Constance was in her bedroom one morning, arranging all sorts of things, when the servant came and said:
"Mrs. van Saetzema is here, ma'am."
Constance' eyelashes trembled and her lips contracted. She would have liked to make an excuse, to say that she was not at home; but she refrained because of the maid:
"Very well, Truitje; ask her to come up."
Adolphine came upstairs noisily, with elaborate gaiety:
"Good-morning, Constance, how are you? We hardly ever see you now. I say, have you been ill?"
"No."
"You are not looking well. Why is it so dark in here?"
"Dark?"
"Yes, I should feel stifled in a light like this. Oh, of course, it's the trees opposite! They take away all the light. My goodness, this is a gloomy house of yours I Aren't your husband and boy back yet?"
"No."
"I say, why didn't you go with them?"
"For no special reason."
"They're a very particular old couple, aren't they, that father and mother of your husband's? Whatever are you doing?"
"I'm tidying up my cupboard."
"You'd do better to go for a walk: you're looking so pale."
"But I'm perfectly well."
"I've come to ask if you'll come to dinner at my house the day after to-morrow. But you must make yourself smart. We shall be fourteen. My first dinner-party. It's a summer dinner. But we know such an awful lot of people; and I always begin my dinners very early. You see, it's quite plain, at my place, but jolly. Bertha doesn't begin till January; but she works everything out so closely. I like doing things handsomely. So it's settled, isn't it: you'll come?"
"I'm sorry, Adolphine. It's very nice of you to ask me, but I can't come."
"Why not?"
"I don't know your friends. And I don't care about going out."
"Oh!" said Adolphine, nettled. "I suppose my friends are not smart enough for you? I can tell you, I have the Hijdrechts coming and the Erkenbouts and the...."
"I'm not saying anything about your friends, but I don't care for dinner-parties."
"And you give them yourself!"
"I?"
"Yes, as I saw for myself not so long ago."
"I don't give dinner-parties. I have Van Vreeswijck to dinner now and again."
"To dinner ... with pink candles on the table?"
"Yes, with pink candles."
"Well, if you don't want to come ... this is a free country...."
"Fortunately!"
"You're rather upset this morning, aren't you?"
"Not at all."
"Is it just because our boys had a fight? You've adopted quite a different tone to me since: I've noticed.Ican't help it if boys choose to fight."
"Adolphine, don't let us talk of matters that can make us say things which we might regret."
But Adolphine was angry because Constance had refused to come to her dinner. Her invitations had all gone wrong and she wanted Constance; also, she thought that Constance did not value the invitation; also, she thought Constance a snob, with that everlasting Vreeswijck of hers, that Court man....
"Regret?" she said, coldly. "I never say anything that I have to regret. But I can't help it if people at the Hague are saying unpleasant things about us all just now!"
And, working herself into a state of nervous excitement, she tried to cry, in order to make Constance, who was so unkind, feel, once and for all, that not only she, Adolphine, but the whole family had to suffer no end of pain because of Constance. And she managed to get the tears into her eyes and squeezed them out.
But Constance remained indifferent:
"What sort of things?" she asked.
"What sort of things?" snapped Adolphine, furiously, crying with temper, offended at the refusal, forgetting all the nice things that Constance had said about Floortje's trousseau, hating her sister at the moment. "What sort of things? That you are not Papa's daughter!"
"That I...?"
"That you are not Papa's daughter!" shrieked the other, getting more excited at every word, deliberately screwing herself up into a frenzy of nerves. "They're slandering Mamma, they're slandering Mamma! Yes, they're saying that you're not Papa's daughter!"
Constance shrugged her shoulders.
"Well, what do you say to it?" demanded Adolphine.
"Nothing."
"Nothing? Nothing?" cried Adolphine, beside herself because Constance remained so cool at such a revelation. "Nothing? Oh, I expect you're accustomed to have people talking about you. Well, I'm not, d'you see? I have always been used to decency and respectability in my circle, among my friends. No one ever talked about us before. No one ever said thatIwasn't Papa's daughter...."
"You can't tell. There's time yet!" said Constance.
"Yes, you don't care!" Adolphine blubbered, furiously. "You, with your stuck-up coolness, you're so eaten up with conceit that you don't take anything to heart. I'm not like that. I'm sensitive, I'm easily affected, it hurts me when people talk about us. But then I'm not used to it as you are!"
And Adolphine kept squeezing the tears out of her eyes, wishing to convey that she was misunderstood and misjudged and very sensitive; wishing also to make Constance feel that it was Constance' fault and that there was plenty more that was Constance' fault. Constance, however, remained cool.
Though a single unfortunate word from her husband was enough to set her nerves on edge and her temper seething, she kept calm and cold towards her sister, because, after the fight between their boys, she had settled accounts with Adolphine, written her off as it were; and this feeling had depressed her too much to allow her now to excite herself into a quarrel. She wondered if she was overdoing it; and, to settle the matter, she said:
"I confess that I have never had such an experience of backbiting as here, at the Hague; in Brussels, at any rate, no one ever doubted the legitimacy of my child. But here—and even in your house, Adolphine—people seem to think that he is not my husband's son."
"How can I help that?" Adolphine began to blubber.
"No, you can't help it; at least I'm prepared to believe you can't. But I did hope that, if any one in your house spoke unkindly of your sister, you would have stood up for her, against your children, who perhaps did not quite realize all the mischief which their words might cause.... Let me finish, Adolphine: I am quite calm and I want to tell you this calmly.... If Addie had dared to speak of you in my presence as your children must have spoken of me, I should have been very severe with him. I was under the illusion that I might expect as much from you. I thought that there was still a family-bond, a family-affection, a family-pride among all of us; I thought that there was a mutual sympathy among us great enough, even though there was an appearance of truth in people's slanders, for that sympathy and pride to excuse and protect and defend the one who was slandered. The things that can be said about me are no secret. They are a matter of general knowledge; and I carry the punishment for my sin about with me as a burden on my life. But I have nothing more to reproach myself with than what is known as a fact. Don't think that I am making light of it. I only say that that is all there is. I should have thought that you would have known this, that you would have believed this, even if I had never told you. Addie is Van der Welcke's son as surely as I am Papa's daughter. What people like to invent besides is no concern of mine. I can't even understand why they care to invent at all, when I have already given them so much that is true to discuss. But it was a great disappointment to me, Adolphine, to find that those lies could be countenanced for a moment in your house."
Adolphine, seeing that her pumped-up tears were making no impression, had time to recover herself while Constance was speaking. Inwardly furious, but superficially calm, she now said, spitefully, in a tone of sisterly reproof:
"You must have expected some disappointment on returning to the Hague?"
"Perhaps, but not this disappointment ... if you had had any affection for me."
"Come, Constance, it's not as if I wasn't fond of you. But it might have been better if you had not come back."
"It's a little late to speak of that now, Adolphine: I'm here and I mean to stay. When I wrote to Mamma six months ago...."
"Mamma is a mother."
"I thought that you were a sister."
"I am not the only one."
"I hope that the others feel more affection for me and more indulgence than you do."
"Bertha was against your coming. So was Karel."
"I thank you for telling me; but, as I said, it is too late now."
"Gerrit and the others don't count, because they don't see people. Bertha and Karel and I have our family, our friends."
"And I compromise you in their eyes, do I?"
"Your coming here raked up a heap of things which had been long forgotten. And I know as a fact that your father- and mother-in-law were against it."
"You seem to know a great deal; and I am glad that you are so frank."
"I am always frank."
"And so irreproachable."
"I could never have done what you did, never."
"I am so glad that you came to see me this morning, Adolphine. And that we have had this quiet talk."
"If you had written to me at the time and asked my advice, instead of writing to Mamma only, I should have told you my opinion quietly," said Adolphine, with a touch of sadness in her voice. "I should have recommended you, as a sister, for your own sake, not to come back to the Hague. You have become quite unsuited for Holland, for the Hague and for living among your family. Everything in your ideas, in your home life, in your way of bringing up your son clashes with our Dutch notions of what is right and decent and proper. I'm not saying this angrily, you know, Constance: I'm saying it calmly, very calmly. I daresay that is best. You dress yourself as no Dutchwoman of your age would think of doing. The fact that you have no one to your house except a friend of your husband's causes comment. The way in which you bring up your son is considered exceptionally lax."
"Anything more?"
"Yes, there's something more: why did you ever leave Brussels? That's what we all ask ourselves. Bertha was saying, only the other day, that you would make things impossible for her, if you thought of pushing yourself and getting yourself presented. And she declared positively that she would never ask you to her official dinners."
"Anything more?"
"Anything more, anything more: what more do you want? I'm not saying it to offend you, Constance, but because I like you and want to save you from further disappointments. Do you think it pleasant for Bertha and me to have our friends talking about our family as they are doing? And that they do so is your fault entirely."
Constance' hands were shaking; and, in order to employ them, she began to fold the laces lying on the table.
"Is that real Brussels?" asked Adolphine, with apparent guilelessness.
"Yes."
"Where do you get the money, Constance, to spend on those expensive things?"
"I get it from my lovers," said Constance.
"Wha-at?" cried Adolphine, in a terrified voice.
Constance gave a nervous laugh:
"I tell you, from all my lovers."
"Oh, don't say things like that, even in fun! I thought it was imitation lace."
"Yes, but you don't know much about lace, do you?" said Constance, very calmly. "Or about diamonds? And you have not the least notion how to dress yourself, have you? I sometimes think you look very dowdy, Adolphine. It may be Dutch and substantial, but I consider it dowdy. And, on the other hand, you oughtn't to buy such rubbishy, shabby-genteel things as you do. And you haven't much notion of arranging your house, either, have you? If you were capable of understanding my taste, I wouldn't mind helping you to alter your drawing-room. But you would have to begin by getting rid of those horrible antimacassars and those china monkeys and dogs. Do; I wish you would. And choose a quieter carpet.... Don't you find those dinners very trying, Adolphine? I should say that Bertha is more at home in that sort of thing, isn't she?... And so the Erkenbouts go to your dinners, do they? I should have thought that Bruis, of theFonograaf, was more in your set. But I was forgetting: you haven't a set, really; you have a bit of everything, an omnium gatherum.... Curious, isn't it, that none of our friends of the old days—our little Court set, let me call it—ever come to you nowadays? What's the reason?... Of course, you have to make your house attractive, if you want to keep your acquaintances.... I suppose you don't care really about seeing people. It's such hard work for you.... You're more the good mother of your children, though I consider your girls, at least Floortje and Caroline, rather loud; and, as for your boys, you seem quite unable to teach them any sort of manners.... Well, if I can be of any use to you, if you want to alter that drawing-room of yours, you have only to say so and we will fix a day...."
Adolphine had listened gasping, unable to believe her ears. Had Constance gone mad? She stood up, shaking all over, while Constance, with apparent composure, continued to fold her laces:
"You're a deceitful creature!" she hissed, furious, so deeply wounded in every detail of her vanity that she could no longer control herself.
"Why?" asked Constance, calmly. "Perhaps I was, for months, with a view to winning your affection; and that was why I spent myself in praises admiring Floortje's trousseau. But now that I know that you love me so well, now that we have had a good, sisterly talk, now that we have given each other our advice and our opinion, I see no further need for being deceitful and I too prefer to express my sisterly feelings with the frankest sincerity."
"Do you mean to say you didn't like Floortje's trousseau?" asked Adolphine, raging.
But Constance mastered her quivering nerves:
"Adolphine," she said, coldly, "please let us end this conversation. It can't matter to you in the least whether I, your despised sister, like or dislike anything in or about you. Spiteful, hateful words have been spoken between us; and we have seen into each other's souls. You never had any affection for me, nor any indulgence nor mercy, whereas I believed that you had and tried to find a sister in you. I failed; and that is all. There is nothing more. We will end this conversation, if you please; and, if you don't mind, when we meet at Mamma's or elsewhere, let us act as though there had been nothing said between us. That is all I ask of you."
She rang. The parlour-maid appeared. Adolphine stood staring at Constance; and her lips began to swell with the venom of the words which she felt rising to her lips.
"It's to let Mrs. van Saetzema out, Truitje," said Constance, quietly.
Constance, when she was alone, burst into a fit of nervous sobbing.... Oh, that past, that wretched past, which always clung to her, which there was no shaking off! She thought life unjust and the family and everybody. She was not a wicked woman: there was only one mistake to be charged against her, the mistake of her heedless youth; and were the consequences to last for ever?... After all, what she now wished was so little, so very little, that she could not understand why it remained so unattainable. She merely asked to live quietly at the Hague, in her own country, and to be loved a little by all her relations, for whom she felt that strange, powerful feeling, that family-affection. That was all; she asked for nothing more. She demanded nothing more of life than to be allowed to grow old like that, with a little forgiveness and forbearance around her, and then to see her boy grow up into a man, while she, for the boy's sake, would endure her life, as best she could, by the side of her husband. That was all, that was all. That was the only thing that she, with her small soul, asked of life; and she asked nothing more; and it was as though all sorts of secret enmities around her grudged it to her. Whereas she wished for nothing but peace and quietness, enmity seemed to eddy around her. Why did people hate her so? And why could they not make somebody else or something else the subject of their talk, of their spiteful, malevolent talk, if they really found it impossible to do without talking?
She continued greatly dispirited for days, went out very little, seeing only her mother, to whose house she went regularly. Paul was abroad; and Adeline was expecting her confinement. Mrs. van Lowe noticed nothing of what was troubling Constance; and, when, on Sunday, the members of the family all met again, the old woman was radiant in the illusion of their great attachment to one another. The children always kept her in ignorance of their disputes, kept her, out of love and respect, in her dear illusion. Adolphine never spoke cattishly of Bertha, in Mamma's presence; was amiable to Constance. The old lady knew nothing of the quarrel between Addie and Jaap, nothing of the explanation which Van der Welcke had demanded from the Van Saetzemas.
When her husband and Addie returned, Constance spoke casually of her conversation with Adolphine. But, for the rest, she remained very silent and solitary and only saw Mamma and, just once, Adeline, the quiet little mother, expecting her eighth child. And once she went with her mother to call on the old aunts in their little villa near Scheveningen; and then it was:
"How are you, Dorine?"
"What do you say?"
"Marie asks how you are, Rine. Sheisso deaf, Marie."
"Oh, I'm all right.... Who's that?"
And Aunt Dorine pointed to Constance, always failing to recognize her, with the stubbornness of second childhood.
"That's Constance," said Mrs. Van Lowe.
"That's Gertrude!" Auntie Tine would say next. "Isn't it, Marie? That's Gertrude!"
"No, Christine, Gertrude died as a child at Buitenzorg."
But Auntie Tine was yelling in Auntie Rine's ear:
"That's Marie's daughter!"
"Marie's daughter?"
"Yes, Gertrude, Gertru-u-ude!"
Constance smiled:
"Never mind, Mamma," she whispered.
And Mamma said good-bye:
"Well, good-bye, Dorine and Christine."
"What d'you say?"
"Good-bye, Dorine and Christine; we must go."
"They've got to go!" yelled Auntie Tine in Auntie Rine's ear.
"Oh, have they got to go? Where are they going?"
"Home!"
"Oh, home? Oh, don't they live here?... Well, good-bye, Marie; thanks for your visit. Good-bye, Gertrude! You are Gertrude, aren't you?"
"Ye-e-es!" Auntie Tine assured her, in a shrill, long-drawn-out yell. "She's Ger-trude, Marie's daugh-ter."
"Well, then, good-bye, Gertrude."
"Never mind, Mamma, let them think I'm Gertrude," said Constance, softly, indulgently, while Mrs. van Lowe became a little irritable, not understanding how very old people could cling so stubbornly to an opinion and a little sad at the thought of Gertrude, who was dead.
And so the weeks passed and the months, very quietly, lonely and monotonously: the dreary months of the unseasonable cold, wet autumn, with heavy storms whipping the trees in the Kerkhoflaan, the wind incessantly howling round the house, the rain clattering down. Constance hardly ever went out, shut herself up indoors, as though her soul had received a hurt, as though she would rather henceforward remain safe in her dear rooms. She was very silent, she looked pale, she often sat thinking, pondering—she hardly knew what—sunk in her melancholy, staring at the fury of the storm outside. She did not often have scenes with Van der Welcke now, as though a brooding sadness had numbed her nerves. At half-past four, she would go to the window and watch longingly for her son, would cheer up a little when she saw him, when he talked nicely and pleasantly, her boy who was becoming more of a man daily. But she did not see very much of him now that he went to the grammar-school and had a lot of work to do in the evenings, which, studious by nature, he did conscientiously. Van Vreeswijck came to dinner once every two or three weeks, generally alone, or perhaps, as Paul was still abroad, she would ask Marianne van Naghel, of whom she was very fond. It would be one of those cosy, daintily-arranged little dinners which she knew so well how to give; and that was the extent of her social doings.
Thus she lived in herself and in her house. The rooms in which she sat always reflected herself, a woman of elegant and refined taste, even though she was not exactly artistic; and those rooms displayed in particular the inhabited, sociable, home-like appearance that comes from the presence of a woman who is much indoors and finds solace in her home. And round about her the lines and colours of her furniture and flowers, her knicknacks and fancy-work all made an atmosphere of soft fragrance peculiarly her own, with something very personal, something delicate and intimate: a soft dreaminess as of really very small, simple femininity, without one really artistic object anywhere, without a single water-colour or drawing or fashionable novel; and yet with nothing in colour or form or line that could offend the eye of an artist: on the contrary, everything blending into a perfect harmony of small material things with inner personal things that likewise had no greatness....
One day, when Truitje brought her some circulars, letters and bills from the letter-box, Constance' eye fell upon a newspaper in a wrapper; and she opened it. She read the title of the little sheet: theDwarskijker;[22]and, as she seldom received much by post, she thought that it must have been sent as an advertisement. Suddenly, however, she remembered: theDwarskijkerwas an odious little weekly paper edited by a disreputable individual who pried into all the secrets of the great Hague families; who had often been tried for blackmail, but always managed to escape; and who as constantly resumed his vile trade, because the families whom he attacked paid hush-money, whether his attacks were based on truth or calumny. Constance was about to tear up the paper indignantly, when her eye caught the name of Van Aghel, a parody obviously meant for Van Naghel, and she could not help reading on. She then read a nasty little article against her brother-in-law, the colonial secretary, an article crammed with personal attacks on Van Naghel, describing him as a great nonentity, who had made money at the bar in India by means of a shady Chinese practice and had been shoved on in his career by a still greater and more pompous nonentity, his father-in-law, the ex-Governor-general "Van Leeuwen." The article next attacked Van Naghel's brother, the Queen's Commissary in Overijssel, and, in conclusion, it promised, in a subsequent issue of theDwarskijkerto give a glimpse into the immorality of the other relations of thisbourgeoiswho had battened on the Chinese and who had rendered no real service to India. And the writer aimed very pointedly at Mrs. van Naghel's sister, another woman moving in those exalted circles whose end would soon be nigh in the better order of things at hand: she was described as the "ex-ambassadress;" and he wound up with the alluring promise to give, next week, full details of those old stories, which were always interesting because they afforded the reader a peep into the depravity of aristocratic society.
Constance, as she read on, felt her heart beating, the blood rushing to her cheeks; her hands trembled, her knees shook, she felt as though she were about to faint. She was growing accustomed to oral slander; but these written, printed articles, which everybody could read, came as a shock to her; and, with eyes starting from their sockets, she read the thing over and over again. She was filled with helpless despair at the thought that such things were being published about her and hers, that next week more things would be printed about her in that libellous paper. She was at her wits' end what to do, when, vaguely rolling her terrified eyes, she caught sight, among the bills and circulars, of another paper, which said:
"NOTICE!!!"Why not become a subscriber to the"DWARSKIJKER?"Terms of subscription:"50 guilders quarterly, post-free."
The notice was printed in the cynical capitals of blackmail; and she at once understood; she understood what that subscription of two hundred guilders a year to a scurrilous rag meant! But she also understood that, even if she sent the fifty guilders or the two hundred guilders that moment, it would be no safeguard against further defamation or extortion; and she did not know what to do....
She at first thought of concealing the paper from Van der Welcke; but she was so upset all day that, after dinner, when Addie had gone upstairs, she showed it to her husband. He grew furious at once, giving way to his naturally irritable temper, which he usually kept under control so as not to have too violent scenes with his wife. He swore, clenched his fists, walked up and down the room in impotent rage, longing to break something or to go out and revile the Hague, its streets and its people. To him also the printed libel—especially because it was printed, for every one to read—was a terrible disgrace, which he felt that he would have done anything to avoid. It also occurred to him to go to the office of theDwarskijkerand horsewhip the editor. And, without really knowing why or how, he allowed himself to utter that unpremeditated, illogical phrase, the phrase of a naughty child which does not stop to think when its temper is roused:
"It's all your fault!"
"My fault!" she echoed, vehemently. "And why, in Heaven's name? Why is it my fault?"
"It's your fault! You would come and live here, with that morbid craving of yours for your family. In Brussels, nobody knew us and nobody talked about us; and our life if not happy, was at least quiet. Here there's always something, always something! It's no life at all, our life here!"
"And you, weren't you longing to come back? Was I the only one who longed?" she cried, hurt by his unreasonableness.
But he did not hear her; and all his pent-up bitterness burst forth:
"I walk about the streets here every day, feeling as if every one were looking at me and pointing at me! When I go to the Witte or the Plaats, among all the men I used to know, I feel out of place, I feel like an interloper whom they don't want to own. It's your fault, it's your fault!"
"Indeed!"
"Why were you absolutely bent on coming back to Holland?"
"And you?"
"I?"
"Yes, you, you! Didn't you sometimes long for your parents, for Holland! Didn't you yourself say that it would be good for our boy?"
"For our boy!" he shouted, refusing to listen, in his impotent, seething rage. "For our boy!"
And he laughed more bitterly, more scornfully than she had ever heard him before:
"For our boy! A lot I can do for him here! However hard he may work, whatever tact he may show, even though he enters the career which I had to abandon, he will always, always be reminded of the scandal of his parents! For our boy! Let him become a farmer, if he must be a Dutchman in Holland, hidden somewhere from all our family, our friends and our acquaintances! And it's all, all your fault!"
"You are unreasonable!" she cried, wincing under his insults. "If we have anything to reproach ourselves with, then it falls upon both of us; and you have not the right to let me, me, a woman, bear the burden of our misery alone!"
"That misery would at least not have been discussed, mocked at, criticized, ridiculed, traduced," he shouted, raging and stamping, "if you had not insisted on coming back to Holland!"
"Was I the only one to wish it?"
"Very well," he admitted, losing all his self-control, "I did too. But we were both fools, to return to this rotten country and these rotten people!"
"I don't need them. I only longed for my family."
"For your family! The Saetzemas, with whom we have quarrelled already, to whom we never speak except at Mamma's; the Van Naghels, who are no use to us: is that how you want to live, for your boy, in Holland, here, buried away in your Kerkhoflaan, in your house, in your rooms, with no one but Vreeswijck, who sometimes does us the honour to come and dine with us? Whom do we know? Who comes to see us? Who cares a jot about us?"
"I only wanted the affection of my family!"
"And for the sake of that affection, do you want to go on living here like this, buried away, when you want your boy to pursue his career later on? Ha, ha, he'll go far, like that! Do you imagine that he'll succeed simply through examinations? No, influence is what he wants: that's more important than any number of examinations. And you want him to enter the service under those conditions, while his father and mother sit cursing their luck here, in the Kerkhoflaan? Well then, let him become a farmer: the future is with the proletariat in any case. Very well, it's the fault of both of us, the silly, stupid fault of both of us. But, if it's my fault, it's your fault too. Have you ever done anything to get on? I, at least in my own mind, reckoned on the Van Naghels; I thought to myself: My brother-in-law has no end of connections, we shall go to his house; I don't care about it for my own sake, but it will be a good thing, later, for the boy...."
"Oh? And have you no connections? Have your parents no relations? All your old friends at the Plaats: which of them comes to see us? Which of them, except Vreeswijck, has had the ordinary civility to call on your wife? Not one of them, not one!" she almost screamed. "Not that I want them here, any more than you want to dine at Van Naghel's; but, if you attach so much importance to connections, for the sake of our son, you could have done something else than cycle all over the Hague and Scheveningen, you could have pointed out to your friends that, as they condescend to know you in the sacred mysteries of that Plaats of yours, the least they could do would be to look you up at home and not to go on ignoring your wife, as though she were still your mistress...!"
"It'll always, always be like that!" he cried, raging impotently, almost to the point of tears. "We can never alter it, if we live to be sixty, if we live to be eighty!"
"Very well," she said, as though with a sudden intuition to join issue with her husband's unreasonableness. "You wish it for your son's sake! I'll do it! I shall speak to Bertha and I shall be the first to speak. I shall tell her what I want of her, as a sister. But I shall also expect you to have your son's interests at heart among your own acquaintances; and I shall expect to be presented in the winter. I never thought of it myself; but people have done nothing but talk about it from the moment that we came here; and now I mean to do it. What is the objection? That we shall rub shoulders with De Staffelaer's family! I don't care whom I rub shoulders with. My intention was simply to live here, amid the affection of my family; but, if that is to be denied me, if such wretched libels as this are to be published, if you reproach me with not thinking of my son's future, then I shall alter my line of conduct and talk to Bertha. You, on your side, talk to your friends at the Plaats and, if you have any pride about you, refuse to have anything more to do with them unless they accept your wife and yourself as belonging to their set. I will stand it no longer! I wished for nothing more than peace and affection, than to grow old here beside my mother and my brothers and sisters; but, if there must be a scandal, notwithstanding those simple wishes, well then a scandal there shall be, so that people can say, with truth, 'Mrs. van der Welcke is pushing herself into the circles to which she always used to belong.'"
"I can't do it!" he said, weakly. "I can't possibly do what you want. After putting up with the tolerance and condescension of my former friends, I can't go to them now and explain that my wife and I want to call on them and their wives and expect them to call on us in return."
"Then I'll do without you!" she said. "I'm not on speaking terms with Adolphine; but I don't need that jumble-set of hers. I believe that Bertha still has some sisterly affection left for me; and I shall talk to her and she will have to help me. But you will never be able to reproach me again with not thinking of my child's future. And, if you're too weak to show your friends what you expect of them, then I, later, when our son meets with difficulties in his career, shall have the right to reproach you as you are reproaching me now...."
"Reproach! I'm not thinking of reproaches!" he broke in, angrily, illogically, unreasonably. "I'm only thinking of that rotten paper, that rotten paper...."
He looked at it in despairing irritation:
"I'll go to the fellow, I'll slash him across the face, I'll slash him across the face!"
She laughed, scornfully:
"Shall you do that for the sake of your son's future?"
He controlled himself, clenched his fists, rushed from the room with tears in his eyes, flung himself in his chair upstairs, smoked cigarette upon cigarette, walked up and down in impotent rage....
That evening, Gerrit and Paul came round. They also knew about theDwarskijker:they said that a copy had been dropped into Van Naghel's letter-box too. And Gerrit, getting furious, because Van der Welcke was still furious, said:
"If you want to break the fellow's jaw, Van der Welcke, I'm your man!"
Paul wearily closed his eyes and expressed disapproval with every bored feature of his face:
"My dear Gerrit, don't come playing the bold swashbuckler, thinking you can chop the world to pieces with your silly old sword. And you, Van der Welcke, for Heaven's sake, keep calm, if you don't want to make things worse than they are!"
"But what are we to do?" asked Constance, impatiently.
"Nothing at all," said Paul, philosophically.
[22]TheInspector.
[22]TheInspector.
It was the middle of November; and Constance remembered that Bertha's second at-home day was on the third Tuesday of the month. The next number of theDwarskijkerwas due in a day or two; and this, although she did not mention it again, left her practically no peace throughout that week, in her terror of printed words of spite and malevolence. And, as if to redeem her promise to Van der Welcke, she said that afternoon, at lunch, that she was going to Bertha's, as it was Bertha's day. He at once grasped her intention and, to tell the truth, was surprised that she had not given up her plan of pushing herself. He had rather imagined that the idea came to her in the nervous excitement produced by their conversation, but that she would not take it seriously after the excitement was past. He remembered that the family always looked upon those receptions at the Van Naghels' as something very official: Mamma van Lowe went to them once in a way; and Uncle and Aunt Ruyvenaer, although quite out of their element, used to put in an appearance once every winter, because they had done so at first, by mistake, and now did not exactly know how to stay away; but none of the other relations ever went. In the eyes of the family, those reception-days always retained a certain official importance and aristocratic exclusiveness; and Cateau, for instance, would say, very solemnly, to Karel that this was Ber-tha'sday, with a certain respect for that day on which the upper two and three of the Hague sometimes put in an appearance, while Gerrit always joked about the inaccessible grandeur of those reception-days of her excellency his sister, as he called her in chaff....
Van der Welcke had it on his lips to ask Constance if Bertha knew that she was coming, or if Constance had at least mentioned her intention to Mamma van Lowe. But he did not feel in the mood to provoke a discussion; and in any case Constance would do as she chose. It was raining; he heard her tell the maid to order a carriage; and, as he was staying at home, to bore himself in Addie's absence in his little smoking-room, smoking cigarette on cigarette, he saw his wife step into the brougham at four o'clock and was struck with the elegance of her dress. He shrugged his shoulders, in gloomy disapproval; he was in a bad temper these days; he too was permanently upset by that rotten libel, that confounded rag, against which he had been helpless. He threw himself on his sofa again and smoked and smoked, could not make up his mind to dress and go to the Plaats, was almost unconsciously avoiding his friends.
Constance felt very calm, but had retained a certain bitterness all this time. The thought just occurred to her how Bertha would take her visit; but, even though the family treated the question differently, she meant to show Bertha that she considered it an obvious thing to call on her at-home day.
When her brougham stopped, she saw a couple of carriages waiting; the door was opened by the parlour-maid, even before she had rung; the butler, recognizing her, bowed, preceded her up the stairs, opened the door wide and announced her:
"Mrs. van der Welcke...."
Constance entered the drawing-room, where a few people, mostly ladies, were moving in the semi-darkness. But it was not so dark that she did not at once notice that Marianne looked at her in surprise, with such spontaneous, unconcealed surprise that it gave her something of a shock. She shook hands with Marianne with an easy smile and went up to Bertha; and Bertha also, as she very plainly noticed, was surprised and blinked her eyes as she rose. And Bertha, woman of the world though she was and accustomed to treat all manner of difficult drawing-room situations, seemed uncomfortable as she welcomed her sister:
"Constance."
She said it almost inaudibly and hesitated a moment whether to introduce her to a lady sitting beside her. But it was only for a moment; and then Bertha said, with her usual voice of the rather tired hostess, who performed her social duties because she had to:
"Mrs. van Eilenburgh; my sister, Mrs. van der Welcke."
Constance bowed, calmly and indifferently, said a word or two. Bertha mentioned a couple of more names; and Constance made a casual remark here and there, coolly and calmly. But she was really dismayed, for the first lady to whom Bertha had introduced her was mistress of the robes to the Queen and a niece of De Staffelaer's. She had already been reflecting that it would be her duty to write to Mrs. van Eilenburgh, to send her word officially of her wish to be presented; and she had also reflected that the mistress of the robes was De Staffelaer's niece. But the fact that the first lady to whom Bertha introduced her should be a blood-relation of the husband from whom she was divorced made her shiver superstitiously. She did not show this, however, and, without taking any great trouble to make herself amiable or sociable, she remained sitting where she was, so that Marianne now came up to her:
"How nice of you, Auntie, to look in on Mamma's day."
"She doesn't mean a word of it," thought Constance.
But it was awkwardness and astonishment, rather than insincerity, that made Marianne speak as she did. She could never have imagined that Aunt Constance should call on those at-home days, any more than the other aunts and uncles did, because their respective acquaintances were so entirely different.
"We were so busy in the spring, getting settled," said Constance, very calmly. "You remember, the furniture had to come from Brussels. But this autumn I thought I would pay my respects to Mamma. After all, I can't go on ignoring Mamma and only seeing her when she is in her bedroom with a headache!"
Marianne's surprise increased. Aunt Constance said this so calmly, so very calmly, as though it were quite a matter of course that she should call on an at-home day. And Marianne could not refrain from saying:
"Yes, it's very nice of you to come. For, you see, the aunts never come: Aunt Adeline never and Aunt Cateau never and Aunt Ruyvenaer only very seldom."
"Oh, really?" asked Constance, innocently. "Don't they ever come?"
"Auntie Ruyvenaer just once in a way; but the other aunts never."
"Oh? Don't they?" asked Constance, putting on an air of great surprise and rather playing with Marianne's bewilderment.
"Didn't you know?"
"No, I didn't know. But I don't call that very civil of the aunts. It's different with the uncles: men are not expected to pay visits. But I'm surprised at the two aunts, Marianne."
Marianne did not know what to say. She was not accustomed to weigh her words or to think that another might say things which she did not really mean. Nervously constituted as she was, she had something candid about her, something honest and frank.
"Well, I shall tell them," said Constance, with a laugh, "that they owe the same politeness to a sister as to any one else."
"Oh, Auntie, I don't think Aunt Adeline or Aunt Cateau or Aunt Adolphine would care to come!" said Marianne, not doubting Constance' good faith for a moment.
"Oh, wouldn't they?" said Constance, coolly. "Yes, I suppose Aunt Adeline is always so busy with the children. And Aunt Cateau...."
She did not complete her sentence, for two men, knowing that she was Mrs. van Naghel's sister, were asking to be introduced to her.
She did not want to stay long; and, in a minute or two, she rose and moved towards Bertha to say good-bye. Mrs. van Eilenburgh, however, was taking leave at the same instant; and Constance waited for a couple of seconds. And, in those two seconds, she noticed, very plainly, that Mrs. van Eilenburgh deliberately turned her back on her, as if to avoid her, saying good-bye to Bertha and giving Constance no opportunity of bowing. It was no more than a hardly perceptible movement and, in any other case, might have been a natural oversight; but, at this moment, Constance felt that it was done deliberately, with the intention of wounding. She gave an ironical smile, with a laugh in her eyes and tightened lips, and thought:
"She is De Staffelaer's niece. I shall meet plenty more of his nephews and nieces...."
She was now able to take leave of Bertha.
"Good-bye, Bertha."
"Good-bye, Constance, so nice of you...."
Constance, for a moment, looked Bertha straight in the eyes. She said nothing, she did nothing but that: merely looked into Bertha's eyes while still holding her hand. And, for a moment, they looked into each other's souls.
There were no more callers; the rest of the room was talking busily; and Bertha just had the opportunity to say something that forced its way to her lips:
"Constance, that article...."
"Yes?..."
"Van Naghel is very much upset by it."
Constance shrugged her shoulders.
"Have you heard about it?"
"Yes, I found a copy of it in my letter-box. It's one of those libels...."
"It's terrible."
"It's beneath us to let ourselves be worried by a thing like that."
"Yes, but ... it's most unpleasant ... for Van Naghel...."
"It's not particularly pleasant for me either, but...."
And she shrugged her shoulders again, refusing to admit how she had suffered under it, trembling in all her nerves at those printed words of scandal. But she understood that Bertha also had been suffering all these days under that shower of mud, which clung to you, however lofty your attitude of contemptuous indifference might be. And Bertha found another moment in which to say:
"Constance...."
"Yes?..."
"Mrs. van Eilenburgh ... is a niece...."
"Yes, I know."
"I am sorry ... that you should just have happened to meet her."
Constance once more shrugged her shoulders:
"Why?"
And she looked Bertha full in the face:
"Why?" she repeated. "There are things, Bertha, which I intend to treat as the past. I don't know if others will always look upon them as the present. If you wish to be a sister for me, in deed as well as in name, help me. Do you understand what I mean? I am determined to treat what happened years ago as the past. I've made up my mind to it, in spite of the fact that our friends, I believe, take pleasure in still looking upon the past as the present. It's a great compliment to me, no doubt, but, alas, I can't accept it: I am fully fifteen years older now; and I am determined to make those fifteen years count. Do you understand me?"
"I think I understand you, Constance."
"And you don't approve. You also want me never to grow old and never to bring my fifteen years into account."
"Ssh, Constance! There's some one coming in at the door...."
"Don't be afraid: I've finished. Good-bye, Bertha; and help me, if you can...."
She pressed her hand. Bertha was on thorns.
As she went out, Constance heard the butler announcing:
"Mr. and Mrs. van den Heuvel Steyn."
She gave a start; she knew the name: friends of De Staffelaer's; Van den Heuvel Steyn had a post at Court. Suddenly, she saw herself, years ago, as a young girl, calling on those people with De Staffelaer. She had not seen them for years, had not heard of them for years.
She passed them and saw that they had become old, very old, those friends of De Staffelaer's, two very old people. They looked at her too; and there was fury in their eyes, as though they were both surprised—that old lady and that old gentleman—to find Mrs. van der Welcke in any drawing-room which they entered, even though she were a hundred times the sister of the colonial secretary's wife. Their eyes crossed like swords; and Constance passed them very haughtily, looking over their heads and pretending not to recognize them. She shivered in the hall. It was pouring with rain. The butler called her carriage.
"It will be difficult," she thought, tired out with this one quarter-of-an-hour's visit. "But it is for my son. I must go through with it...."
A few mornings later, when Constance woke, she remembered that it was Saturday; and, with the apprehension which had kept her nerves on the rack all the week long, she said to herself, as she rose:
"This is the day ... this is the day...."
She went to the letter-box again and again, almost hoping to find the last issue of the scurrilous paper there. She was afraid also lest Addie, before going to school or on coming home, should see it in the box and look at it, to see what it was. She knew that Van der Welcke was thinking of it too and that this was why he did not go out and also kept coming down the stairs, as though accidentally, and passing through the hall, with a glance at the glass pane of the letter-box. She went and sat in the drawing-room, looking out for the postman or for an errand-boy who might strike her as suspicious.... The morning passed, Addie came home and her nervous apprehension never left her. The afternoon passed and she remained indoors, wandering through the hall and always, always gazing at that letter-box. Nothing appeared through the little glass pane. And the whole day was one long apprehension, one incessant oppression.
The next morning, Sunday, Constance again looked out of the window, but she had now made up her mind that nothing would come and that there was nothing in theDwarskijker. She stayed at home that day too, as it was raining hard, and she saw nobody. At half-past eight in the evening, she went to Mamma van Lowe's in a cab, with Van der Welcke and Addie. And Constance, the moment she entered, saw that there was a certain excitement among the members of the family, all of whom were present. Even Mamma seemed uneasy about something; and she at once said to Constance:
"You were at Bertha's on Tuesday, child...."
"Yes...."
"Why didn't you ask me first, Connie?"
"Is a visit to Bertha such a very important matter, Mamma?"
"No, no," said the old woman, deprecatingly, "not that...."
But the old aunts arrived:
"How are you, Marie?"
"How are you, Dorine and Christine? So nice of you to come."
"What d'you say?" asked Auntie Rine.
"Marie says ... it's so nice of you to co-o-ome!" screamed Auntie Tine.
"Oh, ah! Did she say so? Yes, yes.... And who's that?..."
"That's Constance," said the old lady.
"Who?"
"That's Marie's daughter!" screamed Auntie Tine. "Marie's daugh-ter!"
"Whose daughter?"
"Marie's?"
"Bertha?"
"No, not Bertha, Gertrude: Ger-tru-ude!" yelled Auntie Tine.
"Oh, Gertrude?" said Auntie Rine, nodding her head.
"Oh dear!" said Mrs. van Lowe, upset by the thought of the little daughter who had died at Buitenzorg.
"Never mind, Mamma," said Constance. "They'll never remember who I am."
"They're so obstinate!"
"But they're so old."
"It makes me so sad to hear them always taking you for Gertrude. Poor Gertrude!"
"Come, Mamma, you mustn't mind."
"No, child. But, oh, why did you go to Bertha's on Tuesday?"
"What harm did I do, Mamma?"
"No harm, child. But oh dear!... Good-evening, Herman; good-evening, Lotje."
It was Uncle and Aunt Ruyvenaer, with their girls following behind. And Constance saw a look of pity in their eyes.
"I say, Constance...." whispered Aunt Lot.
"Yes, Auntie?"
"Does Mamma know about that hor-r-rid article?"
Constance turned pale:
"I don't think so, Auntie."
"But your sister Dorine must know...."
Aunt Ruyvenaer beckoned to Dorine, who was very fidgety:
"I say, Dorine, does Mamma know about that hor-r-rid article?"
"No, Auntie," said Dorine, forgetting to say good-evening to Constance. "I kept coming in and looking at the letter-box...."
"To-day?" asked Constance.
"Yes."
"What do you mean, to-day? A week ago, you mean."
"No, Mamma didn't see that article last week, but I was afraid about to-day."
"To-day?"
"Yes, to-day's article."
Constance caught Dorine by the arm:
"Is there something in it, to-day?"
"Yes," Dorine whispered, coldly. "Didn't you know?"
"Don't you know, Constance?" asked Auntie Lot.
"No, I haven't had it...."
"So you haven't read it, Constance?"
"No."
"Well, it's just as well, child," said Auntie, as though relieved. "Better not read it, eh? Hor-r-rid article. Scandalous, child, about you.... Eh,soedah[23]all those people.... And it's so long ago, you and your husband; and he is your husband now!... Eh, what I say is, leave her alone. Forgive and forget,soedah!But I tell you, people always love tokorekabouttempo doeloe.[24]It makes me sick when I think what people are!"
"Dorine, have you that article?"
"Do you think I carry it about with me?" said Dorine, irritably.
"Why are you angry with me, Dorine?"
"I'm not angry; but, when you give occasion...."
"I?... Give occasion?... Fifteen years ago?..."
"No, on Tuesday last. What an idea of yours, to go to Bertha's!"
"I intend to do more than that, Dorine. And I can't help it if I don't share your awe for Bertha's days...."
"At which you may meet all sorts of people...."
"Dorine, one has so many unpleasant meetings in this world," said Constance, haughtily. "You, you don't know the world."
"Thank goodness for that!"
"Then don't condemn me. You don't know why I am acting as I am."
"If you only kept to yourself...."
"I wanted to keep to myself."
"You give people occasion...."
"Yes, now: I give them occasion now...."
"Oh, children," said Auntie, "don't quarrel.... There'ssoesah[25]enough, with that hor-r-rid article!"
Gerrit arrived:
"I thought I'd just look in, Mamma...."
"How's Adeline?"
"She's well. The doctor called this afternoon. She's very well indeed. Oh, she doesn't upset herself for a small affair like that!"
The big, fair man laughed nervously, boisterously filling the whole room with his loose-limbed strength. Then he went up to Constance:
"Connie," he whispered, "I'm so furious, so furious!"
"I haven't read it."
"Haven't you? Haven't you? Then don't!"
"But what do they say?"
"Nothing. Don't read it."
But she hardly listened to Gerrit, for she now saw Van der Welcke and Paul standing in a corner, in the back-drawing-room. She moved in their direction. She saw that Van der Welcke, with his back turned to the other room, was reading something, screened by a curtain, while Paul was warning him, anxiously:
"Come, give it me, quick ... Van der Welcke...."
Constance was behind them:
"Paul, tell me, that article...."
"The scoundrels, the scoundrels!" Van der Welcke was hissing.
"Henri, have you it? Give it to me."
"No, Constance!" Paul implored her. "Don't read it, don't read it."
"Give it to me, Henri!"
"I want to read it myself first!"
And he cursed as he read:
"The damned scoundrels! And it's not true; it didn't happen like that...."
"But what is it they say?" Constance demanded, furiously.
Paul took her by the arm and led her into the little boudoir, where their father's portrait hung:
"Be quiet, Constance. Please, please don't read it! What good will it do you; all that dirty language, all that vulgarity? It's filthy, it's filthy!"
"And is there nothing we can do?"
"No, no, for God's sake, no!" Paul begged, as though preferring to hush up, everything. "Every one will have forgotten it in ten days' time."
"Is there nothing we can do?"
"What do you want to do?" Paul asked, changing his tone, harshly. "Surely you wouldn't sue the cad for libel?"
"No, no!" she said, startled and terrified.
"Well, what then? Keep quiet, don't read it don't upset yourself about it...."
But Van der Welcke came up to them. He was purple, there was no restraining him:
"I'm going to the fellow...."
"For God's sake, Van der Welcke!"
Uncle Ruyvenaer joined them:
"What are you doing in here? Oh, yes, that rag! It's disgraceful, it's disgraceful!"
"I want to read it!" cried Constance.
"No!" they all three exclaimed. "Don't read it!"
"Don't let Mamma notice!" Uncle Ruyvenaer warned them.
And he went away, full of suppressed excitement.
But they remained in the boudoir. The portrait looked down upon them.
"Oh, my God!" Constance began sobbing; and she looked up at the portrait. "Papa, Papa! Oh, my God!"
"Hush, Constance!"
"Let me read it!"
"No."
Adolphine appeared in the doorway. She said nothing, but realized what they were talking about and turned away. And they heard Adolphine say aloud, in a hard voice, to Uncle Ruyvenaer:
"It's their own fault!"
Van der Welcke flared up, no longer able to master himself. He spun round to the door; Paul tried to hold him back, but it was too late; and, on the threshold, with his face close to Adolphine's, he roared:
"Why is it my own fault?"
"Why?" asked Adolphine, furiously, remembering the lofty tone which he had adopted to her after the quarrel of the two boys. "Why? You should have remained in Brussels!"
"Adolphine!" cried Van der Welcke, purple in the face, seething, roaring, with every nerve quivering. "You're a woman and an ill-mannered woman; and so you can allow yourself to say anything you please to a man. But, if your husband shares your opinion that I ought to have remained in Brussels, he's only got to tell me so, in your name or in his own! Then I'll send him my seconds!"
Van Saetzema came up at that moment.
"Then I'll send you my seconds!" Van der Welcke repeated, blazing.
"For God's sake, don't, my dear fellow!" cried Van Saetzema, frightened to death.
And Adolphine began to clasp her hands together; she too was frightened and took refuge in a feeble exhibition of wounded vanity:
"He says I'm ill-mannered! He says I'm ill-mannered! The hound! The cad! I have to swallow everything! Every one says just what he likes tome!"
She was now really crying into her handkerchief. Everything in the two drawing-rooms seemed in one great ferment of excitement. On all sides, there were quick, hushed conversations, whispered words, nervous glances among the brothers and sisters and their juniors, the nephews and nieces; not a single quiet group had been formed; the card-tables remained untouched; and there was no one at the table in the conservatory where the children's round games were played.
"Herman!" Mamma called out, almost querulously. "Aren't you going to start a rubber?"
"Yes, do come along!" said Auntie Lot to Ruyvenaer, "Ajo,[26]shall we have a game? Come on, who's going to play?... You, Saetzema? Come along ... Toetie? Come along. Cut for partners.... Come, Paul ... Do!"
"No, Aunt, I won't play, thanks."
"Oh, it's difficult this evening!" said Auntie. "Van Naghel and Bertha not yet here, eh? Come on....Ajonow, let's play! Ah, there are Karel and Cateau! Why are you so late, eh?...Ajothen, cut for partners ... let's have a rubber!"
And Auntie at once enlisted Karel and Cateau, refused to let them go, forced matters, insisted on having a nice, quiet, friendly rubber, as at all the usual "family-groups." But Cateau at once noticed the excitement infecting everybody in both the big rooms with restlessness and, catching sight of Adolphine, she managed, before cutting, to escape Auntie Lot and ask:
"Why, Adolph-ine, what are you cry-ing for? Are you up-set about any-thing?"
"The hound! The cad! And he wants to challenge my husband in addition!"
"Chal-lenge him?" cried the terrified Cateau. "A reg-u-lar du-el! No! The bro-thers and sis-ters will nev-er consent tothat!There's too much been talked andwrit-tenabout the family as itis!" she whispered. "Writ-ten andprint-ed!"
And Cateau's whining words bore evidence to the tragic alarm that fluttered through her sleek, broad-bosomed respectability, while her owl's eyes opened rounder and wider than ever.
But Auntie Lot came to fetch Cateau and dragged her by the arm to the card-table. The rubber was made up: Auntie, Karel, Cateau and Toetie. But they none of them paid attention to their cards, which fell on the table, one after the other, without the least effort of intelligence on the part of the players, as though obeying the laws of some weird and fantastic game of bridge.... Auntie was constantly trying to ruff with spades though clubs were trumps:
"Oh, whatkassian!"[27]said Auntie.
"Ka-rel," said Cateau, excitedly, "as the eld-est bro-ther, youmustinter-fere andstopthat du-el!"
"I? Thank you: not if I know it!"
"You must, Ka-rel: You are the eld-est bro-ther.... Of course, Van Na-ghel"—and she pronounced the name with a certain reverence—"is the hus-band of your eld-est sist-er; but if he, if Van"—reverentially—"Van Na-a-ghel refuses to inter-fere, then it'syourduty, Ka-rel, as the eld-est bro-ther, to stop that du-el."
"It won't come off!" said Toetie, good-humouredly.
"Massa,[28]brothers-in-law don't fight!" said Auntie Lot. "But Adolphine shouldn't have behaved like that.... Very wrong of Adolphine."
"But it's sa-ad, all the same,verysa-ad, for Adolph-ine, all those art-ides," whined Cateau. "They up-set her. She's cry-ing, And it's anything but plea-sant for Van Na-ghel, don't youthink, Un-cle?"
This to Uncle Ruyvenaer, who was standing behind her.
"It's beastly, it's beastly!" said Uncle. "They ought never to have come and lived here. It was very wrong of Marie to encourage them."
"Oh, well, Herman," said Auntie, "you must remember she's the mother!"
"Just for that reason...."
"Oh, Papa!" said Toetie, wearily. "That oldperkara!"[29]
"Nothing butkorekintempo doeloein Holland," said Auntie, crossly.
"Well, Aunt-ie," said Cateau, taking offence, "they're not al-ways so mor-al in the Ea-east!"
"But there's not so much talk in Java as here," said Auntie, angrily.
"Oh, I daresay they do some talk-ing there too!"
"But not so spitefully!" said Auntie, very angrily and finding her Dutch words with great difficulty. "Not ... not so cruelly, so cruelly."
"They ought never to have come and lived here," Uncle Ruyvenaer repeated.
And he fussed off to Van Saetzema, whose eyes were still filled with terror at the possible duel.
"Look, Mamma," said Toetie, winking towards Auntie Tine and Auntie Rine, who were sitting side by side in a corner of the big drawing-room, each with her knitting in her lap. "Those two are quite happy! They don't bother about all these matters! They don't know anything."
"In Holland...." said Auntie, crossly.
"But in the Ea-east!" ... Cateau at once broke in, spitefully.
The rubber was spoilt, for Auntie, in her present state of irritation, could no longer see the cards in her hand. The old Indian lady felt that there was hostility to Constance among the relations; and, with the kindliness of a nature used to the little Indian scandals, she thought it exaggerated. Moreover, Cateau's Dutch arrogance in speaking of "the East" had put her quite out of temper; and she flung her cards on the table and said:
"Soedah, I won't play with you any more!"
And, without further explanation, she broke up the table and walked straight to Constance, who sat talking to Paul in a corner:
"I'm coming to sit with you a bit, Constance!"
"Do, Auntie."
"What I want to say to you is, don't mind about it! Shake it off your cold clothes![30]What does it matter? Hor-r-rible article! But I tell you: shake it off your cold clothes!"
And Auntie talked away, suddenly lighting on all sorts of queer Dutch words and expressions, told Constance of horrible articles in India which people out there had shaken off their cold clothes.
At this moment, Bertha, Van Naghel and Marianne arrived, very late. Mamma at once went up to them. The people in the two rooms now made some attempt to adopt an attitude; and their excitement cooled down. But it struck them all that Van Naghel looked exceedingly tired, Bertha pale and Marianne as though she had been crying; her eyes were specks under her swollen lids. They exchanged vague, almost doleful good-evenings, giving a hand here, a kiss there....
After all the agitation, a gloom descended upon the family. The voices sank into a whisper. And, through the whispering, suddenly, the voices of the two old aunts sounded piercingly, as they spoke to the Van Naghels:
"Yes, yes, I remember you, I know you. Good-evening, Van Naghel."
"Good-evening, Aunt."
"Good-evening, Toetie. Yes, yes, I know you: you're Toetie, Van Naghel's wife. And who's that?"
"That's my girl, Auntie: Marianne. And I'm Bertha...."