he was the son of Papa and Mamma and because he believed Papa, now. He sobbed wildly on his father's chest, clutching Van der Welcke in his sturdy little arms, until both of them were nearly stifled:
"Daddy, my Daddy!" he said, in little jerks. "Am I really your child? Oh, tell me again: am I your child? The whole day long, Daddy, I believed I was not your child! The whole day long, I was walking with Frans and the Hijdrechts, thinking I was not your son. And I didn't want to come back home, because I thought I was not your son. I wanted just to go away somewhere, because I thought I was not your son. Daddy, tell me, am I your son? Oh, I should have thought it so terrible if I was not your son! I should have thought it so terrible, because I love you so and because everything would have been for nothing then, if you weren't my father. They said that my father was an Italian and that you, that you were not my father. Tell me again, Daddy: are you my father?"
"Yes, my boy, I am your father."
He said it now with such conviction that Addie believed him absolutely. But the child still clasped his father to him, as though he would never let him go.
"Addie, how could you, how could you believe it for a moment?"
"But then why do people say it?"
"Because they are spiteful."
"But why do people say it?"
There was still a lurking suspicion in him. If he was not the son of an Italian, why did people talk about his parents' past, years ago, at Rome. And, though he believed Papa now, there was still much suspicion in him and he kept on saying to himself:
"But then why do people say it?..."
It tossed about in his mind, that there must be something that Papa was keeping back. But he believed, he wanted to believe Papa: yes, yes, he was Papa's child. And that was his great content, after the sorrow which he had suffered a whole day long: that he had not loved Papa for nothing, that he was the child of the man whom he loved....
"Addie!"
It was Constance calling from downstairs.
"Hush!" said Van der Welcke. "Hush, my boy! Say nothing to Mamma, let Mamma see nothing, for it would cause her so much pain, unnecessarily; and you do believe me now, don't you? You do believe me now, when I assure you that I couldn't possibly, Addie, couldn't possibly be so fond of you else?"
Yes, he now believed his father's word, which he felt to be the truth; he believed, but still, still there was something. But he did not want to ask anything more now: Papa himself was too much upset; and they had to go out, to Grandmamma's, because it was Sunday evening.
"Addie!"
"Go down now, Addie: Mamma's calling you."
He went out on the landing:
"Yes, Mamma, what time is it?"
"It's time to dress."
"Yes, I'll get dressed at once, Mamma."
He became a little man again, while his eyes were still screwed up and red with crying.
He once more embraced his father very tightly:
"Daddy, Daddy, I believe you!"
"My boy, my boy, my boy! Go now, my own boy, go and wash and get dressed; and don't let Mamma notice anything, will you?"
No, he would not let her see; and he would have a good wash, in cold water, wash his throbbing temples and his smarting eyes.
"Those damned people! Those damned people!" said Van der Welcke, cursing and clenching his fists.
Constance, downstairs, ready dressed, was waiting for them, a little put out because Addie had come home so late, because he had fought with Jaap, because he had refused to eat.
"Here I am, Mamma."
There was nothing to show what he had been through: he looked fresh and serious in his new blue suit; his voice was soft and propitiatory. Her face lit up at once:
"Tell me now, Addie, why you fought with Jaap."
"Oh, a boys' quarrel, Mamma, about nothing, really, about nothing at all! Jaap was tormenting a cat; and I can't stand that. Give me a kiss, Mamma."
He kissed his mother very earnestly, embraced her in his clutching arms. He would have forgiven her everything, if it had been really so, if he had been the son of an Italian; but it would have been an everlasting grief to him if he had not been his father's son....
Van Der Welcke kept himself under control that Sunday evening for Mamma van Lowe's sake, but he was really shocked at Addie's concern and by the calumnies that appeared to be stealthily uttered against him in the Hague; and, next morning, he went to the Ministry of Justice, asked to see Van Saetzema and, without beating about the bush, requested him to punish his son Jaap for his spiteful slander. Van Saetzema, losing his head in the face of Van der Welcke's lofty and resolute tone, stammered and spluttered, spoke to Adolphine when he got home and delegated the business to his wife. Adolphine, it is true, scolded Jaap for being so stupid, but, in doing it, created an excitement that lasted for days and penetrated to the Van Naghels, the Ruyvenaers, Karel and Cateau, Gerrit and Adeline, Paul and Dorine, until everybody was talking about it and knew of the incident, excepting only Mamma van Lowe, whom they always spared, and Constance herself. A couple of days later, Van der Welcke saw Van Saetzema again and asked him if he had corrected Jaap; and, when he perceived in Van Saetzema's spluttering a certain vagueness, a certain inclination to avoid the point, Van der Welcke, who was naturally quick-tempered, flew into a rage and said he would speak to Jaap himself. And, that same evening, three days after the Sunday in question, Van der Welcke went to the Van Saetzemas', was very polite to Adolphine and her husband, but told Jaap, in his parents' presence, that, if he ever dared repeat his slanderous insinuations against Addie, he, his Uncle van der Welcke, would give him a thrashing which he would remember all the days of his life. Van Saetzema lost his head: unaccustomed to such plain speaking, he spluttered and stammered, blurting out conciliatory words; and Adolphine told Van der Welcke that she was quite capable of punishing her children herself, if she thought necessary. Van der Welcke, however, managed to keep cool and civil towards the father and mother, but again warned Jaap, so that he might know what to expect. And the whole family soon learnt that Van der Welcke had been to the Van Saetzemas' and threatened Jaap; and all the members of the family had their different opinions, all except Mamma van Lowe, who was not told, who was always spared the revelation of any unpleasantness, from a sort of reverence on her children's part, so that she really lived and reigned over them in a sort of illusion of harmony and close communion. And Constance also was not told, remained gently happy, gently contented, with that calm, sweet sadness in her face and soul which was the reflection of her moods. On the following Sunday, however, merely knowing that Addie was still angry with Jaap, she said, at lunch:
"Addie, won't you go to the three boys to-day and make it up with Jaap?"
But Addie gave a decided refusal:
"I'll do anything to please you, Mamma, but I'll never go back to those boys."
Constance lost her temper:
"So on account of what you yourself call a boys' quarrel—about a cat—you wish to remain on bad terms with the children of your mother's sister!"
Addie took fright: it was true, the cause seemed very unreasonable.
But Van der Welcke, himself irritable under the restraint which he had been imposing upon himself, said, trembling all over:
"I don't choose, Constance, that Addie should continue to go about with those boys."
His determined manner brought her temper seething up; and all her gentle calmness vanished:
"And I choose," she exclaimed, "that Addie should make friends with them!"
"Mamma, I can't, really!"
"Constance, it's impossible."
Though she was quivering in all her nerves, there was something in the manifest determination of them both that calmed her. But she grew suspicious:
"Tell me why you quarrelled. If you can't make it up, then it wasn't about a cat."
"Let us first have our lunch in peace, if possible," said Van der Welcke. "I'll tell you everything presently, at least if you can be calm."
He realized that he could no longer keep her in ignorance. She collected all her strength of mind to remain cool. After lunch, when she was alone with her husband, she said:
"Now tell me what it is all about."
"On one condition, that you keep calm. I want to avoid a scene if I possibly can, if only for the sake of our boy, who has been very unhappy."
"I am quite calm. Tell me what it is. Why has he been unhappy?"
He now told her. She kept calm. She first tried to gloss things over, in a spirit of contradiction; but she was overcome with a deep sense of depression when she thought of her boy and his trouble. For one torturing moment, she doubted whether she had not been very wrong to return to her native land, to her native town, in the midst of all her relations. But she merely said:
"Slander ... that appears to be people's occupation everywhere...."
Now that she seemed calm, he resolved to tell her everything and said that he had been to the Van Saetzemas and threatened Jaap.
Her temper was roused, for a moment, but subsided again in the profound depression that immediately left her numb and disheartened. The torturing pain followed again and the doubt whether she had not been quite wrong....
But she did not give utterance to the doubt and simply went to the "turret-room," where her boy was:
"Are you going out, Addie?" she asked, vaguely, calm amid her depression.
"Let's go out together, Mamma," he said.
She smiled, glad that he was giving her this Sunday afternoon with that justice with which he divided his favours. She stood in front of him, with blank eyes to which the tears now stole, but with the smile still playing about her mouth.
"Shall we, Mamma?"
She nodded yes. Then she knelt down beside her boy, where he sat with his book in his hands, and it was as though she were making herself very small, as though she were shrinking; and she laid her head on his little knees and put one arm round him. She wept very softly into his lap.
"Come, Mummy, what's the matter?"
She now knew what he had suffered, a sorrow almost too great for one of his years to bear. She almost wished to beg his pardon, but dared not. She only said:
"Addie, you did believe Papa, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"And you believe me too, when I say that it's not true what people say?..."
"Yes, I believe you."
He believed her; and yet a suspicion lingered in his mind. There was something, even though that particular thing was not true. There was something. But he did not ask what it was, out of respect for those past years, the years that were his parents' own.
"My child!" she sobbed, with her head still in his lap. "Tell me, has my boy been very unhappy?"
He just nodded, to say yes, and pressed her to him, lifted her up, took her close to him on his knees, with the caress of an embryo man. She closed her eyes on her son's breast. She felt so weary with her depression that she could have remained lying there. It was as though the illusion was beginning to crumble to pieces, like a dear house of sympathy from which sympathy had shown itself to be absent.
"Don't let Grandmamma notice anything," she said, softly.
He promised.
She wanted to leave the old woman her happiness in her illusion, the illusion of that dear house of sympathy. Her own illusion was crumbling. And yet she thought that she was exaggerating, making too much of it, because a wretched boy had given her child pain:
"That's no reason why they should all be like that," she thought.
And she once more summoned to her mind the illusion of that great, dear house of sympathy for which she had yearned in her lonely exile.
"Come, Mamma, let's go out."
She released him slowly, smiled through her tears, as she rose from his lap and went to change her things:
"How small we all are!" she thought. "What small creatures we are and what small souls we have Is that life? Or is there something different?"
The boy had grown serious. For that little incident represented more to him than a quarrel with a cousin about a word of abuse: it had suddenly opened a window to him, who was already none too young for his years, given him a view into the people around him, the big, older, grown-up, serious people, the people to whom he would belong later, when he too was big and old and grown-up; and, at the same time, it had given him his first great sorrow. The boy had grown more serious, more serious than he already was, now that he had discussed it calmly with Frans van Naghel and told him that he had asked his father about it and that the nickname was a pure slander. And the delicate bloom on his child-soul, which was like the soul of a little man, was not only offended by that slander and soiled by it and profaned, but that fledgling man's soul, with its downy freshness, was startled and astonished and shocked and did not understand why the people around him uttered slanders, the people for whom Mamma had longed because she missed them so in her loneliness and because she was filled with that strange feeling, that passion for her family. Why, why did people slander? Why did they speak evil? For he now felt that they all knew that nickname and perhaps all believed that slander a little, inasmuch as they all slandered. What did it benefit them, what did they gain by it, what good did it do them to slander for slander's sake? And the suspicion lingered; for, if it was not true, what they said about his father and mother, what was it that was true? He felt that there was something in their past, something that had never entirely disappeared, something that still embittered the existence of both of them, something that was perhaps the cause of their irreconcilable discord.
And the boy felt this so deeply, in the seriousness that had come with his new-found knowledge, that once, when he was alone with his father, he climbed on his knees and simply asked him to tell him what it was. He was a child, for he still sat on his father's knee, and yet he was already a sturdy boy, though short for his years; and, however serious he might be, he still had the soft bloom of his childhood on his cheeks and on his soul. True, his father was beginning to ask:
"Aren't you too big, my boy, to sit on your father's knee?"
But he himself did not think that he was too big yet. Seriousness and extreme childishness, manhood and boyhood were mingled in him; and, though he was a little man, he was also still a boy; though he was serious, he still remained a child.
He sat on his father's knees and asked him, gravely, to tell him what was true, if the slanders which people spoke were not true; for he felt that there was something. And he read in his father's eyes that he must not ask; and his father answered that he was still too young for his father to discuss everything with him. Then he fell silent, did not insist; but the suspicion never left him and he now knew for certain that there was something, because his father had told him that he was too young to discuss things with him. And so the boy became serious; and, when Van der Welcke came home to dinner from the club, he no longer found his cheerful Addie, who could talk so brightly and fill up the gap between him and Constance with his pleasant, boyish talk. The boy sat in silence, ate in silence, with his young soul full of suspicion, full of silent questionings as to what it really was, if the slanders which people uttered were not true. He loved them so fondly, with that love of his; and it made him profoundly sad that he did not know that thing of the past, because, for want of that knowledge, he was no longer living their life. He now wished that he was older, so as to be able to live their life and have the right to know. And he weighed what he did know in his soul that longed for certainties: he knew that Mamma had been married before and was divorced from the husband whom she never mentioned. Had it been that first husband's fault? Or had she made him unhappy? Addie did not know and was craving to know. And his longing was no morbid curiosity, but the result of his unnatural upbringing: his longing had come about quite naturally, after his first great sorrow, because his father and mother had both always looked upon him as almost more than their child, as their comrade, as their consolation, as their passion, to whom all the current of both their hearts went out. That Constance should have sobbed in his lap, that Van der Welcke should worship him as his warmest friend—him, their boy, their little son—had made his serious soul still more serious and as deep as a small, clear lake; and it could not be but that, after the first shock and the first sorrow, questions and longings should arise in him that as yet made no appeal to other children. His nature was healthy, the nature of a healthy child's soul, well and peacefully balanced in its early, sturdy manliness; but his existence between his two parents—it could not be called an upbringing—had worked on his nerves to the extent of now making him quiver with the wish to know.
Those were gloomy meals; and Constance asked Van der Welcke why Addie was so gloomy, so different from what he had been. Now that the boy was gloomy, with that new, strange and serious gloominess, they both sought each other more than they had done, talked to each other, calmly, without angry scenes. Now that the child was still suffering, they both, together, sought for a solution, how to stop his suffering. And, helpless in the midst of this entirely new confidence, they looked at each other as though in despair, because they thought the solution too terrible. The child wanted to know; and they, both of them, would be compelled—to stop his suffering, or, perhaps, increase it and feel his growing contempt and blame pressing upon them—both of them would be compelled to speak of the years past, of the gigantic mistake of their lives, the mistake which had given him, their child, his life! Oh, how they felt it, both of them, that past which never died, sunk in a bottomless pit, but always haunted them, haunting them more seriously, more menacingly now that Addie was growing older and had been unhappy and wanted to know! Oh, how helpless they both felt, while they stared at each other in despair because they did not know how to spare their darling, how to spare him, even though they would spare him to-day, how—how indeed?—to spare him to-morrow! And, because their sorrow was the same, the same sorrow for their darling, for their comrade, their consolation, their passion, it was as though, for the first time, after years and years, they were nearing each other and for the first time bearing together a part of the heavy burden of life that pressed upon their small souls. How were they to spare him, how were they to spare him?
Finding no solution, they each went their own way again, their eyes still blank with helplessness, their hearts heavy with despair. What had become of the melancholy contentment that had brought Constance her gentle happiness? And, when they met again at meals and the boy, the sensible, merry little comrade of old, who had always enlivened those meal-times, sat in silence, ate in silence, with his serious boy's face, firm in outline already and yet with the soft bloom of the child upon it, and his steel-blue eyes full of thought, then they would timidly stare at each other again and the same discouragement would send its cry of despair from out of their timid glance. This was no longer to be endured, this made them both suffer overmuch, this would have cost them their lives and the grace of their lives, this they could no longer face, this made them feel more helpless from day to day.
Though they both of them, separately, took him in their arms, he no longer said a word, accepted the fact that he was too young to know what was really true, if the slander was not true; but neither his face nor his soul brightened and the deepening of his gloom was the measure of their despair.
"What are we to do?" thought Constance. "What are we to do?" she asked Van der Welcke.
And she wrung her hands, feeling that the past was now doomed to remain for ever and that to think anything else was to invite disillusion. Oh, the past, which not only remained, which not only would cling to them for ever, but which grew, grew with the child, as though the sorrow of that past would always blossom anew, again and again, with perennial grief and woe! Oh, the indestructible sorrow, which always came back to haunt them, even though it seemed to have died, sunk in a bottomless pit, the abyss of past years! Until, at last, as in a cry for help in the helplessness that pressed and bore upon her more fiercely from day to day, clutching at her throat, inexorably demanding a decision, she made that decision and wailed:
"Tell him! Tell him! Tell him!"
And, as she uttered that wail, he saw her so prostrate under the decision that would bring down upon her the scorn, the rage perhaps, of their child, of their son, the death—O Heaven!—of his love, if he once knew and, above all, realized the truth, that he, her husband, felt pity for the woman who had turned his life into a long and dreary futility; and he said:
"I will tell him, I will tell him. But have no fear: if he does understand and realize it, he will love you none the less for it, Constance!"
She looked at him, feeling that he no longer grudged her their child's love, that he was not as jealous as she. And, for a moment, she thought of throwing herself on his breast and sobbing out the anguish which she felt pressing more and more upon her, felt coming towards her like a monster looming out of the future. But the emotion tugging at her heart-strings was drawn back violently; and she went away and flung herself on the floor in her bedroom and hiccoughed her despair ... because her son was going to be told!
But he did not tell him that day. He merely persuaded himself that it was not necessary, that it would even be wrong to tell his son, his child, who was still so young, the past of their lives, that which he would hear of himself and know and understand when he was a year or two older. And on the following days also, hesitating, Van der Welcke did not tell him. But the gloomy meals continued, Constance' fits of helplessness continued; and she once again exclaimed:
"Oh, tell him! Do tell him!"
And they both felt so unhappy, because they were losing their child more and more every day, that he determined to tell Addie. He hesitated until the last moment, wavering, struggling within himself, not knowing what would be right, what wrong, knowing only that he was suffering beyond endurance. Then, one evening, he looked up his child in the "turret-room:"
"Addie, shall I be in your way if I sit here?"
"No, Papa."
The boy was doing his home-work. Van der Welcke sat down. He reflected that he would rather tell him some other day, when Addie was not working. The child worked on, silently, gloomily, grimly. And Van der Welcke suddenly exclaimed:
"Addie!"
"Yes, Papa?"
"Come here for a minute."
The boy stood up and went to him.
"Tell me, why have you been so gloomy lately, my boy?"
"I'm not gloomy, Daddy."
"You hardly speak to me or your mother. And it's not like you, to sulk. Are you angry with us?"
"No, Daddy."
"Aren't you angry with us?"
"No, Daddy: what should I be angry for?"
"Then be as you used to be, Addie. When you're not cheerful, everything in the house is so sad."
The boy smiled.
"I'll try, Daddy."
"But why try? Just be it, be it!"
No, Van der Welcke would not, could not tell him.
"I'll try, Daddy."
And he moved to go back to his books.
"Addie!"
"What is it, Papa?"
"Come here, come to me."
"I have my work to do."
"Come along, I want you."
The boy came.
"Come to me, here, on my lap. Perhaps it is the last time, Addie, that I shall take you on my knee. You are my little boy still; and presently, presently perhaps you will be a big son to me, with whom I shall discuss things ... and who will no longer sit on my lap."
He sat down on his father's knee:
"What is it?" he asked, quietly, sensibly.
"I am going to tell you, Addie."
The child understood:
"No, don't tell me," he said. "I am not inquisitive. And I am too young, perhaps, to know. It doesn't matter. I dare say I shall know, later on. For the present, I'm just your little boy."
He nestled against his father, in his arm:
"It's so jolly, sitting with you like this. Uncle Paul always says, when he sees us bicycling, that we are just like chums, but he has never seen us like this."
Should he tell him? thought Van der Welcke. Should he not tell him? If he told him, this would be the last time that he would take his son on his knees.
"I had made up my mind to tell you, Addie."
"No, don't."
He did not tell him that evening. And the boy tried to be as he used to, especially at meals, but he was not very successful; his cheerfulness sounded forced. Then, two evenings later, Van der Welcke said:
"Come here, Addie. Come and sit on my lap."
And that was the last time.
"Listen, I want to tell you all about it. When you know, perhaps you will feel a little older than you do now; but, when you know, you will be my child again, my son, won't you? My son, yes, who is becoming a man, but still my son, my friend as always. I'll tell you now. It's better that I should tell you...."
Then he told him, very simply....
And it was very easy, very simple to tell Addie, in quiet words. He told his boy that he had fallen in love with Mamma when she was the wife of another and that he had stolen Mamma's love, stolen it from that other man. He told the story so humbly, so quietly and simply as though it meant nothing, making this confession to his child, and as though he were pouring out all his sufferings of the old days into the heart of a friend. They sat talking for a long time; and it did them both good. Then said Van der Welcke:
"Addie, go to Mamma now. She herself asked me to tell you everything. Go to her now and give her a kiss."
The boy kissed him first, embraced him with throttling arms, with the grip of a friend's embrace. Then he went out; and Van der Welcke, quietly smoking, listened to his footsteps on the stairs. But then Van der Welcke started, with a shock, reflected:
"What have I done? O my God, no, no, no I ought not to have told him...."
But the house remained very quiet. Constance was sitting alone, in her boudoir. Her head was bent under the light of the lamp, over her needle-work, and her hair, changing so gently to its cloudy grey, curled tenderly about the delicate oval of her still youthful face. There was a sort of gentle, resigned peace in her attitude, with much pensiveness and sadness. When Addie opened the door, he stood still and she did not look up, thinking that it was Van der Welcke. Then he went to his mother....
She looked up, startled:
"Is that you?"
"Yes, Mamma."
She looked up at him; and suddenly it flashed across her that he knew....
"Papa has been speaking to me, Mamma...."
She gave a violent start, as though she had had an electric shock; her eyes closed, her head fell back, her hands fell slackly in her lap:
"O God!" she thought. "No, oh, no, he ought not to have told him!..."
He knelt before his mother and passed his fingers softly over her face and gently opened her eyes. She looked at him, with a pale, terrified, shocked face and staring eyes and distorted mouth. She saw his own fresh, soft child's face, smiling friendly....
"I know the truth now, Mamma," he said, "and, if people slander me now, I can bear it...."
She threw her arms around him, dropped her head upon his breast. She felt him in that embrace grown older, bigger, stronger, now quite a man. She now felt a protector in him. But she was ashamed and again closed her eyes:
"My boy!" she murmured. "Do you love your mother?..."
"Yes, Mamma."
Her face grew calmer, but her eyes remained shut.
"My darling!" she whispered, almost inaudibly, with closed eyes. "Thank you. Thank you. But leave me to myself now...."
He kissed her, with his manly tenderness, and then went out and shut the door. She opened her eyes, looked round the room. But it was as though she was ashamed before everything, before the walls of the room and the furniture around her; for she now closed her eyes again and hid her face in her hands.
And she sat like that for long, as though lost in thanksgiving for the mercy vouchsafed her by life....
But, between the two of them, the boy now brightened, strong in the power of truth and certainty, even though window after window had opened before him, giving him a glimpse into the world. Between the two of them, he recovered his former self, his former voice, his childish tempers even, became once more the consolation and the aim of their two existences. She went for walks on his arm; he went bicycling with him for long distances, full of air and space. The house resounded with his young, serious, no longer treble voice. When she looked at him, however, she thought that he had grown, had become broader; that the shape of his head, the curve of his cheeks were losing the childish softness that still belonged to his years....
And, when Van der Welcke felt bored in his smoking-room and went and sat with Addie in the "turret," always first punctiliously asking his son if he was interrupting him in his work, he no longer took him on his knee....
It was one morning during the summer holidays that old Mr. van der Welcke said to his wife:
"Why not ask the little boy to come and stay with us?"
There was never much said between the old people, but each understood without words, or from a single word, the thought that was passing in the other's mind.
Not until the evening did the old lady ask:
"The little boy alone?"
"Yes, alone ... or with Henri."
Two days after that, she suggested:
"Oughtn't we to invite them, all three, in that case? Constance as well?"
The old man said nothing and went on reading, as though he had not heard; and his wife did not press for an answer. But, at nightfall, when they sat staring at the dark summer evening outside, old Mr. van der Welcke said:
"No, I don't like her. Let us ask Henri and Adriaan."
She said nothing. She was used to obeying her husband's wishes; and she had brought up Henri also, long ago, to obey his parents' wishes. And Henri had obediently given up his life, given up himself, at their command, to that woman. Which of the two was more to blame, whether he had been the tempter or she the temptress, they did not know, they did not wish to know, because all temptation sprang from the evil one; but Henri was a man; and so the responsibility fell upon him. He being responsible, they had commanded him to sacrifice himself and thus to atone for his sin, in the face of God and man. That was how they had seen it at the time, how they had commanded, how it had come to pass. But he, the father, had lost his son through that command; and the loss always rankled....
"Henri and Adriaan alone," the old man repeated.
Now that he was repeating his few words, she knew that his will was irrevocable. She was sorry for it: the voices which spoke to her now and then, on nights when the wind blew, had gradually brought her to a gentler mood, as though they had been soothing music to her listening soul. Those voices had told her to go to the Hague; and there she had for the second time seen that woman, the bane of their life as parents, and met that woman's mother; and it was as though that meeting between mother and mother had been a gentle balm, as gentle and healing as the magic music of the voices, a balm that brought about a softer mood, that caused more to be understood, that caused much to be forgiven, in a gradual approach towards reconciliation, after so many, many dismal years of silent rancour and antagonism. In her, the old woman, the rancour had as it were melted away, since she had read the strange book, since she had heard the voices on gusty nights, since she had seen that woman's mother and known her sadness. In the old woman it was a gentle wish not only for reconciliation, but for some measure of friendship with that woman, the wife of her son, the mother of her grandchild. But she felt that there was no trace of any such wish in her husband's heart; and, because she could only obey, she said nothing and merely told him wordlessly that she did not think as he thought.
He heard her saying it without words, but he did not give in.
And, when they went to bed, he said:
"I shall write to Henri to-morrow."
He wrote to ask if Henri and Adriaan would come and spend a week at Driebergen, before Adriaan's holidays were over. Van der Welcke felt in the laboured words of that old man who was not used to writing that his father was implacable towards Constance. Constance felt it and so did Addie. And, when Addie, offended on his mother's behalf, said, angrily, that she was being left behind alone, she replied:
"It's better that you should go with Papa, my boy."
She thought it advisable for him, the grandson, the heir, not to provoke his grandfather. But she had never spent a week without him before:
"What can I do?" she thought. "He is growing bigger, older; I shall see less of him still as time goes on."
Yes, he had grown bigger, older; he was now fourteen. He was broad; and his voice was so curiously deep sometimes, was changing; but he remained small for his age. The pink childishness of his skin was becoming downy with a sort of blond velvet bloom; and that blond velvet was more clearly defined above his upper lip. But he was still a child in the innocent freshness which, despite his seriousness, wafted from all his being like a perfume.
"I'm going to Driebergen for a week with Papa," he said to Paul, to Gerrit, to Adeline. "Will you take pity on Mamma, Uncle, while I'm away? Will you, Auntie?"
They promised, smiling. Constance remained calm and peaceful. After those gently happy moods there had come to her, since Addie's quarrel with Jaap about the nickname and what had happened after the quarrel, a nameless depression that silently gnawed at her heart. She did not speak about it, did not mention it to Addie, nor to Gerrit, nor to Paul. She entombed it in the depth of herself.
Father and son went away; and the grandparents thought that the little boy had grown. The grandmother feared that the children of the villa close by would be too childish, after all, for Adriaan to play with. She said this with an air of disappointment, but also of astonishment and admiration; and, although Henri said that Addie could play very nicely with his Uncle Gerrit's fair-haired little tribe, even if he was a little paternal with them, yet the old woman sent no message to the villa.
It was beautiful at Driebergen and Zeist; and Van der Welcke enjoyed being there. And, as they had brought their bicycles, they went on long expeditions....
When alone with his father, Van der Welcke spoke out more and more. He spoke of the past, humbly, as though once more asking forgiveness of that stern father who to him, the son, seemed almost supernatural in his absolute virtue and stainlessness. He spoke of Rome, he even spoke of De Staffelaer, who was still alive, at his country-place near Haarlem, a man as old as Van der Welcke's father; he spoke of those last dismal years at Brussels, of how they had both longed for Dutch air and Dutch people, especially for their own families. But he also said that, however glad he might be to see his parents again, he thought that to Constance this renewal of family-ties was often a disappointment. As he talked, he felt himself the boy, the student, the young man of former days, who also had talked much with his father, with his father alone, even as Addie now talked with him. He spoke of his boy and admitted that he worshipped him, that they both worshipped him. The old man, quietly smoking his pipe, listened, taking a new interest in those younger lives, the lives of his son and grandson. The old man felt as though he were rediscovering something of his son, but he also felt him to be very far away from him, without love or fear of God.
Van der Welcke spoke on.... And, almost unconsciously, in this confession and avowal of his life and thoughts and feelings, he told how Addie had quarrelled and fought with his cousin, told of the talk in their circle and of the distress of his son. He told on, almost unconsciously, of the wavering, the struggle, the helplessness of Constance and himself when they saw their child pining with that distress. And, almost unconsciously, Van der Welcke confessed, quite simply, that he had spoken to his son as to a man and told his son the truth about his parents' past.
The old man, quietly smoking, had heard him in silence, glad to listen to his son's voice. What his son had told him to start with was strange to him: thoughts, feelings, experiences of a very strange life, differing wholly from his own. But what his son told him now made him doubt whether he had heard aright:
"What do you say?" he asked, thinking that he must be hard of hearing.
Van der Welcke repeated what he had said.
"You told ... Adriaan ... your past?... Told him about Rome and De Staffelaer?..."
"Yes, without entering into unnecessary details and with due respect for his youth, I told him the truth, the whole truth. The boy was suffering pain, was distressed because he did not know; and now he is suffering no longer."
The old man shook his head, put down his pipe:
"I don't understand," he said. "Or else there's something wrong with my hearing. You told ... Adriaan...?"
Van der Welcke repeated it again, smiling a little at his father's astonishment.
The old man understood that he had heard quite clearly. But he was so much shocked that he could not speak.
And it was only next day that he asked:
"How were you able to tell Adriaan that?"
"Just plainly and simply," said Van der Welcke.
"Just plainly and simply?" the old man echoed.
And not until that evening did he find more words; then he said:
"No, I can't understand it. I can't understand you, Henri. I feel that there is a very, very deep gulf between us. I feel that there is neither love nor fear of God in you, that everything in your life, in your relations with your wife, with your child, lacks a religious tendency. It makes me very sad. I could never have pictured things like that. I at least thought that you would have asked God's forgiveness daily for the sin you once committed, the sin against yourself, your parents, that woman, her husband, against the world, against God. I never imagined you, Henri, so obdurate, so entirely without repentance, regretting merely your own ruined life and shattered career. I can only pray for you and I will pray for you, every day. Still, I can understand want of faith. But what I can't understand is that you should—plainly and simply—corrupt the soul of your son, a child of fourteen, by telling him of your sin—plainly and simply—so that he might no longer suffer: those were your words, were they not? Now, when I repeat those words to myself and repeat them again and think over them and reflect upon them, I fail to understand them. I do not understand them. I feel that you must be entirely lacking in moral sense, in any idea of duty towards your child, in any fear of God, to be able to act like that, to be able to speak like that to your son, just to spare him suffering—plainly and simply—and I ask myself, 'Am I dreaming? Where am I? Whom am I speaking to? Is the man opposite me my son, my child, brought up by myself, and is what he is telling me the truth or an illusion?' And, if that illusion is the truth, Henri, if you are so entirely lost to every sense of moral and parental duty, then I am very, very sorry to hear it and I sit staring into a horrible abyss; and I confess that I do not understand you and that I understand nothing of the world, the times and the people of to-day...."
The old man had spoken slowly, measuring every word.
"Father," said Henri, "you and I are different; and I can understand that you, an old man, in your great goodness and transcendental sense of duty, cannot understand how I feel and think and act. Still, I do not believe that I have corrupted Addie and I am convinced that it was a good impulse that suggested to Constance and me to tell our child about our past at once and not to wait until he was a year or two older. Tell me if you think that he looks like a child whose imagination has been defiled. Tell me if you do not think, on the contrary, that he is a strong-minded boy who suffered from those slanders, when they reached him, simply because he did not know the truth, and who now, knowing the truth, loves both his parents with his clear, candid soul and is no longer in doubt, but knows."
The old man slowly shook his head with the tall, ivory forehead, while his gnarled hands trembled:
"Henri, you can thank God if your child, whose purity you have put to so severe a test, emerges from that test unstained."
Van der Welcke was silent, out of respect. He felt himself, notwithstanding his love, so far removed from his father that his heart was wrung and he thought:
"Will Addie ever, ever be so far removed from me?..."
The old man often reverted to that conversation:
"Henri, can you imagine me, your father, speaking to you, when you were thirteen, about a sin, a crime I had committed?"
No, Van der Welcke could never have imagined it! He was sorry now that he had told his father so much, seeing how shocked the old man was. And, though he tried to find soothing words, in order to calm his father after that shock, still everything that he said sounded too cynical, too modern, too flippant almost; and he no longer answered, but preferred to avoid the subject, when the old man returned to it daily, shaking his head and making his comments. And Van der Welcke was obliged to smile when his father often closed those comments with the remark:
"Don't let your mother know anything about it."
No, he did not tell his mother, because his father ordered him to leave his mother out of all this cynical philosophy and atheistical lack of principle, because his father thought that it would hurt her, his wife, whom he had always kept secluded from all knowledge of the outside world, until the scandal in Rome had come as a shock to both of them. And even then, in the years that followed, he had always hidden as much as possible of the world from his wife, holding that a woman, whatever her age, need not know, need not read, need not discuss, need not reflect upon all those things which, far removed from the two of them, were sin: sin such as their son had committed....
Van der Welcke now for the first time fully realized how grievous the shock of the scandal must have been to both of them, years ago. He, young though he was and but lately emancipated from his parents, had at once lost so much of those strict principles in his life in Rome, in his contact with women of the world, in his polished drawing-room talk on soul-weariness with Constance; and he now for the first time fully understood why they had not wished to see the two of them and why years had to elapse before there could be any question of forgiveness. And, however much he had longed for his father, in Brussels, he now felt that this longing was an illusion; that his father was a stranger to him now and he a stranger to his father: two strangers to each other, whom only a remembrance of former days had brought together again. And, curiously, though, as a child, he had liked his father better than his mother, his love now seemed to turn more to his mother, who had never become a stranger, who had always remained the mother, silently reading her forbidden book, longing simply for her child, to whom the voices had sent her....
"But, just as my father would never have spoken out to me, no more would I ever have gone bicycling with my father?" thought Van der Welcke, as he darted with Addie along the smooth roads towards the Zeist Woods.
They were like two brothers, an elder and a younger brother, neither of them tall, but both fairly broad, both with something delicate and high-bred and yet something powerful in their build—Van der Welcke was young still and slender for his nine-and-thirty years—and both, under the same sort of cap, had the same face, the same steel-blue eyes, the same straight profile, with its short nose, well-formed mouth and broad chin, though one was a man and the other a boy. They pedalled and pedalled and devoured the roads on that scorching August morning, talking gaily like two friends.
"Let's stop here, Addie, and take a rest," said Van der Welcke, at length, out of breath.
They alighted, leant their machines against a couple of trees, flung themselves on the mound of needles under the fir-trees, which rose silently and peacefully, calm as cathedral-pillars.
"I say, I'm tired," said Van der Welcke, feeling a little older, for the moment, than his son. "Addie, how you take it out of your father!"
Addie laughed, pulled off his cap and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. Van der Welcke rested his head on Addie's knee.
"Move higher up: you're not comfortable like that," said Addie.
And, catching his father under the arm-pits, he hoisted him up a bit:
"No, that won't do either," he said. "Look here, you're squashing my stomach!"
"Is this better?"
"Yes, if you keep still, old chap, and don't move, you can stay like that."
And he passed his fingers through his father's short, curly hair, while Van der Welcke lay silent, closed his eyes and thought:
"Fancy me, when I was fourteen, pulling up my father by his arms and saying to him, 'Look here, you're squashing my stomach!... If you keep still, old chap, you can stay like that!'"
And he suddenly began to splutter with laughter.
"I say, what's up? What are you laughing at?"
"Addie, I was thinking, I was thinking...."
"Well, what were you thinking?"
"I was thinking...."
And Van der Welcke began to wobble up and down with laughter.
"Oh, but I say! Woa! woa! Don't go jumping about on my stomach like that! Hi! Stop! Keep still! What's the joke?"
"I was thinking ... of your Grandpapa's face ... if ... when I was your age ... I had hauled him up like that by his arms and said to him, 'If you keep still ... if you keep still...!'"
Addie's sense of humour made him see the picture at once: Grandpapa, getting on for forty and very stately and dignified, and Papa, a boy like himself; and Papa saying:
"If you keep still, old chap, you can stay like that!"
And both of them burst with laughter, one on top of the other; and Addie, whom his father's weight prevented from laughing as he would have liked to, flung his legs madly in the air, almost stood on his head, until Van der Welcke tumbled backwards, with his head lower than his feet:
"Bother you! I was just so comfortable!"
Addie took pity on Papa, pulled him up again under his arms, dragged him about most disrespectfully, first shoved his head on his chest ... no, that hurt ... then a little lower down ... on his stomach.... There, he could stay like that....
But Van der Welcke kept on laughing like a lunatic. And Addie was the first to recover his seriousness:
"Father, stop it now! Stop shaking about like that!"
Van der Welcke closed his eyes blissfully. The scent of the steaming pines floated on the summery air; the needles glistened and gave off their fragrance. And Van der Welcke fell asleep, with his head in his son's lap.
"Dear old Father!" thought Addie; and he stroked his father's round, curly head.
He looked down at him and, so as not to disturb his father's sleep, sat motionless, with his back against a tree. He looked down at him: dear old Father!... But he was not old, his father: he was young.... And, all at once, it seemed to Addie that he saw it for the first time: his father was young. And he thought to himself how strange it was that, when you are young yourself, you call everybody old: Granny van Lowe and Grandpapa and Grandmamma van der Welcke were old; and Uncle Ruyvenaer and Auntie were old; and the two old aunts, Auntie Rine and Auntie Tine, were very old, regular old mummies. But Papa, Papa was young. Why, he was only a year or two older than Uncle Paul, who was always the young man, the dandy, with his exquisite coats and beautiful ties. And Papa looked younger than Uncle Paul, Papa certainly looked younger.... Addie bent over him, while he slept. He lay quietly sleeping, with his face three-quarters turned on Addie's lap. And Addie, seeing for the first time that Papa was young, studied his face. Oh, how young Papa was: he was younger than Mamma! He looked much younger; he looked almost like an elder brother of Addie's. His hair, thinning ever so little over the temples, was still quite brown: soft, short, curly brown hair, almost close-cropped, but curling just a little, like his own. His forehead was white, like that of a statue, without a wrinkle, had kept white under the peak of his cycling-cap; and his cheeks, a little blue from shaving, were healthily bronzed. His eyelids were young, his lids now closed in sleep; his straight nose was young and his mouth, with the short, thick, curly moustache above it. His frame was young; and on Addie's knees lay his young hands, small, broad and dainty, with carefully-tended nails: Addie looked at his own finger-nails, boy's nails, which were torn rather than cut.... How strange that Papa should be so young! He noticed it for the first time. And for the first time he felt himself to have grown older, no longer quite a child, a boy still, but grown into a young man, even though he was only fourteen.... Yes, when you were a child, a real child, you looked upon anybody older than yourself as just old. Now, he was astounded: how young Papa was; and how much older Mamma was! True, her face was young still, but she had grey hair, she was forty-three.... He could imagine Papa with a very young wife, a girl almost, like one of the cousins, Louise or Emilie, or Floortje: Papa and a wife like that would make a good pair.... How young he was, how young he was!... He was now sleeping like a child, on Addie's stomach, peacefully breathing.... Dear old Father!... No, not a bit old: as young as a brother, as a friend, as a chum. So jolly too and so mad sometimes.... And then suddenly he would try to be the stern parent! Dear Father!—Addie laughed—That didn't come off at all! He loved him like that: so young, such a friend, such a chum, such a brother.... Mamma was his mother, always, even though he did sometimes flirt with her; but Papa was not a Papa, Papa was his friend and his brother. But, young though Papa was, Addie nevertheless thought it strange that he had said to him so often:
"My life is shattered, my career is done for."
Why was that? Was it only because Papa had had to leave the diplomatic service when he was still quite young and had married Mamma? But Addie was a sensible and prematurely intelligent child; and his bright, young intelligence could not admit that; and, suddenly, Addie thought, if things really were as Papa declared—his life shattered, his career done for—then Addie thought it wrong, disapproved of it, thought it weak of Papa, weak, morbid almost, yes, morbid. How was it possible that Papa, since the day when he had sent in his resignation, had never done anything but complain of that ruined career, reproaching Mamma with it, silently or out loud, and only picking up a trifle at Brussels with commissions on wine and insurances, whereas there was so much else: life, the world, the whole world open before him! And to him, to the boy himself, it was as though wide prospects stretched out before him, which as yet he only divined as a dream of the future, which as yet he only felt to be there, to exist for any one who is young and strong and healthy and has brains. But, while he thus wondered and disapproved within himself—so weak: why so weak?—he felt a sort of fond and gentle pity amidst his wonder and disapproval, combined with a sort of need to grow still fonder of that father, who was so young, so strong and ... so weak. His boyish hand rested gently on his father's curly hair, stroked it gently while his father lay sleeping; and, with a sort of tenderness, the boy thought:
"Why are you like that? How can you be like that? Why have you never overcome that weakness, become manlier, firmer? Poor, poor Father!..."
And it was strange, but, while he disapproved, he felt his love increase, as the love of the stronger goes out to the weaker and lesser: the stronger the one feels, the weaker the other appears to him; and thus the instinct is developed to protect and care for that other. And now he remained stock-still, thinking that he had really tired his father out, for they had ridden like mad that morning, intoxicated with the smooth length of the roads, giddied with excessive speed.
He remained stock-still, as though he himself were a father who was letting his tired child sleep in his arms. And, while he sat gazing at that young face of his father's, that white forehead divided with a sharp stripe from the blue, bronzed cheeks, there fluttered through his vision those new thoughts, like birds that were learning to fly, those dreams of wide prospects stretching away to dim futures at which he only guessed as yet, because the world was so wide and life so big. And, though these fledgling thoughts were all ignorant of the world and of life, they fluttered to and fro, fluttered away and then back to the nest, where they, the new-born thoughts, settled upon that greatest and strongest and most conscious feeling, that of love for the father who was so young that he was like a brother and so weak that he was as a child....
Constance was much alone during those days. She was even more lonely than she had ever been in Brussels—when Van der Welcke was away about his wines or his insurances—because this was the first time that she had been parted from Addie. She saw her mother almost every day, however; but, for the rest, she mostly stayed at home, just as she had very often stayed at home in Brussels. A gentle melancholy had come upon her, after her fits of depression, a melancholy that impelled her to be much at home and much by herself. She was a stay-at-home woman: her house had the well-tended and attractive and comfortable appearance of a house which is loved by its occupant with the unadventurous feeling that home is the safest place. She busied herself in the mornings in a quiet way, did her housekeeping, gave her orders quietly and methodically; and her house always had an atmosphere of cosy, restful well-being, which seemed to calm her and persuade her to stay in it. The two maids, with whom she was always the calm, pleasant mistress of the house, liked her, did their work quietly and soon learnt what was expected of them. During these days when she was alone, she went all over the house with them, made them give Van der Welcke's room and Addie's room a thorough cleaning, went through every corner of her cupboards with her gentle, mindful fingers, the fingers of a dainty woman who imparted something of her own daintiness to everything that she touched.
She was not a great reader, did not play the piano, was not even particularly cultured. As a child, she had been fond of fairy-tales; as a child, she had even invented fairy-tales; but, apart from that, she did not care much for literature; poetry she regarded as insincere; and she did not know much about music. But there was something soft and pretty and distinguished about her, something exquisite and feminine, especially now that her vanity was really dead. She had an innate taste for never doing or saying anything that was ugly or harsh or coarse; and it was only when her nerves got the better of her that she could lose her temper and fly into a passion. But, owing especially to her sadness and to the grey and dismal years which she had passed, she had developed a very sensitive, soft heart, almost hypersensitive and oversoft. A word of sympathy at once fell upon her like kindly dew and made her love whoever uttered it. She had become very fond of her mother, more so than formerly, appreciating in Mamma the mother who kept her children together. She also shared that family-affection, that strange fondness for all her kith and kin. But she often experienced what Mamma never felt: the disappointment and depression and discouragement of loving with a love that was deep and inclusive those whose changing, complex interests were for ever taking them farther and farther out of reach. At such times, she just remained at home, in her own house, wrapped herself in her gentle melancholy, went over the house with the maids, who liked her, in order that everything might be very nice and neat. She had nothing of the Dutch housewife about her; and the maids often told her that Mrs. So-and-so used to do things this way and Mrs. What's-her-name that way. But she had so much tact that they did as she wished and accepted her distribution of hours and duties; and her house was always in order, comfortable, fit to live in. She had the gentle little fads of a woman who has no great intellect and who takes pleasure in almost simple, childish little femininities. If she happened to have a headache or felt out of sorts, she thought it pleasant to lie on the sofa in her bedroom with a heap of fashion-plates around her and quietly to think out all sorts of costumes, which she did not require and did not order, but which she just thought out, created, with the graceful fancy of a dainty woman who loves pretty clothes. Or she could amuse herself with tidying up her cupboards, going through all her laces and ribbons, folding them up neatly, smoothing them out, laying them in the different compartments of exquisite little Empire chests-of-drawers and scenting them with orris-root. Or she could go through her trinkets—she had not many—polishing her jewels and trying the effect of them upon herself with a pleased laugh at those pretty things which sparkle so brightly and enhance a woman's beauty. She was not interested in the larger questions, did not understand feminism, was a little afraid of socialism, especially because the poor were so dirty and smelt so horribly. Still, she was charitable, though she was not at all well-off, and often gave money to the poor and dirty, hoping above all that they would wash themselves. And yet she had a fairly logical intelligence, even though she was not cultured, even though she did not ponder deeply on social questions or on art. Now that her vanity was dead, she was a woman of the world, who thought the world tedious and tiresome and felt just a need for sympathy and soft compassion. And only sometimes did the strings within her seem to become more tensely stretched and there sounded through her something like a vague sadness that suddenly made her think and say to herself:
"How small we are and how small everything that we do is! I am growing old now; and what has there been in my existence? Could there be anything else in life? Or is life just like that, for everybody?"
In point of fact, she herself did not know that her heart had never spoken. She had fallen in love with Van der Welcke, at Rome, because of his good looks, in that atmosphere of vanity and drawing-room comedy which had made her, after reading a couple of fashionable French novels, talk sadly about her soul-weariness, parrot-wise, neither knowing nor feeling aught of what she said. She never even thought that there was another sort of love than that which she had felt for Van der Welcke; and, if she happened to read about it somewhere in one of her occasional fits of reading, she would think:
"It's only a book; and the author is writing fine words."
But, at the same time, her gentle nature was too superlatively and exquisitely feminine and also too motherly to look upon physical love as the only needful thing. No, what she had felt as a duty in the case of her first husband and as passion in the case of Van der Welcke had soon turned to mother-love. Married, in her passion she had at once longed for a child. And she had worshipped her child from the very first day....