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The Later Life
THE BOOKS OF THE
SMALL SOULS
By
LOUIS COUPERUS
Translated by
ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA de MATTOS
I. SMALL SOULS.
IL THE LATER LIFE.
IIL THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS.
[/« preparation.
IV. DR. ADRIAAN.
\_Later.
THE LATER LIFE
BY
LOUIS COUPERUS
Author of "Small Souls," "Footsteps of Fate," etc.
TRANSLATED Br
ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS
WILLIAM HEINEMANN
LONDON
Copyright, 1915
By DOUU, mead AND COMPANY
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE
The Later Life Is the second of The Books of the
Small Souls, following Immediately upon Small Souls,
the novel that gives the title to the series. In the
present story, Couperus reverts, at times and in a
measure, to that earlier, " sensltlvlst " method
which he abandoned almost wholly In Small Souls
and which he again abandons In The Twilight of
the Souls and In Dr. Adriaan, the third and fourth
novels of the series.
Alexander Teixeira de Mattos.
Chelsea,
22 March, 1914.
The Later Life
CHAPTER I
Van der Welcke woke that morning from a long,
sound sleep and stretched himself luxuriously in the
warmth of the sheets. But suddenly he remembered
what he had been dreaming; and, as he did so, he
gazed into the wardrobe-glass, in which he could
just see himself from his pillow. A smile began to
flicker about his curly moustache; his blue eyes lit up
with merriment. The sheets, which still covered his
body — he had flung his arms above his head —
rose and fell with the ripple of his silent chuckles;
and suddenly, Irrepresslbly, he burst into a loud
guffaw:
" Addle ! " he shouted, roaring with laughter.
"Addle, are you up? . . . Addie, come here for a
minute! "
The door between the two rooms opened; Addie
entered.
"Addie! . . . Just imagine . . . just Imagine
what I've been dreaming. It was at the seaside —
Ostende or Schevenlngen or somewhere — and ev-
erybody, everybody was going about . . . half-
naked . . . their legs bare . . . and the rest beau-
tifully dressed. The men had coloured shirts and
light jackets and exquisite ties and straw hats, gloves
and a stick In their hands . . . and the rest . . .
2 THE LATER LIFE
the rest was stark naked. The ladies wore lovely
blouses, magnificent hats, parasols . . . and that
was all! . . . And there was nothing in it, Addie,
really there was nothing in it; it was all quite natural,
quite proper, quite fashionable; and they walked
about like that and sat on chairs and listened to the
music! . . . And the fishermen . . . the fishermen,
Addie, went about like that too I . . . And the mu-
sicians ... In the bandstand . . . were half-
naked too; and . . . the tails ... of their dress-
coats . . . hung down . . . well . . . like that ! "
Van der Welcke, as he told his dream in broken
sentences, lay shaking with laughter; his whole bed
shook, the sheets rose and fell; he was red in the
face, as if on the verge of choking; he wept as though
consumed with grief; he gasped for breath, threw
the bed-clothes off :
" Just imagine it . . . just imagine it . . . you
never . . . you never saw such a stretch of sands
as that! "
Addie had begun by listening with his usual
serious face; but, when he saw his father crying and
gasping for breath, rolling about in the bed, and
when the vision of those sands became clearer to his
imagination, he also was seized with irresistible
laughter. But he had one peculiarity, that he could
not laugh outright, but, shaken with internal merri-
ment, would laugh in his stomach without utter-
ing a sound; and he now sat on the edge of his
THE LATER LIFE 3
father's bed, rocking with silent laughter as the bed
rocked under him. He tried not to look at his
father, for, when he saw his father's face, dis-
torted and purple with his paroxysms of laughter,
lying on the white pillow like the mask of some faun,
he had to make agonized clutches at his stomach
and, bent double, to try to laugh outright; and he
couldn't, he couldn't.
" Doesn't It . . . doesn't it . . . strike you as
funny?" asked Van der Welcke, hearing no sound
of laughter from his son.
And he looked at Addie and, suddenly remember-
ing that Addie could never roar with laughter out
loud, he became still merrier at the sight of his
poor boy's silent throes, his noiseless stomach-laugh,
until his own laughter rang through the room, echo-
ing back from the walls, fiUing the whole room with
loud Homeric mirth.
" Oh, Father, stop! " said Addie at last, a little
relieved by his internal paroxysms, the tears stream-
ing in wet streaks down his face.
And he heaved a sigh of despair that he could not
laugh like his father.
" Give me a pencil and paper," said Van der
Welcke, " and I'll draw you my dream."
But Addie was very severe and shocked:
" No, Father, that won't do ! That'll never
do. . . . it'd be a vulgar drawing! "
And his son's chaste seriousness worked to such
4 THE LATER LIFE
an extent upon Van der Welcke's easily tickled
nerves that he began roaring once more at Addie's
indignation ...
Truitje was prowling about the passage, knock-
ing at all the doors, not knowing where Addie was:
" Are you up, Master Addie? "
" Yes," cried Addie. " Wait a minute."
He went to the door:
"What is it?"
" A telegram . . . from the mistress, I ex-
pect . . ."
" Here."
He took the telegram, shut the door again.
" From Mamma? " asked Van der Welcke.
" Sure to be. Yes, from Paris : ' J' arrive ce
soir: "
Van der Welcke grew serious:
" And high time too. What business had
Mamma to go rushing abroad like that? . . .
One'd think we were well off . . . What did you do
about those bills, Addie? "
" I went to the shops and said that mevrouw was
out of town and that they'd have to wait."
" I see. That's all right . . . Can you meet
Mamma at the station? "
" Yes. The train's due at six . . . Then we'll
have dinner afterwards, with Mamma."
" I don't know ... I think I'd better dine at the
club."
THE LATER LIFE 5
" Come, Father, don't be silly! "
" No," said Van der Welcke, crossly, " don't
bother me. I'll stay on at the Witte."
" But don't you see that means starting off with a
manifestation? Whereas, if you wait in for
Mamma peacefully and we all have dinner together,
then things'U come right of themselves. That'll be
much easier than if you go staying out at once:
Mamma would only think it rude."
"Rude? . . . Rude? . . ."
"Well, there's nothing to flare up about! And
you just come home to dinner. Then you'll be on
the right side."
" I'll think it over. If I don't look out, you'll be
bossing me altogether."
" Well, then, don't mind me, stay at the Witte."
" Oho! So you're offended, young man? "
" Oh, no! I'd rather you came home, of course;
but, if you prefer to dine at the Witte, do."
"Dearly-beloved son!" said Van der Welcke,
throwing out his hands with a comical gesture of
resignation. " Your father will obey your sapient
wishes."
" Fond Father, I thank you. But I must be off
to school now."
" Good-bye, then . . . and you'd better forget
those sands."
They both exploded and Addle hurried away and
vanished, shaking with his painful stomach-laugh,
'6 THE LATER LIFE
while he heard Van der Welcke break into a fresh
guffaw :
" He can laugh! " thought the boy.
CHAPTER II
Van der Welcke had dressed and breakfasted
and, because he felt bored, took his bicycle and
went for a long ride by himself. He was very
often bored these days, now that Addie was work-
ing hard at the grammar-school. Without his
boy, he seemed at once to have nothing to do, no
object in life; he could see no reason for his exist-
ence. He would smoke endless cigarettes in his
den, or go bicycling, or turn up once in a way at
the Plaats, once in a way at the Witte; but he did
not go to either of his clubs as often as he used to.
He saw much less of his friends, his friends of
former days, the men of birth and position who
had all won fame in their respective spheres, though
Van Vreeswijck continued his visits regularly, ap-
preciating the cosy little dinners. Van der Welcke
generally felt lonely and stranded, found his own
company more and more boring from day to day;
and it was only when he saw his boy come back from
school that he cheered up, enjoyed life, was glad
and lively as a child.
He loved the quick movement of it; and he cycled
and cycled along the lonely, chill, windy country-
roads, aiming at no destination, just pedalling away
for the sake of speed, for the sake of covering the
7
8 THE LATER LIFE
ground. If he were only rich: then he'd have a
motor-car! There was nothing like a motor-car!
A motor-car made up for this rotten, stodgy, boring
life. To rush along the smooth roads In your car,
to let her rip : tock, tock, tock, tock, tock-tock-tock-
tock 1 Ha I . . . Ha I . . . That would be grand !
Suppose his father were to make him a present
of a car . . . Ha! . . . Tock-tock-tock-tock 1 . . .
And, as he spurted along, he suggested to himself
the frantic orgy of speed of a puffing, snorting motor-
car, the acrid stench of its petrol-fumes, the ready
obedience of the pneumatic-tyred wheels while the
car flew through the dust like a storm-chariot over
the clouds. It made him poetic — tock-tock-tock-
tock, tock-tock-tock-tock — but, as long as his father
lived, he would never have enough money to buy
himself a decent car!
Life was stodgy, rotten, boring ... If only
Addie had finished school ! But then . . . then he
would have to go to the university . . . and into
the diplomatic service . . . No, no, the older his
boy grew, the less he would see of him . . . How
wretched It all was : he did not know whether to wish
that Addle was older or not! ... To think, It
wasn't a year ago since the child used to sit on his
knee, with his cheek against his father's, his arm
round his father's neck; and Van der Welcke would
feel that slight and yet sturdy frame against his
heart; and now . . . now already he was a lad, a
THE LATER LIFE 9
chap with a deep voice, who ruled his father with a
rod of iron ! Yes, Van der Welcke was simply ruled
by him: there was no getting away from it! Sup-
pose he wanted to stay and dine at the Witte that
night: why the blazes shouldn't he? And he knew
as sure as anything that he wouldn't! He would
come home hke a good little boy, because Addie had
rather he did, because otherwise Addie would look
upon it as a manifestation against Constance . . .
She too was coming back, after Addie had written
that it really wouldn't do, financially. She had run
away like a madwoman, two months ago, after that
pleasant business at the last Sunday-evening which
they had spent at Mamma van Lowe's, after the
furious scene which she had made him, Van der
Welcke, because he wanted to hit their brother-in-
law. Van Naghel, In the face. Mind, it was for
her, for his wife's sake, that he wanted to hit Van
Naghel in the face. For her sake, because that
pompous ass had dared to say that he wasn't keen on
Constance calling on Bertha's at-home day ... but
that in other respects they were brothers and sisters !
The disgusting snob ! That old woman, that non-
entity, that rotter, that twopenny-halfpenny cabinet-
minister, who had got on simply because old Van
Lowe, in his day, had kicked him upstairs step by
step! . . . Van der Welcke was still furious when
he thought of the fellow, with his smooth face and
his namby-pamby speeches. He hadn't been able to
10 THE LATER LIFE
control himself that time : his wife, at any rate, was
his wife; his wife was Baroness van der Welcke;
and he couldn't stand it, that they should insult his
wife and before his face too; and, if Paul had not
prevented him, he would have struck the snobbish
ass in the face, thrashed him, thrashed him, thrashed
him ! His blood still boiled at the thought of it
. . . Well, there It was! Paul had held him
back . . . but still, he would have liked to chal-
lenge the fellow, to have fought a duel with him ! . . .
He grinned — pedalling like mad, bending over
like a record-breaker at the last lap of a bicycle-
race — he grinned now when he thought of the de-
spair of the whole family, because their revered
brother-in-law Van Naghel, " his excellency," whom
they all looked up to with such reverence, might have
to fight a duel with a brother-in-law who was already
viewed with sufficient disfavour at the Hague !
. . . Well, it hadn't come off. They had all inter-
fered; but it wasn't for that reason, but because dear
old Mamma van Lowe had taken to her bed — and
also for Addie's sake — that he had not insisted on
the duel. Yes, those Dutchmen : they never wanted
to fight if they could help it ! He, Van der Welcke,
would have liked to fight, though Van Naghel had
been a thousand times his brother-in-law, a thousand
times colonial secretary. And it wasn't only that
the whole family had thought the very idea of a
duel so dreadful; but his wise son had interfered,
THE LATER LIFE ii
had taken up a very severe attitude to his father, had
reproached him because he — still " a young man,"
as Addie put it in his amusing way — wanted to in-
sult and strike a man of Uncle van Naghel's age,
even though it was for Mamma's sake ! And Addie
had gone to Frans van Naghel, the eldest son, the
undergraduate, of whom he was very fond; and
Frans was furious, wanted to take his father's place
and fight in his stead. But Addie had said that
Papa was in the wrong, that Papa had lost his self-
control; and he had calmed Frans and told him, his
father, positively, that it was his. Van der Welcke's,
duty to apologize to Uncle van Naghel ! That boy,
that boy, thought Van der Welcke, thinking half-
angrily of his son's perpetual tutelage. It was really
too silly: if he didn't look out, the brat would
twist him round his little finger entirely. A little
chap like that, a schoolboy of fourteen . . . and
yet the beggar had managed so that Frans did not
challenge Van der Welcke and that Van der Welcke
had sent Van Naghel a note of apology, a note the
thought of which made him boil even now, made him
rant and curse at the thought that he had let him-
self be persuaded by the fourteen-year-old school-
boy. And then he had had to express his regret to
Mamma van Lowe into the bargain; but that he
didn't mind, for she was an old dear and he thought
it too bad that the wretched affair should have made
her ill. And so the fourteen-year-old schoolboy
12 THE LATER LIFE
had succeeded in hushing up a Hague scandal, just
like a grown-up man . . . When you came to
think of it, it was simply absurd, incredible; you
would never have believed it if you read it in a book;
and it was the positive truth: the schoolboy had
prevented the cabinet-minister or his son from fighting
a duel with the schoolboy's father 1 . . . And
now Van der Welcke had to choke with laughter at
the thought of it; and, as he spurted along the roads,
like a professional, with his back bent into an arch,
he roared with laughter all by himself and thought:
" Lord, what an extraordinary beggar he is! "
But the boy's mother, after scene upon scene with
him, the father; his mother, furious that her hus-
band should have dared to raise his hand against
that revered brother-in-law, "his excellency;" his
mother, driven out of her senses, with every nerve
on edge after all that she had had to endure that
Sunday: his mother the boy had not been able to
restrain; a woman is always more difficult to manage
than a man; a mother is not half so easy as a father!
Constance, after one of those scenes which followed
one upon the other as long as the atmosphere re-
mained charged with electricity, had said:
" I'm sick of it all; I'm going away; I'm going
abroad!"
And even the fact that she was leaving her son be-
hind her did not bring her to reason. She packed her
trunks, told Truitje to keep house for the master
THE LATER LIFE 13
and Master Addle as she herself used to and went
away, almost insolently, hardly even saying good-
bye to Addie. . . . They thought at first that she
would do something rash, goodness knows what,
and were anxious because they didn't know where
Constance had gone; but the next day there was a
telegram from Paris to reassure them, telling them
that Constance was going to Nice and meant to stay
some time. Then letters came from Nice and they
had no more fears, nor had Mamma van Lowe;
they all thought the change might even do her good;
and she continued pretty sensible. She wrote to
her mother, to Addie; she wrote to Truitje, impress-
ing upon her to look after the house well and after
the master and Master Addle and to see that every-
thing was going on all right when her mistress re-
turned. And this sensible, housewifely letter had
done more than anything to reassure Mamma van
Lowe and the two of them; and now they didn't
grudge Constance, Mamma, her trip, for once in a
way. But it was an expensive amusement. Con-
stance, it was true, had taken some money of her own
with her; but still, since they had come to the Hague,
Van der Welcke no longer made anything out of
wine- and insurance-commissions; he was no longer
an agent for the Brussels firms; and they had not
much to live on and had to be very economical.
And so Van der Welcke, after seven weeks had
passed, was obliged to tell Addle that it wouldn't
14 THE LATER LIFE
do for Mamma to stay on at Nice, in an expensive
hotel, and that he had better write to her. And
the schoolboy had written asking his mother to come
back now, telling his mother that that would have
to do and that there was no money left. And Con-
stance was coming home that evening.
Van der Welcke was in good spirits all day, per-
haps through the after-effects of his dream — he
kept seeing those sands before his eyes — and,
pedalling along like mad, he sat shaking in his sad-
dle, thinking of that young scamp of his, who ruled
over his father and mother. It wasn't right, it
was too absurd, soon they would neither of them be
able to call their souls their own; but the boy was
so sensible and he was always the little peacemaker,
who settled everything. Yes, the scamp was the
joy of his life; and really, really, except for the boy,
everything was unrelieved gloom ... If only he
could buy a motor-car, or at least a motor-cycle. He
must find out one day, just ask what a motor-cycle
cost . . . But, apart from that, what was there?
Especially now that they two — Constance in par-
ticular — had wanted at all costs to " rehabilitate "
themselves, as Constance called it, in Hague society
and now that they had failed utterly through that
scene with Van Naghel, things were stodgier
than ever . . . with no one to come and see them
but Van Vreeswijck, with no outside interests what-
ever. It was his fault, his fault, his wife kept re-
THE LATER LIFE 15
preaching him In their scenes, almost with enjoy-
ment, revelling In her revenge, because he, not long
ago, had reproached her that it was her fault, her
fault that they were burled away there, " cursing
their luck in the Kerkhoflaan." And he was sorry
too because of Marianne : she used to come and dine
once in a way; when Van Vreeswijck was coming,
Constance would ask either Paul or Marianne, to
make four; and, now that he had Insulted her father,
she wouldn't come again, they were on unfriendly
terms not only with the parents, but also with the
daughter . . . and with the sons, to the great re-
gret of Addle, who was very fond of Frans and
Henri . . . His fault! His fault! Perhaps it
was his fault, but he couldn't always restrain him-
self, control himself, master himself. Possibly, If
he had stuck to his career, he would have learnt to
do it, after his training in diplomatic reserve ... or
else he would always have remained an Indifferent
diplomatist. That might have happened too; it
was quite possible! . . . Yes, he was sorry . . .
because of Marianne. She was a nice girl, so nat-
ural, so unaffected, in spite of her worldly environ-
ment; and he liked her eyes, her voice. He was
sorry . . . because of Marianne; but It couldn't be
helped: although he had written to her father, she
would not come to the house again, she would never
come again, he thought.
And he almost sighed, sadly, he did not know
1 6 THE LATER LIFE
why, no doubt because life would be still more
stodgy without Marianne's eyes and voice. But,
after all, it was only once every four or five weeks
that she used to come and dine; so what did it really
matter? What did it matter? No, really nothing
mattered; really, the whole world was a sickening,
stodgy business, rottenly managed . . . Oh, if he
could only have bought a motor ! The longing was
so intense, so violent that he was almost tempted to
ask his father for one straight out. And now,
while he spurted home after his long ride, he
hummed between his teeth, to the rhythm of the
flying wheels, a song which he suddenly made up for
himself:
" A motor-car — and a motor-car: Ottocar in a
motor-car — Ottocar in a motor-car! "
And burning with his longing for the unattain-
able, he pedalled away — Ottocar in a motor-car! —
in a mad frenzy, delighting in the sheer speed of his
ride, which made people turn round and stare at
him, at his arched back and his piston-legs, like an
automaton's . . .
He came home very late, just as Addie was start-
ing to go to the station.
" I really thought, Daddy, that you were staying
at the Witte after all! " said the boy. " You're so
late!"
" No, old chap, I wouldn't have dared do that! "
cried Van der Welcke. " Ottocar — in a motor-
THE LATER LIFE 17
car! I've been cycling my legs off and I'm tired
out."
" You're quite red in the face."
" Yes, I've had great fun ! Ottocar — in his
motor-car! You see, I've got to have my fun by
myself . . . when you're cooped up at school."
" What are you saying, Father, about Ottocar? "
"Nothing, nothing, it's a song: Ottocar in his
motor-car! ..."
" Well, I'm off ... to meet Mamma. Good-
bye, you mad old Dad!"
" Good-bye, my boy . . . Come here a mo-
ment "
• •
"What's the matter now? . . ."
" Old chap, I feel so lonely sometimes ... so
terribly alone ... so forlorn . . . Tell me, Ad-
die, you'll always be your father's chum, won't
you? . . . You won't leave me, like all the rest?
You'll stay with your old father? "
" But, Daddy, what makes you so sentimental
suddenly? "
" Oh, no, I'm not sentimental . . . but, my dear
boy, I'm so awfully bored sometimes ! "
" Then why don't you find more to do, Daddy? "
" Oh, my boy, what would you have me do? . . .
Oh, if I only had a car! "
"A car? . . ."
" A motor-car ! Like Ottocar ! "
And Van der Welcke burst out laughing:
1 8 THE LATER LIFE
" He at least had one ! " he bellowed, amidst his
laughter.
" Father, you're mad! "
" Yes, to-day . . . because of that dream, those
wonderful sands . . . Oh, how I wish I were Ot-
tocar ! . . . My boy, my boy, I'm so terribly bored
sometimes! "
" And just after you've had a jolly bicycle-ride! "
" All on my own . . . with my head full of all
sorts of wretched thoughts! . . ."
*' Well, to-morrow, Wednesday afternoon, we'll
go together."
*' Do you mean it? A long ride? To-morrow?
To-morrow? "
" Yes, certainly, a long ride."
"You brick! My own Addie! My boy! My
boy!"
He was as grateful as a child, caught his son in
his arms:
" Addie, let me give you one more hug! "
" Well, be quick about it. Father, for I must
really go, or I shall be late."
Van der Welcke put his arms round him, kissed
him on both cheeks and flew upstairs. He un-
dressed, flung his clothes to right and left, washed
his face in a huge basin of water, shaved quickly,
dressed himself neatly. He did all this with much
fuss and rushing about, as though his toilet was a
most important affair. Then he went downstairs.
THE LATER LIFE 19
The table was laid. It was nearly seven. Con-
stance would be there In no time. And, sitting
down in the drawing-room with a cigarette, looking
round the room — Constance' room all over, in
which he sat as a stranger — he hummed, while he
waited for his wife and his son:
" And Ottocar had a motor-car; but I — have —
none! . . ."
CHAPTER III
Addie ran up the stairs to the platform just as the
train from Paris steamed in. He hurried along,
looking into the windows . . . There was Mamma,
there was Mamma ! And he flung himself on the
handle, pulled open the door, helped Constance to
alight.
"Ah! " he said. "There you are! There you
are at last! "
She laughed, kissed him, her handsome, sturdy
boy:
" My boy, how could I do so long without you? "
" Ah, so you see ! You're surprised at it your-
self! Come, make haste, Pve got a cab. Give
me your luggage-ticket."
He swept her along; and, in the cab, while they
were waiting for the luggage :
" Tell me, Addie," she said, " is there really no
money left? "
" Do you imagine that, when you go spending
seven weeks at Nice, in a first-class hotel, there'll
still be money? "
" I never thought of it like that," she said meekly.
He laughed, thought her tremendously amusing.
She laughed too, they both bubbled with mirth,
20
THE LATER LIFE 21
Constance glad at seeing him, at finding him look-
ing so well and in such good spirits.
"Mamma, you're hopeless!" he exclaimed.
" Did you really never think that there was no
money left? "
" No," said Constance, humbly.
And they both started laughing again. He shook
his head, considered her incorrigible:
" And I've got some bills too, for the things you
bought when you went away."
" Oh, yes ! " she said, remembering. *' But they
can wait."
" I told them that you were abroad and that
they'd have to wait."
" Of course," said she.
And they arrived in the Kerkhoflaan In excellent
spirits.
" Well, Trultje, have you looked after the master
and Master Addle nicely? "
I did the best I could, ma'am . . . But It's
just as well you're back again . .
1 uiu cue oesc 1 couiu, ma ai
its well yUU IC UiUJK. ttgilUl . . .
"Well, Constance?"
"Well, Henri?"
Did you have a good time?"
" Yes."
" You're looking well."
" Thanks. . . . Oh, have you waited dinner for
me?"
Well, of course ! "
((
22 THE LATER LIFE
*' I'll go and wash my hands and I'll be down
Immediately."
" Mamma never thought for a moment . . .
that there was no money left," said Addle.
" Nonsense ! " said Van der Welcke.
But he seemed to consider it quite natural; and,
when Constance came downstairs, he said, laughing:
" Didn't you think that there was no money
left?"
Constance glanced up. Imagining that he meant to
make a scene. But he was smiling; and his question
sounded good-humoured.
" No! " she said, as If It was only natural.
And now they all went into fits of laughter, Addle
with his silent convulsions, which made him shake
up and down painfully.
"Do laugh right out, boy!" said Van der
Welcke, teasing him. " Do laugh right out, if you
can."
They were very gay as they sat down to dinner.
" And just guess," said Constance, " whom I met
in the hotel at Nice, whom I sat next to at the table
d'hote: the d'AzIgnys, from Rome . . . The first
people I met, the d'Azignys. It's Incredible how
small the world Is, how small, how small ! "
He also remembered the d'Azignys : the French
ambassador at Rome and his wife . . . fifteen years
ago now ...
THE LATER LIFE 23
" Really? " he asked, greatly interested. " Were
they all right? "
" Oh, quite," she said, " quite ! I remembered
them at once, but didn't bow. But d'Azigny was
very polite; and, after a minute or two, he spoke
to me, asked if he wasn't right in thinking I was the
Baronne de Staffelaer. ' Baronne van der Welcke,'
I replied. He flushed up and his wife nudged him,
but after that they were very charming and amiable
all the time I was at Nice. I saw a lot of them and,
through their introduction, I went to a splendid ball
at the Due de Rivoli's. I enjoyed it thoroughly.
I wore a beautiful dress, I was in my element once
more, I was a foreigner, everybody was very pleas-
ant and I felt light-hearted again, quit of everything
and everybody, and I thought to myself . . ."
"Well, what did you think?"
" Oh, if only we had never gone back to Holland !
If, when Brussels became so dull, we had just moved
to a town like Nice, It's delightful there. As a
foreigner, you need have nothing to trouble about,
you can do just as you like, know just whom you
please. You feel so free, so free . . . And why,
I thought, must Addie become and remain a Dutch-
man? He could just as well be a Frenchman . . .
or a cosmopolitan. . . ."
" Thank you. Mamma: I don't feel like being a
Frenchman, nor yet a cosmopolitan. And you'd
24 THE LATER LIFE
better not say that to Uncle Gerrit, or you can look
out for squalls."
" Addie, I've met with so many squalls in my dear
Holland that I feel like blowing away myself, away
from everybody . . ."
" Including your son? "
" No, my boy. I missed you. I thought of you
every day. I am so glad to see you again. But I
did think to myself that we should have done better
never to come back to Holland."
" Yes," said Van der Welcke, thoughtfully.
" We could have lived at Nice, if we liked."
*' Yes," Van der Welcke admitted, a little du-
biously, " but you were longing for your family."
She clenched her little hand and struck the table
with It:
"And you!" she cried. "Didn't you long for
your parents, for your country? "
" But not so much as you did."
" And who thought it necessary for Addle ? I
didn't! " she exclaimed. In a shrill voice. " I didn't
for a moment ! It was you ! "
" Oh, d ," said Addle, almost breaking Into an
oath. " My dearest parents, for Heaven's sake
don't begin quarrelling at once, for I assure the two
of you that, if you do, I'll blow away and I'll go to
Nice . . . money or no money ! "
Van der Welcke and Constance gave one roar
and Addie joined in the laugh.
THE LATER LIFE 25
" Oh, that boy ! " said Van der Welcke, choking
with merriment. " That boy ! "
Constance uttered a deep sigh:
"Oh, Addie!" she said. "Mamma does and
says such strange things, sometimes . . . but she
doesn't mean them a bit. She's really glad to be
back again, in her horrid country . . . and in her
own home, her dear cosy home . . . and with her
son, her darling boy!"
And, throwing her arm round his neck, she let
her head fall on his breast and she sobbed, sobbed
aloud, so that Truitje, entering the room, started,
but then, accustomed to these perpetual, inevitable
scenes, quietly went on laying the dessert-plates.
Van der Welcke fiddled with his knife.
" Why can't those two manage to get on better
together?" thought Addie, sadly, while he com-
forted his mother and gently patted her shoul-
der ...
CHAPTER IV
" And shall Mamma show you what she looked like
at the Due de RIvoh's?"
Dinner was over and she was sitting by her open
trunk, while Truitje helped her unpack and put the
things away.
" I had my photograph taken at Nice. But first
here's a work-box for Truitje, with Nice violets on
it. Look, Truitje: it's palm-wood inlaid; a present
for you. And here's one for cook."
" Oh, thank you, ma'am! "
" And for my wise son I hunted all over Nice for
a souvenir and found nothing, for I was afraid of
bringing you something not serious enough for your
patriarchal tastes; and so I had myself photo-
graphed for you. There: the last frivolous portrait
of your mother."
She took the photograph from its envelope: it
showed her at full-length, standing, in her ball-dress;
a photograph taken with a great deal of artistry
and chic, but too young, too much touched up, with
a little too much pose about the hair, the fan, the
train.
He looked at her with a smile.
" Well, what do you think of it? " she asked.
What a bundle of vanity you are. Mamma ! "
26
((
THE LATER LIFE 27
** Don't you like it? Then give it back at once."
" Why, no, Mummy: I think it awfully jolly to
have a photograph of you . . ."
" Of my last mad mood. Now your mother Is
really going to grow old, my boy. Upon my word,
I believe Truitje admires my portrait more than my
son does ! . . ."
"Oh, ma'am, I think it's splendid!"
" How many did you have done. Mummy? "
" Six. One for Granny, one for Uncle Gerrit,
one for Uncle Paul, one for you, one for my-
self . . ."
"And one for Papa."
" Oh, Papa owns the original ! "
" No, give your husband one."
" Henri ! " she called.
He came in.
" Here's a portrait of your wife."
"Lovely!" he exclaimed. "That's awfully
good! Thanks very much."
" Glad you like it. My husband and my hand-
maid are satisfied, at any rate. My son thinks me
a bundle of vanity . . . Oh, how glad I am to be
back! . . . Here's the ball-dress. We'll put it
away to-morrow. I shall never wear the thing
again. A dress that cost six hundred francs for one
wearing. Now we'll be old again and economical."
They all laughed, including Truitje.
" Oh, how glad I am to be back! . . . My own
28 THE LATER LIFE
room, my own cupboards . . . Trultje, what did
you give your masters to eat? "
" Well, just what you used to, ma'am ! . . ."
*' So it was all right? I wasn't missed? . . ."
" Oh, but you mustn't go away for so long again,
ma'am ! " said Truitje, in alarm.
Constance laughed and stretched herself out on
her sofa, glad to be home. Van der Welcke left
the room with his photograph, Truitje with her
work-box.
" Come here, Addie. Papa has had you for
seven weeks. Now you belong to me . . . for an
indefinite period."
She drew him down beside her, took his hands.
It struck him that she looked tired, more like her
years, not like her photograph; and, his mind
travelling swiftly to his father, he thought his father
so young, outwardly a young man and inwardly
sometimes a child : Ottocar in a motor-car . . .
" It's strange, Addie," she said, softly, " that you
are only fourteen: you always seem to me at least
twenty. And I think it strange also that I should
have such a big son. So everything is strange.
And your mother herself, my boy, is the strangest
of all. If you ask me honestly if I like being ' vain,'
I mean, taking part in social frivolities, I shouldn't
know what to answer. I certainly used to enjoy it
in the old days; and, a fortnight ago, I admit I
looked upon it as a sort of youth that comes over
THE LATER LIFE 29
one again; but really it all means nothing: just a
little brilliancy; and then you feel so tired and
empty . . . and so discontented . . ."
She stopped suddenly, not caring to say more, and
looked at the photograph, now lying on a table be-
side her. It made her laugh again; and at the same
time a tear trembled on her lashes. And she did
not know if it gave her a peaceful feeling to be grow-
ing old ... or if she regretted it. It was as
though the sun of Nice had imbued her with a
strange, dull melancholy which she herself did not
understand.
" To live ! " she thought. *' I have never lived.
I would so gladly live once . . . just once. To
live! But not like this ... in a dress that cost
six hundred francs. I know that, I know all about
It: it is just a momentary brilliancy and then no-
thing . . . To live! I should like to live . . .
really . . . truly. There must be something. But
It is a mad wish. I am too old. I am growing
old, I am becoming an old woman . . . To live!
I have never lived ... I have been in the world,
as a woman of the world; I spoilt that life; then I
hid myself ... I was so anxious to come back
to my country and my family; and it all meant no-
thing but a little show and illusion . . . and a great
deal of disappointment. And so the days were
wasted, one after the other, and I . . . have . . .
never . . . lived . . . Just as I throw away my
30 THE LATER LIFE
money, so I have thrown away my days. Perhaps I
have squandered all my days . . . for nothing. Oh,
I oughtn't to feel like this! What does it mean
when I do? What am I regretting? What is
there left for me? At Nice, I thought for a mo-
ment of joining in that feminine revolt against ap-
proaching age; and I did join in it; and I succeeded.
But what does it all mean and what is the use of it?
It only means shining a little longer, for nothing;
but it does not mean living . . . But to long for
it doesn't mean anything either, for there is nothing
for me now but to grow old, in my home ; and, even
if I am not exactly among my people, my brothers
and sisters, at any rate I have my mother . . . and,
perhaps for quite a long time still, my son too . . ."
" Mummy . . . what are you thinking about so
deeply?"
But she smiled, said nothing, looked earnestly at
him:
" He's much fonder of his father," she thought.
" I know it, but it can't be helped. I must put up
with it and accept what he gives me."
" Come, Mummy, what are you thinking about? "
" Lots of things, my boy . . . and perhaps no-
thing . . . Mamma feels so lonely . . . with no
one about her . . . except you . . ."
He started, struck by what she had said: it was
almost the same words that his father had used that
afternoon.
THE LATER LIFE 31
"My boy, will you always stay with me? You
won't go away, like everybody? . . ."
" Come, Mummy, you've got Granny and Uncle
Gerrit and Uncle Paul."
" Yes, they are nice," she said, softly.
And she thought:
" I shall lose him, later, when he's grown up . . .
I know that I shall lose him . . ."
It made her feel very weak and helpless; and she
began to cry . . .
He knelt down beside her and, in a stern voice,
forbade her to be so excitable, forbade her to cry
about nothing . . .
It was heavenly to have him laying down the law
like that. And she thought:
" I shall lose him, when he's grown up . . . Oh,
let me be thankful that I have him still ! . . ."
Then, tired out, she went to sleep; and he left
her, thinking to himself:
" They both feel the sam.e thing! "
CHAPTER V
She tried tyrannically to monopolize her son, so
that Van der Welcke became very jealous. It was
the next day, Wednesday afternoon.
" Are you coming with me to Granny's? "
" I promised Papa to go cycling."
" You've had seven weeks for cycling with Papa."
" I promised him yesterday that I would go for
a long ride to-day."
She was angry, offended:
" The first day that I'm home! . . ." she began.
He kissed her, with a shower of tiny little kisses,
tried to appease her wrath:
" I promised! " he said. "We don't go cycling
together often. You will have me to yourself all
the evening. Be sensible now and nice; and don't
be so cross."
She tried to be reasonable, but it cost her an ef-
fort. She went alone to Mrs. van Lowe's. She
saw two umbrellas in the hall:
*' Who is with mevrouw? " she asked the maid.
*' Mrs. van Naghel and Mrs. van Saetzema."
She hesitated. She had not seen her sisters since
that awful Sunday-evening. She had gone abroad
five days after. But she wanted to show them . . .
She went upstairs. Her step was no longer as
32
THE LATER LIFE 33
timid as when she climbed those stairs ten months
ago, when she first came back among them all. She
did not wish to seem arrogant, but also she did not
wish to be too humble. She entered with a smile :
" Mamma! " she cried, gaily, kissing her mother.
Mrs. van Lowe was surprised:
"My child!" she exclaimed, trembling. "My
child! Are you back? Are you back again?
What a long time you've been abroad! "
" I've enjoyed myself immensely. How d'ye do.
Bertha? How d'ye do, Adolphine?"
She did not shake hands, but just nodded to them,
almost cordially, because of her mother, who looked
anxiously at her three daughters. Bertha and
Adolphine nodded back. Carelessly and easily, she
took the lead in the conversation and talked about
Nice. She tried to talk naturally, without brag-
ging; but in spite of herself there was a note of tri-
umph in her voice:
" Yes, I felt I wanted to go abroad a bit . . .
Not nice of me to run away without saying good-
bye, was it. Mamma dear? Well, you see, Con-
stance sometimes behaves differently from other
people ... I had a very pleasant time at Nice:
full season, lovely weather."
"Weren't you lonely?"
" No, for on the very first day I met some of our
Rome friends at the hotel . . ."
She felt that Bertha started, blinked her eyes,
34 THE LATER LIFE
disapproved of her for daring to speak of Rome.
And she revelled in doing so, casually and airily,
thought it delicious to dazzle Adolphlne with a
list of her social triumphs, very naturally de-
scribed :
" People we used to know in Rome: Comte and
Comtesse d'Azigny. He was French ambassador
in those days. They recognized me at once and
were very kind-; and through the Introduction I went
to a glorious ball at the Duchesse de RIvoli's.
And, Mummy, here's a portrait of your daughter in
her ball-dress."
She showed the photograph, enjoyed giving the
almost too-well-executed portrait to Mamma, not to
her sisters, while letting them see it. She described
her dress, described the ball, bragging a little this
time, saying that, after all, parties abroad were al-
ways much grander than that " seeing a few
friends " In Holland, addressing all her remarks to
Mamma and, In words just tinged with ostentation,
displaying no small scorn for Bertha's dinners and
Adolphlne's " little evenings:"
" Everything here is on such a small scale," she
continued. " There, the first thing you see Is a
suite of twelve rooms, all with electric light ... or,
better still, all lit up with wax-candles . . . Yes, our
little social efforts at the Hague cut a very poor figure
beside it."
She gave a contemptuous little laugh to annoy
THE LATER LIFE 3s
her sisters, while Mamma, always Interested In the
doings of the great, did not notice the contempt and
was glad enough to see that the sisters behaved as
usual to one another. And now Constance went
on to say that everything had gone on so well at
home, that Truitje had looked after everything,
even though Constance had gone away indefinitely,
an unprecedented thing, so unlike a Dutch house-
wife ! Then she turned to her sisters with an in-
different phrase or two; and they answered her al-
most cordially, out of respect for Mamma . . .
Adolphine was the first to leave, exasperated by
Constance' Insufferable tone, by all that talk about
Nice, all those counts and dukes whom Constance
had mentioned; and, when Constance said good-
bye, Bertha also left and they went down the stairs
together.
" Constance," said Bertha, " can I speak to you a
minute in the cloak-room?"
Constance looked up haughtily, surprised; but she
did not like to refuse. They went into the little
cloak-room.
" Constance," said Bertha, " I do so want to say
that I am sorry for what happened between us.
Really, it pained me very much. And I want to tell
you also that Van Naghel greatly appreciated Van
der Welcke's writing to him to apologize. He has
written to Van der Welcke to say so. But we
should both like to call on you one day, to show
36 THE LATER LIFE
you how glad we should be to come back to the old
terms once more."
" Bertha," said Constance, a little impatiently and
wearily, " I am prepared to receive your visit, but
I should really like to know what is the good of It
and why you suggest it. Do let us have some sin-
cerity . . . when there is no occasion for hy-
pocrisy. Sometimes one has to be insincere . . .
but there is no need for that between us now. We
both know that our mutual sympathy, if it ever ex-
isted, is dead. We never meet except at Mamma's
and we don't let her see our estrangement. Apart
from that, it seems to me that things are over be-
tween us."
" So you would rather that Van Naghel and I did
not come? "
" It's not for me to decide. Bertha : I shall
speak about it to Van der Welcke and write you a
line."
" Is that cold answer all you have to say to me,
Constance? "
" Bertha, a little time ago, I was not backward
in showing my affection for you all. Perhaps I
asked too much in return; but, in any case, I was
repulsed. And now I retire. That is all."
" Constance, you don't know how sorry we all
are that the old aunts . . . spoke as they did.
They are foolish old women, Constance; they are in
their second childhood. Mamma had to take to
THE LATER LIFE 37
her bed, her nerves are still quite upset; she can't
bear to see her sisters now; and it sometimes sends
her almost out of her mind. I have never seen her
like it before. And we are all of us, all of us, Con-
stance, very, very sorry."
" Bertha, those two old women only yelled out
at the top of their voices, as deaf people do, what
the rest of you thought in your hearts."
" Come, Constance, don't be so bitter. You are
hard and unjust. I swear that you are mistaken.
It is not as you think. Let me show it to you in
the future, let me prove it to you . . . and please
speak to Van der Welcke and write and tell me a day
when we shall find you at home, so that Van Naghel
can shake hands with Van der Welcke. He is not
a young man, Constance, and your husband is
under forty. It's true. Van der Welcke has apolo-
gized and Van Naghel appreciates it, but that doesn't
prevent him from wishing to shake hands with Van
der Welcke."
" I'll tell my husband. Bertha. But I don't know
that he will think it so necessary to shake hands, any
more than I do. We live very quietly now. Bertha,
and people, Hague people, no longer concern us.
And Van Naghel only wants to shake hands because
of people."
" And because of the old friendship."
" Very well, Bertha," said Constance, coldly, " be-
cause of the old friendship: a vague term that says
38 THE LATER LIFE
very little to me. What I wished for was brotherly
and sisterly affection, cordial companionship. That
is no longer possible : it was a foolish fancy of mine,
which has gone forever. But, as I said, I shall speak
to Van der Welcke."
They came out into the hall; the maid was wait-
ing at the door. It was raining. Bertha's car-
riage was outside, had been sent to fetch her.
"Shall I drop you on my way, Constance?"
" No, thank you. Bertha; the fresh air will do me
good; I'd rather walk."
And, as she walked, she thought:
" Oh, why did I go on like that to annoy them?
And why didn't I welcome Bertha's visit at once?
. . . It's all so small, so petty . . ."
And she shrugged her shoulders under her um-
brella, laughed at herself a little, because she had
shown herself so petty.
CHAPTER VI
At Addie's wish, at the little schoolboy's wish, the
Van der Welckes responded to Van Naghel's ad-
vances and Constance sent a note. The visit was
paid and the brothers-in-law shook hands. Van der
Welcke himself shrugged his shoulders over the
whole business; but Addie was pleased, started going
for walks again with Frans and spoke to Karel again
at the grammar-school, though he did not much
care for him. Two days later, Marianne called in
the afternoon, when the rain was coming down in
torrents. Constance was at home. The girl stood
in the door-way of the drawing-room :
" May I come in, Auntie? . . ."
" Of course, Marianne, do."
" I don't like to: I'm rather wet."
"Nonsense, come in!"
And the girl suddenly ran in and threw herself
on her knees beside Constance, almost with a
scream:
'* I am so glad, I am so glad! " she cried.
"Why?"
" That Uncle wrote to Papa . . . that Papa
and Mamma have been here . . . that everything
is all right again ... It was so dreadful; it kept
me from sleeping. I kept on thinking about it. It
39
40 THE LATER LIFE
was a sort of nightmare, an obsession. Auntie,
dear Auntie, is everything all right now? "
" Yes, certainly, child."
" Really all right? . . . Are you coming to us
again . . . and may I come and see you . . . and
will you ask me to dinner again soon? Is every-
thing all right, really all right? "
She snuggled up to her aunt like a child, putting
her head against Constance' knees, stroking her
hands:
" You will ask me again soon. Auntie, won't you?
I love coming to you, I simply love it. I should
have missed it so, I can't tell you how much . . ."
Her voice broke, as she knelt by Constance' side,
and she suddenly burst Into tears, sobbing out her
words so excitedly that Constance was startled,
thinking It almost unnatural, absurd:
" I was nearly coming to you before Papa and
Mamma had been . . . But I didn't dare ... I
was afraid Papa would be angry . . . But I can
come now. It's all right now . . ."
" Yes, it's all right now . . ."
She kissed Marianne. But the door opened and
Van der Welcke entered.
" How do you do. Uncle? "
He always thought it odd when Marianne called
him uncle, just like that:
"Is It you, Marianne? . . . Constance, did I
leave my Figaro down here ? "
THE LATER LIFE 41
''The Figaro? No ..."
He hunted for his paper and then sat down.
" Uncle," said Marianne, " I've just been telling
Auntie, I'm so glad, I'm so glad that everything's
settled."
" So am I, Marianne."
Outside, the rain came pelting down, lashed by
the howling wind. Inside, all was cosiness, with
Constance pouring out the tea and telling them
about Nice, while Marianne talked about Emilie
and Van Raven and how they were not getting on
very well together and how Otto and Frances were
also beginning to squabble and how Mamma took It
all to heart and allowed it to depress her:
" I sha'n't get married," she said. " I see no-
thing but unhappy marriages around me. I sha'n't
get married."
Then she started. She had a knack of behaving
awkwardly and tactlessly, of saying things which she
ought not to say. Van der Welcke looked at her,
smiling. To make up for her indiscretion, she was
more demonstrative than ever, profuse in exclama-
tions of delight:
" Oh, Auntie, how glad I am to be with you
once more ! . . . I must be off presently in the rain
... I wish I could stay . . ."
" But stay and dine," said Van der Welcke.
Constance hesitated: she saw that Marianne
would like to stop on and she did not know what to
42 THE LATER LIFE
do, did not wish to seem ungracious; and yet . . .
" Will you stay to dinner? " she asked.
Marianne beamed with joy:
" Oh, I should love to, Auntie! Mamma knows
I'm here; she'll understand . . ."
Constance was sorry that she had asked her; her
nerves were feeling the strain of it all; but she was
determined to control herself, to behave naturally
and ordinarily. She could see It plainly: they were
too fond of each other !
They were in love ! Long before, she had
seemed to guess it, when she saw them together, at
her little dinners. The veriest trifle — an Intona-
tion of voice, a laughing phrase, the passing of a
dish of fruit — had made her seem to guess it.
Then the vague thought that went through her mind,
like a little cloud, would vanish at once, leaving not
even a shadow behind It. But the cloud had come
drifting again and again, brought by a gesture, a
glance, a how-do-you-do or good-bye, an appoint-
ment for a bicycle ride. On such occasions, the
brothers had always gone too — so had Addle —
and there had never been anything that was in the
least Incorrect; and at the little dinners there was
never a joke that went too far, nor an attempt at
flirtation, nor the very least resemblance to love-
making. And therefore those vague thoughts had al-
ways drifted away again, like clouds; and Con-
stance would think :
THE LATER LIFE 43
" There is nothing, there is nothing. I am mis-
taken. I am imagining something that doesn't
exist."
She had not seen them together for two months;
and she knew, had understood from a word
dropped here and there, that Van der Welcke had not
seen Marianne during those two months which had
passed since that Sunday evening. And now, sud-
denly, she was struck by it: the shy, almost glad hesi-
tation while the girl was standing at the door of
Constance' drawing-room; her unconcealed delight
at being able to come back to this house; the al-
most unnatural joy with which she had sobbed at
Constance' knee . . . until Van der Welcke came
in, after doubtless recognizing the sound of her
voice in his little smoking-room, as transparent as a
child, with his clumsy excuse of searching for a
newspaper. And now at once she was struck by it:
the almost insuppressible affection with which they
had greeted each other, with a certain smiling
radiance that beamed from them, involuntarily,
irresistibly, unconsciously . . . But still Constance
thought :
" I am mistaken, there is nothing; and I am
imagining something that doesn't exist."
And the thought passed away, that they were
really in love with each other; only this time there
remained a faint wonder, a doubt, which had never
been there before. And, while she talked about
44 THE LATER LIFE
Nice, It struck her that Van der Welcke was still
there . . . that he was staying on In her drawing-
room, a thing which he never did except when Paul
was there, or Gerrit . . . He sat on, without say-
ing much; but that happy smile never left his lips
. . . Yet she still thought:
*' I am mistaken; It is only Imagination; there Is
nothing, or at most a little mutual attraction; and
what harm Is there In that?"
But, be this as It might, she, who was so jealous
where her son was concerned, now felt not the least
shade of jealousy amid her wondering doubts. Yes,
it was all gone, any love, passion, sentiment that
she had ever entertained for Henri. It was quite
dead . . . And, now that he smiled like that, she
noticed, with a sort of surprise, how young he was:
" He is thirty-eight," she thought, " and looks
even younger."
As he sat there, calmly, always with the light of
a smile on his face. It struck her that he was very
young, with a healthy, youthful freshness, and that
he had not a wrinkle, not a grey hair In his head
. . . His blue eyes were almost the eyes of a child.
Even Addie's eyes, though they were like his
father's, were more serious, had an older look. . . .
And, at the sight of that youthfulness, she thought
herself old, even though she was now showing
Marianne the pretty photograph from Nice . . .
Yes, she felt old; and she was hardly surprised —
THE LATER LIFE 45
If it was so, If she was not mistaken — at that
youthfulness In her husband and at his possible love
for that young girl . . . Marianne's youth seemed
to be nearer to his own youth . . . And sometimes
It was so evident that she almost ceased doubting
and promised herself to be careful, not to encour-
age Marianne, not to Invite her any more . . .
Unconscious: was it unconscious, thought Con-
stance, on their part? Had they ever exchanged a
more affectionate word, a pressure of the hand, a
glance? Had they already confessed it to each
other . . . and to themselves? And a delicate in-
tuition told her:
" No, they have confessed nothing to each other;
no, they have not even confessed anything to them-
selves."
Perhaps neither of them knew It yet; and, if so,
Constance was the only one who knew. She looked
at Marianne: the girl was very young, even though
she had been out a year or two. She had something
of Emilie's fragility, but she was more natural,
franker; and that natural frankness showed in her
whole attitude : she seemed not to think, but to allow
herself to be dragged along by impulse, by senti-
ment . . . She looked out with her smile at the
pelting rain, nestled deeper in her chair, luxuriously,
like a kitten, then suddenly jumped up, poured out a
cup of tea for Constance and herself; and, when
Van der Welcke begged his wife's leave to smoke a
46 THE LATER LIFE
cigarette, she sprang up again, struck a match, held
the light to him, with a fragile grace of gesture
like a little statue. Her pale-brown eyes, with a
touch of gold-dust over them, were like chrysolite;
and they gazed up enthusiastically and then cast
their glance downwards timidly, under the shade of
their lids. She was pale, with the anaemic pallor
of alabaster, the pallor of our jaded society-girls;
and her hands moved feverishly and restlessly, as
though the fingers were constantly seeking an object
for their butterfly sensitiveness . . .
Was It so? Or was It all Constance' Imagina-
tion? And, amidst her wondering doubts, there
came suddenly — If It really was so — a spasm of
jealousy; but not jealousy of her husband's love:
jealousy of his youth. She suddenly looked back
fifteen years and felt herself grown old, felt him
remaining young. Life, real life, for which she
sometimes had a vague yearning, while she felt her-
self too old for It, after frittering away her days:
that life he would perhaps still be able to live. If
he met with it. He at least was not too old for It!
It all filled her with a passion of misery and
anger; and then again she thought:
"No, there is nothing; and I am Imagining all
manner of things that do not exist."
Addle came home; and, with the rain pelting out-
side, there was a gentle cosiness Indoors, at table.
Constance was silent, but the others were cheerful.
THE LATER LIFE 47
And, when, after tea had been served, the fury out
of doors seemed to have subsided, Marianne stood
up, almost too unwilling to go away:
" It's time for me to go, Auntie . . ."
"Shall Addie see you home?"
" No, Addie's working," said Van der Welcke.
" I'll see Marianne home."
Constance said nothing.
" Oh, Auntie," said Marianne, " I am so glad
that everything's settled ! "
She kissed Constance passionately.
" Uncle, isn't it a nuisance for you to go all that
way with me? "
" I wish I had a bicycle for you ! . . ."
" Yes, if only we had our tandem here ! "
" It's stopped raining; we shall be able to walk."
They went, leaving Constance alone. Her eyes
were eager to follow them along the street. She
could not help herself, softly opened a window,
looked out into the damp winter night. She saw
them go towards the Bankastraat. They were
walking side by side, quite ordinarily. She watched
them for a minute or two, until they turned the
corner:
" No," she said, " there is nothing. Oh, it would
be too dreadful! "
CHAPTER VII
Van der Welcke and Marianne went side by side.
" How dellciously fresh it is now," she almost
carolled. " The wind has gone down and the air
is lovely; and look, how beautiful the sky is with
those last black clouds . . . Oh, I think it so ripping,
that everything's all right again between you and
Papa ! I did feel it so. You know how fond I am
of both of you. Aunt Constance and you, and of Ad-
die; and it was all so sad . . . Tell me, does Auntie
still feel bitter about it? I expect she does . . .
Ah, I understand quite well now . . . that she
would have liked to come to our house . . . offi-
cially, let me say I But why not first have spoken to
Mamma ... or to me, who am so fond of you?
Then we could have seen: we might have thought of
something. As it was, Mamma was so startled by
that unexpected visit . . . Poor Aunt Constance, she
isn't happy! How sad that you and she aren't hap-
pier together! Oh, I could cry about it at times:
it seems such a shame! ... A man and woman
married . . . and then . . . and then what I so
often see! ... I oughtn't to have said what I did
before dinner, it was stupid of me; but I may speak
now, mayn't I? . . . Oh, I sha'n't marry, I won't
marry! . . . To be married like Otto and Frances,
48
THE LATER LIFE 49
like Emille and Van Raven: I think It dreadful. Or
like you and Auntie: I should think it dreadful.
Can't you be happier together? Not even for Ad-
die's sake? I wish you could; it would make me
so happy. I can't bear it, when you and Auntie
quarrel . . . She was sweet and gentle to-night, but
so very quiet. She is so nice . . . That was a
mad fit of hers, to go abroad so suddenly; but then
she had had so much to vex her. Oh, those two old
aunts : I could have murdered them ! I can hear
them now! . . . Poor Auntie! Do try and be a
little nice to her . . . Has this been going on be-
tween you for years? Don't you love each other
any longer? . . . No, I sha'n't marry, I sha'n't
marry, I shall never marry."
"Come, Marianne: if some one comes along
whom you get to love ..."
" No, I shall never marry ... I might ex-
pect too much of my husband. I should really want
to find something beautiful, some great jcy. In my
love . . . and to marry for the sake of marrying,
like Frances or Emilie, is a thing I couldn't, couldn't
do . . . Otto Is fonder of Louise than of his
wife; and lately Emille and Henri are inseparable
... In our family there has always been that af-
fection between brother and sister. But It Is too
strong, far too strong. It doesn't make them
happy. I've never felt it in that way, fond as I
am of my brothers . . . No, I should place the
so THE LATER LIFE
man I love above everybody, above everybody. . . .
But I suppose you're laughing ... at my bread-
and-butter notions . . ."
"No, I'm not laughing, Marianne; and, just as
you would like to see Aunt Constance and me happy,
so I should like to see you happy . . . with a man
whom you loved."
"That will never be. Uncle; no, that will never
be."
" How can you tell? "
" Oh, I feel It, I feel It ! . . ."
" Come, I'll have a bet on It," he said, laugh-
ingly.
" No, Uncle," she said, with a pained smile, " I
won't bet on a thing like that . . ."
" I didn't mean to hurt you, Marianne . . ."
" I know that . . ."
" But you mustn't be so melancholy, at your age.
You're so young . . ."
" Twenty-one. That's quite old."
"Old! Old! What about me?"
She laughed:
" Oh, you're young! A man . . ."
" Is always young? "
" Not always. But you are."
" A young uncle? "
" Yes, a young uncle ... A woman gets old
quicker
• •
THE LATER LIFE 51
" So, when you're old and I am still young, we
shall be about the same age."
She laughed:
*' What a calculation ! No, you're older. But
age doesn't go by years."
" No. I sometimes have very young wishes.
Do you know what I have been longing for since yes-
terday, like a baby, hke a boy? "
" No."
" A motor-car."
She laughed, with a laugh like little tinkling bells :
"A motor-car?"
"Wouldn't it be delightful? To go tearing and
tearing over fields and roads, through clouds of
dust . . ."
" You're becoming poetic! "
" Yes, it's making me poetic . . ."
"And the smell of the petrol? . . . The mask
and goggles against the dust? . . . The hideous
dress? . . ."
" Oh, that's nothing I . . . To tear and fly along,
faster and faster, at a mad pace . . ."
" I have never been in a motor-car . . ." ^
" I have, in Brussels, in a friend's car. There's
nothing to come up to it."
Her laugh tinkled out again:
" Yes, now you're most certainly like a boy! "
1 The period of the novel is about 1901.
52 THE LATER LIFE
" T'-
rm so young? "
" O young Uncle ! "
*' You oughtn't to call me uncle, Marianne : Vm
too young for it."
The tinkling bells:
" What am I to call you then? "
" Anything you like. Not uncle."
"Nunkie?"
" No, no . . ."
" But I can't call you Henri ... or Van der
Welcke?"
" No, that's too difficult. Better say nothing."
The tinkling bells :
" Nothing. Very well. . . . But am I to say U
or;V.^"i
" Say je."
" But it seems so funny . . . before people! "
" People, people I You can't always bother about
people."
" But I have to: I'm a girl! "
" Oh, Marianne, people are always a nuisance! "
" A desert island would be the thing."
" Yes, a desert island . . ."
" With a motor-car ..."
" And just you and me."
They both laughed; and her little bells tinkled
through his boyish laugh.
" What a perfect night! "
1 Equivalent to lous or tu.
THE LATER LIFE 53
" Perfect : the air Is so crisp . . ."
" Marianne . . ."
" Yes, Uncle . . ."
" No, not uncle . . . You must be my little
friend . . . Not a niece . . . I've never had a
girl-friend."
" Your little friend? ... But I am ! "
" Well, that's all right."
" Look, how dark It is In the Wood . . . People
say It's dangerous. Is it. Uncle? No, I didn't
mean to say uncle . . ."
"Sometimes. Are you frightened? Take my
arm."
" No, I'm not frightened."
" Come, take my arm."
" I don't mind . . ."
*' We shall be home in a minute."
" If only Mamma isn't angry with me, for staying
out . . . Are you coming in? "
"No ... no . . ."
" Not because you're still angry with us? "
" No, I'm not angry."
"That's all right. Oh, I am glad! I should
like to give you a motor for making me so happy! "
" Those old tin kettles cost a lot of money . . ."
" Poor Uncle ! No, I don't mean uncle . . ."
" Here we are."
He rang the bell.
" Thank you for seeing me home."
54 THE LATER LIFE
" Good-night, Marianne."
The butler opened the door; she went in. He
trotted back, whistling like a boy.
"Wherever have you been, Marianne?" asked
Bertha.
" I stayed to dinner at Aunt Constance'."
" I was anxious about you," said Bertha.
But she was glad that Constance had been so
gracious.
" Who brought you home? "
" Uncle."
She ran up to her room. She looked in the glass,
as though to read her own eyes. There she read
her secret:
" God help me ! " she thought. " I oughtn't to
have gone. I oughtn't to have gone. I was too
weak, too weak , . . Oh, if only they had never
made it up. Papa and . . . he ! . . . Oh dear! I
shall never go there again. It's the last time, the last
time . . . O God, help me, help me ! . . ."
She sank into a chair and sat with her face hidden
in her hands, not weeping, her happiness still shed-
ding its dying rays around her, but with a rising
agony; and she remained like that for a long time,
with her eyes closed, as though she were dreaming
and suffering, both.
CHAPTER VIII
"And who do you think's in town?" Van Vrees-
wijck asked Van der Welcke, as they were walking
together.
" I don't know."
" Brauws."
"Brauws?"
" Max Brauws."
" Max ? Never ! What, Leiden Max ? "
" Yes, Leiden Max. I hadn't seen him for
years."
" Nor I, of course. And what is he doing? "
" Well, that's a difficult question to answer.
Shall I say, being eccentric? "
" Eccentric? In what way? "
" Oh, in the things he does. First one thing and
then another. He's giving lectures now. In fact,
he's a Bohemian."
" Have you spoken to him? "
*' Yes, he asked after you."
" I should like to see him. Does he belong to
the Witte?"
" No, I don't think so."
" He's a mad fellow. Always was mad. An in-
teresting chap, though. And a good sort. Has he
money? "
55
56 THE LATER LIFE
" I don't know."
"Where Is he staying?"
" In rooms, In the Buitenhof."
" We're close by. Let's go and see If he's In."
Brauws was not in. And Van der Welcke left a
card for his old college-chum, with a pencilled word.
A fortnight passed; and Van der Welcke began
to feel annoyed :
" I've heard nothing from Brauws," he said to
Van Vreeswijck.
" I haven't seen him either."
" Perhaps he's offended about something."
" Nonsense, Brauws Isn't that sort."
Van der Welcke was silent. Since the scene with
the family, he was unduly sensitive, thinking that
people were unfriendly, that they avoided him.
" Well, if he wants to Ignore my card, let him! "
he said, angrily. " He can go to the devil, for all I
care! "
But, a couple of days later, when Van der Welcke
was smoking In his little room, Trultje brought In a
card.
" Brauws! " exclaimed Van der Welcke.
And he rushed outside :
" Come upstairs, old chap ! " he shouted, from
the landing.
In the hall stood a big, quiet man, looking up with
a smile round his thick moustache.
" May I come up?"
THE LATER LIFE 57
" Yes, yes, come up. Upon my word, Max, I am
glad . . ."
Brauws came upstairs; the two men gripped each
other's hands.
" Welckje ! " said Brauws. " Mad Hans ! "
Van der Welcke laughed:
" Yes, those were my nicknames. My dear chap,
what an age since we . . ."
He took him to his den, made him sit down, pro-
duced cigars.
" No, thanks, I don't smoke. I'm glad to see you.
Why, Hans, you haven't changed a bit. You're a
little stouter; and that's all. Just look at the fellow !
You could pass for your own son. How old are
you? You're thirty-eight . . . getting on for
thirty-nine. And now just look at me. I'm three
years your senior; but I look old enough to be your
father."
Van der Welcke laughed, pleased and flattered by
the compliment paid to his youth. Their Leiden
memories came up; they reminded each other of a
score of incidents, speaking and laughing together in
unfinished, breathless sentences which they under-
stood at once.
" And what have you been doing all this time? "
"Oh, a lotl Too much to tell you all at once.
And you?"
"I? Nothing, nothing. You know I'm mar-
ried?"
58 THE LATER LIFE
" Yes, I know," said Brauws. " But what do you
do? You're in a government-office, I suppose?"
" No, Lord no, old fellow! Nothing, I just do
nothing. I cycle."
They both laughed. Brauws looked at his old
college-friend, almost paternally, with a quiet smile.
" The beggar hasn't changed an atom," he said.
" Yes, now that I look at you again, I see something
here and there. But you've remained Welckje, for
all that . . ."
*' But not Mad Hans," sighed Van der Welcke.
" Vreeswijck has become a great swell," said
Brauws. "And the others?"
" Greater swells still."
"Not you?"
"No, not L Do you cycle?"
" Sometimes."
" Have you a motor-car? "
" No."
" That's a pity. I should like to have a motor.
But I can't afford one of those sewing-machines."
Brauws roared with laughter:
" Why don't you start saving up for one? "
" No, old chap, no . . ."
" I say, do you know what's a funny thing?
While you were living in Brussels, I too was living
just outside Brussels."
"Impossible!"
" Yes, I was."
THE LATER LIFE 59
"And we never met?"
" I so seldom went into town. If I had
known . . ."
" But what a pity! "
" Yes. And what's still funnier is that, when you
were on the Riviera, I was there too."
*' Look here, old fellow, you're kidding me ! "
" I never knew till later that you were there also
that year. But you were at Monte Carlo and I at
Antlbes. Just compare the dates."
They compared dates: Brauws was right.
" But that was horribly unlucky."
" It couldn't be helped. However, we've found
each other now."
" Yes. We must see something of each other
now, eh? Let's go cycling together ... or buy a
motor-car between us."
Brauws roared with laughter again:
"Happy devil! " he shouted.
"I?" cried Van der Welcke, a little huffed.
"What's there happy about me? I sometimes
feel very miserable, very miserable indeed."
Brauws understood that he was referring to his
marriage.
" Here's my boy," said Van der Welcke, showing
Addie's photograph.
" A good face. What's he going to be? "
" He's going into the diplomatic service. I say,
shall we take a stroll? "
'6o THE LATER LIFE
" No, I'd rather sit here and talk."
" You're just as placid as ever . . ."
Brauws laughed:
" Outwardly, perhaps," he said. " Inwardly,
I'm anything but placid."
" Have you been abroad much? "
" Yes."
"What do you do?"
" Much . . . and perhaps nothing. I am seek-
mg . . .
"What?"
" I can't explain it in a few words. Perhaps
later, when we've seen more of each other."
" You're the same queer chap that you always
were. What are you seeking? "
" Something."
"There's our old oracle. 'Something!' You
were always fond of those short words."
" The universe lies in a word."
" Max, I can't follow you, if you go on like that.
I never could, you know."
" Tell me about yourself now, about Rome, about
Brussels."
Van der Welcke, smoking, described his life, more
or less briefly, through the blue clouds of his ciga-
rette. Brauws listened:
" Yes," he said. " Women . . ."
He had a habit of not finishing his sentences, or of
saying only a single word.
THE LATER LIFE 6i
"And what have women done to you?" asked
Van der Welcke, gaily.
Brauws laughed:
" Nothing much," he said, jestingly. " Not worth
talking about. There have been many women in
my life . . . and yet they were not there."
Van der Welcke reflected.
" Women," he said, pensively. " Sometimes, you
know . . ."
" Hans, are you in love? "
*' No, no ! " said Van der Welcke, starting.
*' No, I've been fairly good."
"Fairly good?"
Yes, only fairly . . ."
You're in love," said Brauws, decisively.
"You're mad!" said Van der Welcke. "I
wasn't thinking of myself . . . And, now, what are
you doing in the Hague?"
Brauws laughed:
" I'm going to give lectures, not only here, but
all over Holland."
"Lectures?" cried Van der Welcke, in astonish-
ment. "What made you think of that? Do you
do it to make money? Don't you find it a bore to
stand jawing in front of a lot of people for an hour
at a time? "
" Not a bit," said Brauws. " I'm lecturing on
Peace."
"Peace?" cried Van der Welcke, his blue orbs
62 THE LATER LIFE
shining In wide-eyed young amazement through
the blue haze of his cigarette-smoke. " .What
Peace?"
" Peace, simply."
" You're getting at me," cried Van der Welcke.
Brauws roared; and Van der W^elcke too. They
laughed for quite a minute or two.
" Hans," said Brauws, " how is it possible for any
one to change as little as you have done? In all
these years! You are just as Incapable as in the old
days of believing In anything serious."
" If you Imagine that there's been nothing serious
In my life," said Van der Welcke, vexed.
And, with great solemnity, he once more told his
friend about Constance, about his marriage, his shat-
tered career.
Brauws smiled.
" You laugh, as If It all didn't matter! " cried Van
der Welcke, angrily.
" What does anything matter? " said Brauws.
"And your old Peace?"
" Very little as yet, at any rate . . . Perhaps
later . . . Luckily, there's the future."
But Van der Welcke shrugged his shoulders and
demolished Peace in a few ready-made sentences :
there would always be war; it was one of those
Utopian ideas . . .
Brauws only smiled.
THE LATER LIFE 63
" You must come and dine one day, to meet Vrees-
wijck," said Van der Welcke.
Brauws' smile disappeared suddenly:
" No, my dear fellow, honestly . . ."
"Why not?"
" I'm not the man for dinners."
" It won't be a dinner. Only Vreeswijck. My
wife will be very pleased."
" Yes, but I shall be putting your wife out . . ."
" Not a bit. I'll see if she's at home and intro-
duce you to her."
" No, my dear fellow, no, honestly . . . I'm no
ladies' man. I'm nothing of a drawing-room per-
son. I never know what to say."
" You surely haven't grown shy! "
" Yes, almost. With ladies ... I really don't
know what to say. No, old chap, honestly. . . ."
His voice was full of anxious dismay.
" I think it's mean of you, to refuse to come and
dine with us, quite quietly."
" Yes . . . and then it'll be a dinner of twenty
people. I know."
" I shouldn't know where to get them from. We
see nobody. Nobody."
" No, no . . . Well, yes, perhaps later."
He raised his hand deprecatingly, almost impa-
tiently :
" Come," he said, " let's go for a walk."
64 THE LATER LIFE
And, as though fearing lest Van der Welcke
should still find a moment to introduce him to his
wife, Brauws hurried him down the stairs. Once
outside, he breathed again, recovered his usual pla-
cidity.
CHAPTER IX
" I WENT last night with Van Vreeswijck to hear
Brauws speak at Diligentia," said Van der Welcke,
one morning. " The fellow's inspired. He speaks
extempore and magnificently; he's an orator. A
splendid fellow, the way he spoke: it was astound-
ing ... I knew him years ago at Leiden. He was
a queer chap even then. He did not belong to any
particular club, not to ours either: his family is no-
thing out of the way. His father has a factory, I be-
lieve, somewhere in Overijssel. He himself has
nothing of the tradesman about him. He used to
coach us dull beggars and help us get up our exam-
inations. I should never have passed without him.
He knows about everything, he's not only good at
law. He's read everything; he has a tremendous
memory. He's travelled a lot and done all sorts of
things, but I can't find out exactly what. Now he's
lecturing. This evening, he's lecturing in Amster-
dam. I asked him to dinner, but he refuses to come,
says he's shy with ladies. Silly fellow! "
The newspapers printed lengthy reports of
Brauws' speeches on Peace. He spoke in all the
large Dutch towns and in many of the smaller ones.
When he was to speak at the Hague for the second
time, Van der Welcke said, excitedly:
65
66 THE LATER LIFE
" Constance, you must absolutely go and hear
Brauws this evening. He's grand. You know, I
can never listen to any one for more than a quarter
of an hour . . ."
" Nor I for more than three minutes," said Paul,
who was there. " But I love to talk for an hour
on end myself."
" But Brauws : the fellow electrifies you. Though
I think that Peace idea of his all rot. But that
makes no difference: the chap speaks magnificently
. . . I'm dining with Van Vreeswijck and we're go-
ing on together."
Paul asked Constance to go with him. That
evening, the little hall of Diligentia — the proceeds
were to go to the fund for the Boer wounded — was
full: Constance and Paul had difficulty in finding
seats.
" All sorts of people," Paul observed. " A cu-
rious audience. An olla podrida of every set in the
Hague. Here and there, the very select people
have turned up, no doubt brought by Van Vrees-
wijck: look, there are the Van der Heuvel Steijns;
and there's the French minister; and there, as I live,
is Van Naghel, with his colleague from the Trea-
sury . . . And look, there's Isidore the hairdresser
... A bit of everything, a bit of everything . . .
How brotherly and sisterly the Hague has become
this evening: it makes me feel quite sentimental! "
THE LATER LIFE 67
Brauws made his entrance, to faint applause.
"The fellow's not in evening-dress; he's wearing
a frock-coat. I suppose he's playing the demagogue
or the preacher."
But he had to stop, for Brauws at once began to
speak from the rostrum. He had nothing with
him, not a note ; and his voice was firm but very gen-
tle. He began with a masterly exposition of the
present political situation, sketching it in broad out-
lines, like an enormous picture, for all those people
in front of him. His voice became clearer; his eyes
looked through the hall, steady and bright, like two
shining stars. Constance, who seldom read any po-
litical news, listened, was at once interested, won-
dered vaguely for a moment that she lived like that,
from day to day, without knowing the times in which
she lived. The present took shape before her in
those few sentences of Brauws'. Then he spoke of
Peace, which would be essential sooner or later, which
was already making its joyous way into the mind of
the nations, even though they were actually still wa-
ging war upon one another. It was as though wide
and radiant vistas opened under his words; and his
voice, at first so gentle, now rang through the hall,
triumphantly confirming the glad tidings. He spoke
without pausing, for two hours on end; and, when
he stopped, the hall was breathless for a moment,
the audience forgot to cheer. Then indeed applause
68 THE LATER LIFE
burst forth, jubilant; but by that time Brauws was
gone. They called him back, but he did not return;
and the audience streamed out.
Constance and Paul were in the crush, when they
saw Van Vreeswijck and Van der Welcke behind
them.
" Mevrouw," said Van Vreeswijck, bowing.
" What do you think of our friend? "
" Wonderful," said Constance, excitedly.
" The fellow speaks well," said Paul, " but he is
too earnest. He means all he says. People don't
like that in the long run."
Van der Welcke protested vehemently, as he
pushed through the close-packed crowd, and declared
that he was converted, that he believed in Peace.
They reached the street: the hum of the crowd
floated through the wintry air.
"How excited our stolid Haguers are!" said
Paul.
" There's our man," said Van Vreeswijck.
" Yes, there he is! " exclaimed Van der Welcke.
And he darted forwards, stopped Brauws, who
was walking fast and saw nobody, and seized his
hand. The others drew near. Van Vreeswijck,
out of politeness, stayed by Constance, waved his
hand to Brauws. Van der Welcke was in a great
state of excitement:
" Where are you going? " they heard him ask
Brauws. "To the Witte?"
THE LATER LIFE 69
" No, my dear fellow, home."
"Home? Can you go home now? Won't you
come to the WItte? I say, do let me introduce you
to my wife, to my brother-in-law . . ."
Brauws started:
" No, Hans, honestly . . . No, no . . . What's
the good? . . ."
Constance heard and could not help smiling. She
walked on with Van Vreeswijck and Paul.
" Yes, yes," Van der Welcke insisted.
Brauws no doubt realized that Constance had
heard, for he said, in a voice of despair:
" Very well then, Hans . . ."
"Constance! Paul!" cried Van der Welcke,
proud of his friend, and caught them up.
He would have liked to introduce Brauws to the
whole world, to the whole audience streaming out of
Diligentia.
" Let me introduce you: my friend. Max Brauws;
my wife; my brother-in-law, Van Lowe."
They shook hands. Brauws remained standing
in front of Constance, shyly and awkwardly. She
tried to pay him a compliment that would not
sound too obvious; and, like the tactful woman that
she was, she succeeded. Paul also said something;
they walked on. Van Vreeswijck silently amused at
Van der Welcke's excitement and Brauws' awkward-
ness.
"And are you really going home? Won't you
70 THE LATER LIFE
come to the Witte? " Van der Welcke urged, In im-
ploring tones.
*' My dear Hans, what would you have me do at
the Witte?"
" So you're going home."
*' Yes, I'm going home, but I'll walk a bit of the
way with you."
And, wishing to appear polite, he bowed vaguely
to Constance, but said nothing more.
It was a delightful winter evening, with a sharp
frost and a sky full of twinkling stars.
" I love walking," said Constance. " When I've
heard anything fine — music, a play, or a speech like
to-night's — I would much rather walk than rattle
home in a cab."
" My dear fellow! " cried Van der Welcke, still
bubbling over with enthusiasm. " You've converted
me! I believe in it, I believe in that Peace of
yours! "
Brauws gave a sudden bellow.
" There, now the chap's laughing at me again I '*
said Van der Welcke, in an injured tone.
" Well," said Brauws, " shall I come and fetch
you in a motor to-morrow, to reward you ? "
They all laughed this time.
" Have you got one? " cried Van der Welcke, de-
lightedly.
" No, but I can hire one," said Brauws. " And
then you can drive."
THE LATER LIFE 71
*' Can you hire one? Can you hire one? " cried
Van der Welcke, in dehghted amazement. " And
may I really drive? "
And forgetting all about Peace, he was soon
eagerly discussing motor-cars and motor-cycles . . .
When they reached the Kerkhoflaan, Constance
asked:
" Won't you all come in? "
Van Vreeswijck and Paul said that they would be
glad to come and have a glass of wine; but Brauws
said:
" Mevrouw, it's so late . . ."
" Not for us."
" Come along, Max," said Van der Welcke.
But Brauws laughed his queer, soft laugh and
said:
" What's the good of my coming in? . . ."
And he went off, with a shy bow. They all
laughed.
" Really, Brauws is impossible," said Van Vrees-
wijck, indignantly.
" And he's forgotten to tell me at what time he's
coming for me with his old sewing-machine . . ."
But next day, very early, in the misty winter morn-
ing, the " machine " came puffing and snorting and
exploding down the Kerkhoflaan and stopped at Van
der Welcke's door with a succession of deep-drawn
sighs and spasmodic gasps, as if to take breath after
its exertions; and this monster as it were of living
72 THE LATER LIFE
and breathing iron, odorous of petrol — the acrid
smell of its sweat — was soon surrounded by a little
group of butchers'-boys and orange-hawkers.
Brauws stepped out; and, as Constance happened to
be coming downstairs, she received him.
" I'm not fit to be seen, mevrouw. In these ' sew-
ing-machines,' as Hans calls them, one becomes un-
presentable at once."
He was shy, looked out at the gasping motor-car
and smiled at the crowd that had gathered round:
" I'm causing quite a tumult outside your door."
" They ought to be used to ' sewing-machines ' at
the Hague by now."
" That's a very graphic word of Hans'."
They both laughed. She thought his laugh at-
tractive and his voice soft and restful to listen to.
*' Mevrouw," he said, suddenly, overcoming his
bashfulness, " I hope you were not angry that I was
so ungracious yesterday? . . ."
" But you weren't at all ungracious."
" Yes, I was, very. But what excuse can I make?
I have lost the habit ... of just talking . . ."
She smiled :
" To ladies," she said, jokingly.
" Yes, about nothing . . . you know . . . small
talk . . ."
" You really needn't apologize, Mr. Brauws.
You had already said so many delightful things last
night that I can quite understand . . ."
THE LATER LIFE 73
" Yes, but I have said nothing this morning
and . . ."
" You wouldn't know what to say . . . about
nothing. But please don't trouble . . . and make
yourself at home. Henri will be down in a minute;
he is very worried at not being ready."
In fact, they heard Van der Welcke upstairs,
dressing excitedly; he was rushing madly round his
room and shouting:
"Addie! Addie! Pick me out a tie! Do be
quick, boy I "
And Constance rose to go. Brauws stopped her:
" Mevrouw," he said, hurriedly, " Hans asked
me to dinner."
" And you refused ..."
" Well, you see, I'm such a bear. Don't be angry
and don't let Hans be angry either and let me come
and dine with you one day."
" So you're inviting yourself? "
" Yes."
"Very well; we shall be delighted to see you.
When will you come? "
" Whenever you like."
" To-morrow? "
" With great pleasure."
*' Would you rather come alone, or shall I ask'
Van Vreeswijck to meet you?"
" Yes, certainly. Van Vreeswijck . . ."
" And nobody else."
74- THE LATER LIFE
" No, nobody. But I musn't dictate to you."
" Why shouldn't you, In this case? "
Van der Welcke came rushing down the stairs, fol-
lowed by Addle:
" This is jolly of you. Max! Let's have a look at
the old machine. She's a first-rater 1 And here's
my boy . . . Addle, eat a bit of bread and butter,
quick; then we'll drop you at your school."
Addle laughed, quietly ate his bread and butter
without sitting down:
" I've lots of time," he said.
" So much the better . . . we'll drive you round
a bit first. Quick, quick! Take your bread and
butter with you in your hand! "
He rushed like a madman through the dining-
room and hall, hunted for his hat, couldn't find It,
shouted up the stairs, made Truitje look all over
the place for his gloves, created a breezy draught
all through the house. At last, he was ready:
"If only I can manage the old sewing-machine!
. . . Tock-tock-tock-tock, tock-tock-tock-tock ! . . .
Good-bye, Constance . , ."
He shoved Addle In front of him, made him get
into the car, settled himself:
" We're off, Brauws ! "
" Good-bye, mevrouw. Till to-morrow then ! "
He ran out. Constance looked out of the win-
dow: they drove off, with Addle between them, wa-
THE LATER LIFE 75
ving his hand to her, while Brauws was showing Van
der Welcke — much too quick, too wild, too im-
patient — how to work the " sewing-machine " and
obviously asking him to be careful . . .
CHAPTER X
Constance had invited Van Vreeswijck at the last
moment and he was engaged, so that Brauws was the
only guest. Though Constance usually gave a deal
of thought to her little dinners, she received Brauws
quite simply, treating him as one of themselves; and
Addie dined with them.
" And now tell me what you have been doing all
these years? " asked Van der Welcke.
Brauws tried to tell him, but kept on hesitating, as
though under a strange compulsion. His father was
a manufacturer, owning big iron-works in Overijssel,
and still carried on that huge business with Brauws'
two elder brothers, who were married to two sisters,
the daughters of another manufacturer, owning a cot-
ton-mill in the same district. But Max, who had
been a queer boy from a child, had from a child felt
repelled by all that factory-life of masters and men,
as he saw it around him; and his father, recognizing
his exceptional intelligence, had sent him to college,
hoping that in this way he would carve out an hon-
ourable career for himself among his fellow-men.
Max was fond of study and studied long and hard,
for the sake of study. At Leiden, he became ac-
quainted with Van Vreeswijck, Van der Welcke and
other young sprigs of the aristocracy, who would
76
THE LATER LIFE 77
gladly have admitted him to their club, putting up
with him because he had plenty of money to spend
and because he was clever and it amused him to help
them in their examinations. Van der Welcke and
Van Vreeswijck had learnt to value his friendship,
but nevertheless lost sight of him afterwards, think-
ing that he had joined his brothers after all and was
managing the factory with them. And, even as
they, as youths, had hardly known their friend more
than superficially, so they did not know, on leaving
Leiden, that Max had not gone to Overijssel —
where his father would have liked to marry him to
the third daughter of the father-in-law of his two
other sons — but to America, to " seek."
"Well, but to seek what?" Van der Welcke
asked, failing to understand what a rich youth could
want to seek in America, if he did not see some idea,
some plan, some object plainly outlined before
him.
Brauws now confessed that at the time he scarcely
knew what he had gone to seek, in America. He
admitted that his father, the iron-master, had hoped
that Max would form industrial connections in
America which would have benefited the factory.
But Max had formed no connections at all.
"Then what did you do?" asked Van der
Welcke.
And Brauws smiled his strange, gentle smile, in
which there gleamed a touch of irony and compas-
78 THE LATER LIFE
slon — with himself, or the world, or both — a'
smile which sometimes broke into his big, resonant
laugh. He smiled and at last said, very slowly:
" But I hardly dare confess to you, my dear Hans,
what I did in America. I don't talk about that time
as a rule, because it all sounds so strange, now that
I am sitting at table with you and your wife and
your son. Perhaps, if I tell you what I did do in
America, Mrs. van der Welcke, after the first shock
of surprise, will shudder at having invited such a
queer person to her table and probably think me
a very bad example for Addie. So don't let's talk
about myself or what I did in America."
But Van der Welcke had grown Inquisitive :
" No, my dear fellow, you sha'n't get out of it
like that. I can't imagine that you did anything in
America that Addie mustn't hear about; and in any
case he needn't take you for his model. But I'm
burning with curiosity and I insist on knowing what
you were up to in America. Not lecturing on Peace
all the time? . . ."
" No, not even once."
"Well, what then?"
" But, Hans, what's the good of talking about my-
self to this extent? "
" We're all interested, Mr. Brauws," said Con-
stance. " We certainly are. But, if you would
rather not talk about those days, we will not be In-
discreet."
THE LATER LIFE 79
" Yes, yes, yes," said Van der Welcke, impa-
tiently. " By Jingo, I will be indiscreet. Max, I
must know . . ."
" Well, then," said Max Brauws, very simply and
shyly, as though he were making an apology. " At
the risk of your wife's never asking me to her house
again: I was a porter."
They all three looked at him and did not under-
stand.
"A porter?" asked Van der Welcke.
"A porter?" asked Constance.
" Yes, mevrouw: just a porter and dock-labourer."
"A dock-labourer?" asked Van der Welcke,
thinking, from Max Brauws' quiet voice, that he had
suddenly gone mad.
" Yes, Hans; and, later on, I worked as a stoker
in an iron-works, like my father's."
" As a stoker? " asked Constance.
" Yes, mevrouw, as a stoker in a factory. And
then, afterwards, as an engine-driver. And then —
but that was very hard work — I was a miner for a
short time; but then I fell ill."
"A miner?" asked Van der Welcke, In a blank
voice, dazed with astonishment.
And at last, recovering from the astonishment, he
burst out:
" Look here. Max, if you want to talk seriously,
do; but don't go pulling my leg and making a fool
of me to my face. I don't understand a word of
8o THE LATER LIFE
what you're saying, unless I'm to suppose that your
father was angry with you and gave you no money
and that you had to work for your bread, perhaps.
But that you were a porter . . ."
" And dock-labourer," said Constance.
" And engine-driver and miner, that I refuse to
believe, unless your father . . ."
" My dear Hans, my father used to send me the
same allowance that he made me at the university:
three hundred guilders a month."
"And . . .?"
"And I used the money . . . for other things;
but I lived on my wages, like a labourer, as I really
was. You see, you can't understand that; and, as I
feared, your wife thinks it horrible to be sitting at
table with a man who has been a porter, a dock-
labourer and a stoker . . ."
" And a miner," added Van der Welcke.
And he shut his eyes, as though he had received a
blow on the head.
" But, mevrouw," said Brauws, with his quiet
smile, " my hands, although they are not delicate,
have become fit to show again, as you see."
And he showed his hands, big, powerful hands,
probably developed by manual labour, but now
neither coarse nor hard.
" But can you explain to me," asked Constance,
with a little laugh, " why you worked in those
various humble capacities? "
THE LATER LIFE 8i
" Shall we say, mevrouw, for the sake of being
eccentric?" replied Brauws, almost coldly. "And
then we will talk no more about myself. Tell me
Instead about Addie. Hans was saying the other
day that his ambition was to enter the diplomatic
service . . ."
But a certain constraint seemed involuntarily to
make the conversation flag, as though both host and
hostess were unable to understand their guest at all,
as though some one of another class had actually
strayed by accident into their dining-room, into the
home of these born aristocrats; and Constance, per-
ceiving this, not only wanted to avoid that constraint,
but also a deeper feeling of invincible sympathy
made her regret almost unconsciously any misunder-
standing or unpleasantness that might arise between
that strange man and Henri or herself. This deeper
feeling was so faint and unconscious that, at the mo-
ment, she saw in it only her wish, as hostess, to make
the passing hour as agreeable as possible for her
guest; and she did not hear the deeper note in her
voice when she said, with that candour and sincerity
which at times gave her an exquisitely feminine
charm :
" I should be very sorry indeed, Mr. Brauws, if
you refused to go on speaking of yourself. You are
an old and intimate friend of Henri's; and, now
that you two have met again, it would be a pity if you
refused to talk about the years when you did not see
82 THE LATER LIFE
each other. But I am not speaking only for my
husband, who will speak for himself: I am speaking
especially for my own sake. When I heard you
lecturing on Peace the other day — on something
which I had really never thought about, though I had
heard the word vaguely mentioned by people now
and then — your speech really roused ... a sort
of interest in me; and I listened with keen sympathy;
and afterwards I thought about that word. And,
now that you tell us that you have been a common
workman in America, I am very much interested to
know how you came to adopt a life so very different
from that of the men in my set; and, if it is not too
indiscreet, I should like to ask you, as a favour, to
speak about yourself and explain what at present
seems so perplexing to me . . ."
The simple, homely meal was finished; and they
went into the drawing-room.
"May I stay. Mamma?" asked Addle, who
never accompanied them to the drawing-room when
there was a stranger present.
She laughed; and Van der Welcke said:
" You see, even my boy is curious."
" Our future diplomatist! " said Brauws, with his
quiet smile. *' Well, mevrouw, may he stay or
not?"
" Of course he may stay! "
" Aren't you afraid that the ideas of ... a la-
bouring-man will spoil him? "
THE LATER LIFE 83
" Oh, there's no spoiling my boy! " said she, lift-
ing her head high and putting her arm round Addie's
shoulder with motherly pride.
" And you don't make him vain, by saying that? "
" There's no making him vain," she continued,
boasting a little, like a proud mother.
"So he can stay?" asked Brauws.
" He can stay."
" Well, in that case I shall tell you more about
myself."
" Only in that case? "
" You are giving me a proof of confidence and, I
might almost say, of sympathy."
Van der Welcke took his friend by the shoulders:
" My dear Max, you pretend that you don't know
how to talk to ' ladies ' and there you stand, like a
typical courtier, paying compliments to my wife.
That's all superfluous, you know: here's a cup of
coffee; sit down, make yourself at home, choose your
own chair; and now, Mr. Miner, tell your Mad
Hans how, when you were in America, you went
even madder than he."
But Brauws was obviously still seeking subter-
fuges, as though it were impossible for him to in-
terpret the riddle of his former existence to these
people who were entertaining him so kindly; and at
last he half managed to escape their pressing cu-
riosity by saying:
" But I can't possibly tell you all that straight
84 THE LATER LIFE
away . . . Perhaps later, mevrouw, when I have
known you a little longer, I may be able to tell you
about that time, so that you may understand It after
a fashion."
Constance was disappointed, but she said, with a
smile :
" Then I must exercise patience."
" But I exercise no patience," said Van der
Welcke. " Tell us now, Max : when you left Leiden,
after taking your degree In law, a year before I
did — ^but you were much older than I, an older
student who really studied, a rara avis! — what did
you do then? " .
" I first went back to my father and my brothers,
to the factory. And then I took such an aversion
to the whole thing, to all that we represented, my
father, my brothers and I, that I determined to go
and lead an entirely different life.. I saw that,
though my father and brothers were comparatively
good to their workmen, those workmen remained
slaves; and we . . ."
He passed his hand over his forehead:
" How can I and why should I talk about all this,
my dear Hans?" he said, gently interrupting him-
self. "You wouldn't understand me; nor you
either, mevrouw . . ."
"Why shouldn't we understand you?" asked
Constance.
THE LATER LIFE 85
His voice assumed a rough tone that almost
frightened her:
" Because both of you, you and Hans, are capi-
talists — and titled capitalists at that — and because
I . . . But I don't want to be rude to my host and
hostess."
*' Capitalists without capital," said Van der
Welcke, laughing.
Brauws shrugged his shoulders:
" There are more of them than you think," he
said.
" So really you're among enemies here," said
Constance, in her drawing-room voice.
" No," said Van der Welcke, *' for he in his turn
has deserted to the capitalists, even the titled ones."
" Not quite," said Brauws, quietly, " though I ad-
mit that I have been weak."
" I won't press you any more, Mr. Brauws," said
Constance; but her voice urged him to continue.
" Don't look upon yourself and Henri as my ene-
mies, mevrouw," said Brauws, earnestly. " Above
all things, I should like to see nothing but friendship
in this world of ours. But you were asking me about
America: well, when I had lived for a short time
with my father and my brothers in our big house near
the factory, it became too much for me ; and I went
away, to lead my life just as If I had been born
among workmen ... so as to study them more
86 THE LATER LIFE
closely, do you understand? . . . No, you don't un-
derstand; and how can I go on? , . ."
" Max, you're being dull. And you're absurd
too."
" I'm sorry, Hans, I simply can't talk about my-
self: you see, I've tried to, two or three times over."
" Then we won't worry you any more," said Con-
stance.
A constraint seemed to have come upon them,
a barrier which rose between their words at
every moment. Addie, disappointed, left the room
quietly. In a little while, Brauws took his leave,
awkwardly, almost rudely. Constance and Van der
Welcke exchanged a glance when they were alone.
Van der Welcke shook his head:
" The fellow's mad," he said. " Always was;
but, since he's joined the proletariats in America,
he's stark, staring mad. He was so jolly yesterday,
coming with that old sewing-machine. He is a good
sort, there's something nice about him. But he's
quite mad, Vreeswijck is much better company.
We won't ask him again: what do you say, Con-
stance? The fellow's really mad; and, besides, he
doesn't know how to talk and, when all is said, he
was Impertinent, with his ' titled capitalists.' In-
deed, I ought really to apologize to you for asking
such a queer fish to your house."
" He is different from other people," she said,
THE LATER LIFE 87
" but I think that, however much he may differ from
you, he hkes you."
Her husband burst out Irritably:
" You women," he exclaimed, " are simply Impos-
sible ! Who would ever have thought that you
could have found a word of excuse for Brauws !
Why, I was afraid that you would cover me with
reproaches and point out to me that, even though
we see nobody, you wouldn't want to receive a social-
ist friend of mine. But there's no understanding
women ! "
He was dissatisfied, out of temper, because of
Brauws and that spasmodic conversation; and his
tone seemed to Invite a scene. But Constance raised
her eyes to his very calmly and said, so gently and
quietly that the voice did not sound like hers to his
ears:
" Henri, your friend Brauws Is a man and an ex-
ceptional man; and that Is enough to captivate a
woman for a moment."
" Well, you can ask him every day, for all I
care."
" I didn't ask him."
"No, I did, of course!"
" Don't let us quarrel, Henri. Mr. Brauws asked
himself. But, if you would rather not see any
more of him, we won't encourage him again; and
then he'll stay away of his own accord . . ."
88 THE LATER LIFE
Her gentle words, which he did not understand,
disturbed him greatly; and he went upstairs in a
temper, undressed angrily and flung himself on
his bed:
" And, upon my word, he'd be upsetting Addie's
head next, with those queer notions," he muttered,
as he dug his ear viciously into his pillow.
CHAPTER XI
A FEW days had passed, when Brauws rang at the
door, late one afternoon. Constance was sitting in
the drawing-room and saw him through the corner
window; and, as she heard the bell, she felt a shock
of alarm. She was afraid, she did not know why,
and listened anxiously to his deep voice in the pas-
sage.
" Is meneer at home? "
" No, sir."
"Perhaps mevrouw is at home?"
" Yes, sir, mevrouw is in. I'll just ask . . ."
Truitje entered:
" Mr. Brauws, ma'am . . ."
" Show meneer in."
She still felt her heart beating with that strange,
inexplicable shock of alarm. And she thought that
it was because she was alone with that strange man,
who had been a workman in America and who
could say such rude things sometimes, suddenly.
They shook hands:
" Henri is out," she said. " But sit down. I see
in the paper that you are speaking at Arnhem to-
morrow."
" Yes, mevrouw, but I haven't come to talk about
8g
90 THE LATER LIFE
my lectures. I've come to make you my very hum-
ble apologies."
"What for?"
" Mevrouw, I'm a bear. I don't know how to
talk to people. Forgive me . . . for what I said
the other day."
" But what did you say?"
" Nothing — after your friendly encouragement
— but what was rude."
" I have no great reverence for titles," she said,
quickly.
She said it so suddenly and spontaneously that it
surprised even herself; and she asked herself, the
next second:
" Why do I say that? And is It true, now? Or
is it not true? "
She herself did not know.
" You haven't, perhaps, but Hans has . . . But
I was rude especially because, after you had asked
me so kindly and graciously, I still would not talk
about my life."
" But you were to do that when we knew each
other better . . ."
" People never know each other well. Still . . ."
"What?"
" I don't know . . . May I tell you something
about myself from time to time? Perhaps it won't
interest you as much as, from politeness, you wish
me to think; but . . . when I've done it ... I
THE LATER LIFE 91
shall feel relieved . . . Heavens, how difficult
words are ! "
" And yet you are accustomed to speak for
hours! . . ."
" That's a different thing. Then some one else
is speaking inside me. When I myself am speak-
ing, in everyday life, I find words difficult."
" Then don't make the least effort, but tell me
. . . gradually."
" What did Addie think ? I should like to know."
" He was disappointed, but he did not say much."
"He's a serious boy, isn't he? Tell me about
him."
She felt no more fear and talked about Addie.
Brauws laughed, gently and kindly, at the pride that
kept shining from her:
" I was a serious child too," he said.
And she understood that he was making an effort,
in order to talk about himself.
" I was a strange child. Behind our house was a
pine-forest, with hills in it; and behind that a little
stream. I used to wander all day long in those
woods, over the hills and beside the stream. They
would miss me at home and look for me and find
me there. But gradually they stopped being fright-
ened, because they understood that I was only play-
ing. I used to play by myself: a lonely, serious
child. It's true I played at highwaymen and pirates ;
and yet my games were very serious, not like a child's
92 THE LATER LIFE
... I still feel a thrill when I think of that strange
childhood of mine ... I used to play there in
those woods and beside that stream, in Holland;
but sometimes I imagined that I was playing at pi-
rates and highwaymen in America, or in the tropics.
And in my childish imagination the whole Dutch
landscape changed. It became a roaring river, with
great boulders, from which the water fell foaming,
and very dense, tropical foliage, such as I had seen
in pictures; and great flowers, red and white, grew
in the enormous trees. Then my fancy changed
and I was no longer a pirate or robber, but became
... an oriental prince. I don't know why I, a
pure-bred Dutch boy, should have had that strange
vision of the east, of something tropical, there, on
those pine-covered hills and beside that little stream
. . . It was always like that afterwards: the tropi-
cal landscape, the spreading cocoa-trees, the broad
plantain-leaves and the huge flowers, white and
red . . . and then I often thought, ' Now I will
find her.' Whom I wanted to find I didn't know;
but I would run down the hills and roam be-
side the little river and seek and seek . . . and my
seeking for 'her' became strange and fantastic: I,
an oriental, was seeking for a fairy, or a princess, I
forget which. It seemed to me as if she were run-
ning there ahead of me, very white and fragile: a
little child, as I was a child; a girl, as I was a boy;
in white and decked with the flowers, white and red
THE LATER LIFE 93
. . . And my seeking for the princess, for the fairy,
for the little white, fragile girl became so intense
that I sometimes thought I had found her, found
her in my imagination; and then I would speak to
her, as in a dream . . . Until . . . until I woke
from my waking dream and remembered that I had
been wandering away from home for hours, that
my mother would be anxious, that I was not fit to be
seen, that I looked like a dirty street-boy, that I had
only been dreaming, that there were no white or red
flowers around me . . . and then I would cry, boy
of thirteen though I was, passionately, as if I should
go mad . . . And I have never told all this to any
one, but I am telling it to you, because I want to
ask you: Addie is not like that, is he? When you
come to think of it, how children differ, at that
age ! "
She sat on her chair, very pale, and could not
speak.
" My parents did not know that I was like that;
and I told nobody about my fancies. I went to
school, in the meantime, and was just the usual sort
of schoolboy. I was cruel to animals, a vulgar little
rascal, in the meantime; and it was only in those
free hours that I wandered and dreamt. And, when
I now look at your boy, who is like a little man, I
sometimes think, how is it possible that he is like
this and that I was like that, at the same age? "
She made an effort to smile.
94 THE LATER LIFE
" So you see," he said, " gradually perhaps I
shall be able to tell you something about my life . . .
at least. If It Interests you . . ."
It seemed as If his first confession had In fact
given him a greater facility, for of his own accord he
now went on talking: how, when he grew a year or
two older, he had shaken those fancies from him as
so much child's-play and devoted himself seriously
to every kind of study, until he went to the univer-
sity, where he not only read law, but really took
up all the other faculties In between, while at the
same time he felt attracted by every branch of
knowledge :
" I was a ready learner and a quick reader; I re-
membered everything; and I had a sort of fever to
know everything In the world, to know all there was
to know and learn. That I afterwards went
and travelled goes almost without saying. And
then . . ."
It was at this moment that Van der Welcke en-
tered. He was at first surprised, almost annoyed
to see Brauws; but his warm friendship gained the
upper hand:
" Hullo, anarchist ! " he said. " Is that you? "
But it was very late; Addle came In; It was close
upon dinner-time. Brauws said good-bye and prom-
ised to come again and fetch Van der Welcke In a
" machine ; " and that made up for everything to Van
der Welcke.
CHAPTER XII
It was a howling winter night of storm and rain.
Addle was doing his lessons after dinner; and Van
der Welcke had gone to sit by him with a book " be-
cause there was such a draught In his room." Con-
stance was all alone. And she loved the loneliness
of it just then. She had taken up a book, a piece of
needlework; but first one and then the other had
slipped from her hands. And, in the soft light of
the lace-shaded lamps, she lay back In her chair and
listened to the melancholy storm outside, which
seemed to be rushing past the house like some mon-
strous animal. She was In a mood of vague excite-
ment, of mingled nervousness and depression; and,
in her loneliness, she let this strange feeling take pos-
session of her and gave herself up to the quite new
luxury of thinking about herself, wondering dimly:
" Does that sort of thing really exist? "
She found no answer to her question; she heard
only the storm raging outside, the hiss of its lash
round the groaning trees; and those mournful voices
of the night did not Include the mystic voice which
alone could have supplied the answer.
" Does that sort of thing really exist? " she asked
herself again.
And, In that vague emotion, she was conscious of
95
96 THE LATER LIFE
a sense of fear, of a rising anxiety, an Increasing
terror. When, after a lull, the storm burst into
sudden fury again, she started violently, as she had
started when Brauvvs' hand rang the bell . . .
With each shriller howl of the raging storm she
started; and each fresh alarm left her so nervous
and so strangely despondent that she could not un-
derstand herself . . .
" Does that sort of thing really exist then? " she
asked herself for the third time.
And the question seemed each time to echo through
her soul like a refrain. She could never have
thought, suspected or imagined that such things
really existed. She did not remember ever reading
about them or ever talking to anybody about them.
It had never been her nature to attach much impor-
tance to the strange coincidences of life, because
they had never harmonized in her life with those of
other lives; at least, she did not know about them,
did not remember them . . . For a moment, it
flashed through her mind that she had walked as the
blind walk, all her life, in a pitch-dark night . . .
and that to-day suddenly a light had shone out be-
fore her and a ruddy glow had filtered through her
closed eyelids.
" No," she thought, " in those things I have al-
ways been very much of a woman; and I have never
thought about them. If by chance I ever heard
about them, they did not attract me. Then why do
THE LATER LIFE 97
they strike me so forcibly now ? And why do I feel
so strange? . . ."
The wind suddenly cried aloud, like the martyred
soul of some monster; and she started, but forced
herself to concentrate her thoughts :
" He can't know," she thought. " What can he
know, to make him speak deliberately ... of those
childish years? No, he can't know; and I felt that
he did not know, that he was only speaking in order
to compare himself with Addie to Addie's mother,
in a burst of confidence. He is a man of impulses,
I think . . . No, there was nothing at the back of
his words . . . and he knows nothing, nothing
of my own early years . . . We are almost the
same age : he is four years older than Henri. When
he was a child, I was a child. When he was dream-
ing, I was dreaming. Does that sort of thing really
exist? Or is it my fancy, some unconscious vein of
poetry inside me, that is making me imagine all this?
. . .' Hush, hush . . . it is becoming absurd! It is
all very pretty and charming in children: they can
have their day-dreams; and a young man and a
young girl might perhaps give a thought to them
afterwards, in a romantic moment; but, at my age,
it all becomes absurd, utterly absurd . . . And of
course it's ?iot there: it's nothing but a chance coinci-
dence. I won't think about it any more . . . And
yet ... I have never felt before as I do now. Oh,
that feeling as if I had always been straying, blindly.
98 THE LATER LIFE
with my eyes shut, in a dark night! Have I never
had that feeling before, that feeling as If nothing
had really existed, as if I had never lived yet, as if
I wanted to live once, just once, in my life? . . .
But no, it can never be like that, it can't happen
like that. No, that sort of thing does not exist. It
is just our imagination when we are feeling restless
and dissatisfied ... or when we are tired and feel
that we have no energy ... or whatever it is that
makes us more easily affected by all those strange
things which we never suspected . . . Why did I
not at once laugh and say that, as a child, as a little
girl, I myself . . . ? No, no, I simply couldn't
say it; and it is better that I didn't say it . . . Now
I am getting frightened at my own silliness. It is
all very well for young people, for a boy and a girl,
to have these fancies and even talk of them, in a ro-
mantic moment, but at my age it is simply ridicu-
lous ... It is so long ago, so long ago; and, with
all those years in between, it would be ridiculous to
refer to poetic dreams and fancies which can only
be spoken of when one is very young ... I sha'n't
speak of them . . . and I shall never tell him.
Wouldn't it be . . . utterly ridiculous? . . . Yet it
does seem ... it does seem to me that, after those
years — when, as Gerrit said, I was a dear little
child, playing in the river at Buitenzorg, making up
stories about fairies and poetries,''- decked with
^ Malay fairies.
THE LATER LIFE 99
flowers, red and white — that, after those years, I
lost something of myself, something romantic that
was in me then, something living that was in me then,
and that, since then, I have never lived, never lived a
single moment, as if all sorts of vain and worldly
things had blinded me . . . Oh, what thoughts are
these and why do I have them? I won't think
them; and yet . . . and yet, after those wonderful,
fairy years, it was all over ... all over . . .
What do I remember of the years after? Dances,
balls, society, vanity and artificiality . . . Yes, It
was all over by then . . . And now surely that
childish spark hasn't revived, surely my soul isn't
trying, isn't wanting to live again? No, no, it can't
do that: the years are lying all around it, the silent,
dead years of vanity, of blundering, of longing, of
death in life . . . And besides, if my soul did want
to live again, it would be too late now, for every-
thing; and it doesn't want to either . . . It's only
because of those strange coincidences, it's only be-
cause he spoke like that . . . and because his voice
it attractive . . . and because I am sitting here
alone . . . and because the storm is blowing so ter-
ribly, as though It wanted to open the windows and
come inside . . . No, hush, hush ... I won't give
way to those thoughts again, never again . . . and,
even if that sort of thing does really exist, it is only
for those who are young and who see life with the
glamour of youth . . . and not for me, not for me.
100 THE LATER LIFE
. . . Oh, I couldn't have told him about myself
when I was a child, for it would have appeared to
me as if, by teUing him, I was behaving like ... a
woman offering herself 1 . . . But hush, hush: all
this is absurd . . . forme . . . now ; and I will stop
thinking of it . . . But how lonely I am, sitting
here . . . and how the wind howls, how the wind
howls! . . . The lamps are flickering; and it's just
as if hands were rattling the shutters, trying hard to
open them . . . Oh, I wish those lamps wouldn't
flicker so ! . . . And I feel as if the windows were
going to burst open and the curtains fly up in the
air . . . I'm frightened. . . . Hark to the trees
cracking and the branches falling . . . Hear mc,
O God, hear me ! I'm frightened, I'm fright-
ened ... Is this then the first night that I sec
something of myself, as if I were suddenly looking
back, on a dark path that lies behind me, a dark
path on which all the pageant of vanity has grown
dim? For it does seem as if, right at the end of the
road, I saw, as in a vision, the sun; trees with great
leaves and blossoms red and white; and a little fairy
child, in white, with flowers in her hair, standing on
a boulder, in a river, beckoning mysteriously to her
brothers, who do not understand. O my God, does
that sort of thing really, really exist ... or is it
only because I never, never heard the wind blow
like this before? . . ."
These thoughts, these doubts, these wonderings
THE LATER LIFE loi
flashed through her; and, because she had never
heard herself thinking and doubting and wondering
so swiftly, she grew still more frightened in her
loneliness, while the storm howled more furiously
outside. And the silent lamps flickered so violently
in her drawing-room — in a sort of passionate
draught — that she suddenly rushed staggering to the
door. She went up the stairs ; and it was as though
the storm would break the little villa to pieces with
one blow of its angry wing . . .
She went to Addie's room; her hand was on the
door-handle; she turned It. She saw her boy work-
ing at his table and Van der Welcke smoking in the
easy-chair. She gave a start, because he was there,
and she looked deathly pale, with terrified, quivering
eyes.
"Mammal"
"My boy, I'm frightened; listen to the
storm! . . ."
"Yes, did you ever see such weather?" asked
Van der Welcke, through the clouds of his cigarette.
"Are you frightened. Mamma?"
" Yes, my boy, my Addie . . . I'm frightened
. . . I'm frightened . . ."
" And shall your boy keep you safe, safe from
the wind?"
" Yes, my darling, keep me safe! " she said, with
a wan little laugh. " For I'm really, really fright-
ened . . . I've been sitting alone downstairs . . .
I02 THE LATER LIFE
and it blew so, it blew so: the lamps blew and the
shutters banged and I'm so frightened now! . . ."
The boy drew her on his knees and held her very
tight :
" Silly Mummy! Are you really frightened? "
She made herself very small in his arms, be-
tween his knees, nestled up against him and repeated,
as in a dream :
" Yes, I'm so frightened, I'm so frightened! . . ."
And, without a further glance at her husband sit-
ting there clouded in the blue smoke of his ciga-
rette, she as it were crept into the heart of her child,
whispering, all pale and wan, with a wan smile and
her eyes full of anxious wonder:
" I'm frightened, Addie ! Save me ! Protect
mel . . ."
CHAPTER XIII
" I'm mad! " he thought, as, after a hasty meal at
a restaurant in the town, he walked along the Hooge
Weg to Scheveningen through the shrieking winter
night.
The leafless branches lashed tragically to and fro,
as though sweeping the scudding clouds ; and the
street-lamps seemed like ghostly eyes blinking here
and there in the fitful darkness . . .
" I'm mad ! Why did I tell her all that, I ... I
who can never talk to women? "
He was walking against the wind, angry with him-
self and angry with the wind when it barred his way
with its widespread hindering arms. The wind
whistled very high in the air, along the topmost
leafless boughs; and the boughs broke off, as though
at the touch of angry fingers, and scattered all
around him; and sometimes a heavier branch fell,
black, right at his feet. He walked on — his legs
were stronger than the wind barring his way, tug-
ging at his flapping coat — walked with his hands in
his pockets, his collar turned up, his hat pulled over
his eyes; and he walked on and on without an ob-
ject, only with an eager craving for the sea, for sea
and air and wind, to blow and wash everything out of
his brain, which otherwise would be sick with dream-
103
104 THE LATER LIFE
Ing . . . Was he still such a dreamer, even though
all the rest of his life behed his dreams? What
did he mean by suddenly going to that woman, apolo-
gizing to her that afternoon because he didn't know
how to talk and then suddenly talking, talking like a
boy, telling her things — shadowy things of the past
— which he had never told to anybody, because they
were not things to be told, because, once told, they
ceased to exist? . . . What interest did she take In
his childish games and his childish dreams? . . .
He had probably bored her: perhaps she had laughed
at him — the cynical little laugh of the society-
woman — and at his really too-ridiculous simplicity,
the simplicity of a man who had thought and worked
and lived and who had yet always remained a child
... in certain little corners of his soul . . . He
was so much ashamed at the recollection of all that
he had dared to say to her, so much ashamed of the
irresistible impulse which had driven him to speak to
her, at such length, of his childhood and his childish
imaginings, that he was now — as though to regain
mastery of himself after the strange spell of her pres-
ence — that he was now fighting with the wind, to
make himself feel strong again and a man . . . The
wind clung howling to his body, dragged itself by his
legs, struck him blinding blows in the face, but he
walked on: his strong legs walked on, with a sharp,
regular step, ever mightier than the wind, which he
trod under foot and kicked out of his path . . .
THE LATER LIFE 105
*' I don't know what It was," he thought, " but,
once I was alone with her, I had ... I had to say-
it .. . How can I be of any use In the world, when
I am such a dreamer? . . . Women! Have
women ever woven Into my life anything beyond the
most commonplace threads? Have I ever confided
in a woman before, or felt that Irresistible Impulse
to open my heart, as I did this afternoon, In that
weak moment of enchantment? Why to her, why
to her? Why not to others, before her, and why
first to her? . . . Must my life always be this clumsy
groping with dreams on one side and facts on the
other? But why, why should I have spoken like
that: what was the overpowering impulse that
made me tell her those strange things, that made
It Impossible for me to do anything else? Are our
actions then so Independent of ourselves that we just
behave according to the laws of the most secret forces
in and above us? . . . Do / know what It was In
me that made me speak like that, that compelled me
to speak like that? It was like an irresistible
temptation, It was like a path that sloped down to
delectable valleys and It was as If angels or demons
— I don't know which — pushed and pushed me
and whispered, ' Tell It all . . . and go down the
path . . . You'll see how beautiful It is, you'll see
how beautiful it becomes! ' She . . . just listened,
without speaking, without moving. What did she
think? Nothing, most likely. She heard nothing.
io6 THE LATER LIFE
she felt nothing. If she's thinking of me now, she
thinks of me as a madman, or at least a crank . . .
What is she? She has been a woman of the world,
of just that world which I hate . . . What has her
life been? Sh^'^ married a man much older than
herself, out of vanity. Then a moment of passion,
between her and Hans . . . What else has there
been, what else is there in her? Nothing! How
utterly small they all are, these people who don't
think, who don't live : who exist like dolls, with dolls'
brains and dolls' souls, in a dolls' world ! What am
I doing among them? Oh, not that I'm big; not
that I am worth more than they, but, if I am to do
anything — for the world — I must live among real
people, different people from them ... or I must
live alone, wrapped in myself I . . . That has always
been the everlasting seesaw: doing, dreaming, doing,
dreaming . . . But there has never been that temp-
tation, that beckoning towards delectable valleys of
oblivion and that luxury of allowing myself to be
drawn along as though by soul-magnetism, by the
strange sympathy of a woman's soul ! ... Is it then
so, in reality ! Is it merely a mirage of love ? Love
has never come into my life: have I ever known
what it was? Is there one woman then, only one?
Can we find, even late, like this? . . . Oh, I wish
that this wind would blow all this uncertainty, all
these vapourings out of my head and my heart . . .
and leave me strong and simple ... to act alone,
THE LATER LIFE 107
to act alone I . . . And now I will not think about it
any more . . ."
And he quickened his pace and fought more vigor-
ously against the wind, with a wrestler's vigour, and,
when at last he saw the sea, foaming pale under the
black pall of cloud and roaring with a thousand
voices, he thought:
*' It all came from one moment of foolishness.
It had no real existence. I spoke as I should not
have spoken, but what I said was nothing and is
being blown out of my heart and out of my head at
this very moment . . ."
But, the next day, waking from a calm sleep, he
asked himself:
" Is it not just the unutterable things in us that
matter more than anything else to us . . . and to
those who made us divine them? . . ."
CHAPTER XIV
A DAY or two later, Marianne called:
" Auntie," she said, " I haven't seen you for days.
What's the matter? Are you vexed with me? "
" Why, no, Marianne."
" Yes, there's something. You're cross with me.
Tell me that you're not cross with me. I haven't
dined with you for an age. You are vexed with me
because I Invited myself. Tell me that I'm mis-
taken, that you're not vexed with me. And do ask
me to dinner again, one day . . . It's such a busy
time just now: parties, dinners, the Court ball the
other night. It was very boring . . . We never
see you. You never call on us. Nor Uncle either.
It's all through that Brauws man."
Constance started, with that strange nervous catch
In her throat:
"What do you mean?" she asked.
*' That old friend of Uncle's, who speaks on
Peace. I've heard him: It was splendid, splendid.
His speech was topping, I'm mad on Peace. But
he takes possession of Uncle; the boys have seen
them together twice, In a motor-car. It's all through
Brauws that I never see anything of either of you
. . . I suppose he's been to dinner, too?"
" Once."
zo8
THE LATER LIFE 109
" I'm jealous, Auntie, Why should he come
when you don't ask me? Doesn't Mr. Van Vrees-
wljck ever come now either? If you're angry with
me, I'll be an angel in the future, I'll never invite
myself again. But do invite me again, yourself! "
" But, you silly child, I'm not angry."
" Yes, you are; you're cross with me. You're not
the same. You're different towards me. I feel it.
I see it."
" But, Marianne . . ."
"Aren't you? Am I wrong? . . . Tell me that
you're not cross with me."
She knelt down by Constance, caressingly.
"Marianne, what a baby you are! ... I am
not cross: there! "
" Say it once more, like a darling."
"I — am — not — cross. There : are you satis-
fied?"
" Yes, I believe you now. And when am I com-
ing to dinner? "
" You little tyrant! "
" I daren't ask myself again."
" What do you like so much in our dinners? "
" They're just what I do like. The other night,
when I was so bored at the Court ball, I thought,
' So long as Auntie asks me again soon, I don't mind
anything! ' "
" Rubbish! I don't believe a word of it! "
" It's quite true."
no THE LATER LIFE
" Well, will you come one evening . . . with
Brauws and Van Vreeswijck? Then I'll ask Uncle
Gerrit and Aunt Adeline too."
" Rather! That will be lovely. When?"
"I'll write and let you know; don't be so impa-
tient."
" Now you are a darling! "
She hugged her aunt:
" You're looking so nice to-day, Auntie. So
pretty. You are really. I say, how old are you? "
"You silly child, what does it matter?"
" I want to know. Wait, I can work it out.
Mamma said there was eight years between you.
Mamma is fifty. So you must be forty-two."
" Very nearly forty-three. That's old, isn't it? "
" Old? I don't know. For some women. Not
for you. You're young. And how young Uncle
looks, doesn't he? Why, Addie is more sedate than
Uncle ! . . . You don't look forty-two, you look ten
years less than that. Auntie, isn't it strange how
the years go by? I ... I feel old. One year
comes after another; and it all makes me miserable
. . . Auntie, tell me, what makes me so fond of
you? . . . Sometimes . . . sometimes I feel as if
I could cry when I am here ..."
" Do I make you so sad? "
" No, not that. But, when I'm with you, I don't
know why, I'm always thinking . . . even when I'm
chattering ... I feel happy in your house, Auntie.
THE LATER LIFE iii
Look, here are the tears! . . . But you . . . you
have tears in your eyes also. Yes, you have, you
can't deny it. Tell me, Auntie, what is it? "
" Why, Marianne, it's nothing . . . but you talk
such nonsense sometimes . . . and that upsets me;
and, when I see other people crying, it makes the
tears come into my eyes too."
" Uncle isn't always nice to you, is he, Auntie? "
"My dear Marianne! . . ."
" No, I know he isn't. Do let me talk about it.
It's so horrid, when you're very fond of some one,
always to be silent about the things you're thinking
of. Let me talk about it. I know that Uncle is
not always nice. I told him the other day . . ."
"What?"
" You'll be angry when you hear. I told him
the other day that he must be nicer to you. Are
you angry? "
" No, dear, but . . ."
" No, you mustn't be angry: I meant to say the
right thing. I can't bear to think of your not being
happy together. Do try and be happy together."
" But, Marianne dear, it's years now . . ."
" Yes, but it must be altered. Auntie, it must be
altered. It would make me so awfully happy."
*' Oh, Marianne, Pylarianne, how excitable you
are! . . ."
*' Because I feel for people when I'm fond of
them. There are people who never feel and others
112 THE LATER LIFE
who never speak out. I feel . . . and I say what
I think. I'm like that. Mamma's different: she
never speaks out. I must speak out; I should choke
if I didn't. I should like to say everything, always.
When I'm miserable, I want to say so; when I feel
happy, I want to say so. But it's not always possi-
ble, Auntie . . . Auntie, do try and be happy with
Uncle. He is so nice, he is so kind; and you were
very fond of him once. It's a very long time
ago, I know; but you must begin and grow fond of
each other again. Tell me, can't you love him any
more? "
" Dear . . ."
" Oh, I see it all: you can't I No, you can't love
him any more. And Uncle is so nice, so kind . . .
even though he is so quick-tempered and excitable.
He's so young still : he's just like a hot-headed under-
graduate sometimes, Henri said. In that scene with
Papa, he was just like a game-cock . . . You know,
in the family, the uncles are afraid of Uncle Henri,
because he always wants to be fighting duels. But
that's his quick temper; in reality, he's nice, he's
kind. I know it. Auntie, because, when Uncle sees
me home, we talk about all sorts of things, tell each
other everything. You don't mind, Auntie, do you?
You're not jealous?"
" No, dear."
" No, you're not jealous. And Uncle Henri is
my uncle too, isn't he, and there's no harm in talking
THE LATER LIFE 113
to him? He talks so nicely: time seems to fly when
Uncle's talking . . . Tell me, Auntie, Brauws: is
Brauws really a gentleman? He has been a work-
man."
" Yes, but that was because he wanted to."
"I don't understand those queer men, do you?
No, you don't either, you can't understand such a
queer man any more than I can. Just Imagine . . .
Uncle Henri as a labouring man! Can you imagine
it? No, no, not possibly! He speaks well,
Brauws; and I raved about Peace for a whole even-
ing ..."
"And since?"
" No. I don't rave over things long. Raving
isn't the same as feeling. When I really feel . . ."
"Well?"
*' Then — I think — it is for always. For al-
ways."
" But, Marianne, darling, you mustn't be so senti-
mental! . . ."
"Well, what about you? You're crying
again . . ."
" No, Marianne."
" Yes, you're crying. Let's cry together. Auntie.
I feel as if I want to cry with you ; I'm in that sort of
mood, I don't know why. There, see, I mn cry-
ing! . . ."
She knelt down by Constance; and her tears really
came.
114 THE LATER LIFE
" Dear, you mustn't excite yourself like that.
Some one Is coming; I hear Uncle . . ."
The girl recovered herself quickly as Van der
Welcke entered the room. He stood for a moment
in the doorway, smiling his gay, boyish smile, his
blue eyes glowing with happiness. She looked at
him for a second.
" Well, Marianne ... I haven't seen you for
ever so long . . ."
" Yes, you're always In that old car with
Brauws. . . . And I've been an absolute butterfly.
Only think, at the Court ball, the other night, just
as the Queen entered the ball-room . . ."
She sat down and told her little budget of news In
a voice that seemed to come from far away. The
dusk crept in and shadowed the room, obliterating
their outlines and the expression of their faces.
CHAPTER XV
*' Isn't she coming? " asked Adolphine, with a side-
long glance at the door.
It was Sunday evening, at Mamma van Lowe's,
and it was after half-past nine. It had been like
that every Sunday evening since Constance returned
from Nice: the sidelong, almost anxious look
towards the door; the almost anxious question:
" Is she coming? "
" I shouldn't be surprised if she did to-night," said
Floortje. " If so, she's coming late, so as not to
stay long."
Mother and daughter were sitting at the bridge-
table with Uncle Ruyvenaer and Jaap; and the cards
fell slackly one upon the other, uninterestingly, with
a dull flop; and Floortje gathered in the tricks
mechanically, silently and greedily.
" What a frump Cateau looks to-night ! " said
Adolphine, with a furtive glance at the second card-
table.
" Like a washerwoman in satin," said Floortje.
" I say," said Uncle Ruyvenaer, burning to say
something spiteful : he was losing, couldn't get a
hand, kept throwing his low cards, furiously, one
after the other, on Floortje's fat trumps. " I say,
it's high time Bertha interfered ! "
115
ii6 THE LATER LIFE
*' Why, what are you talking about? "
"What am I talking about? What everybody's
talking about: that Marianne is running after Van
der Welcke in the most barefaced fashion."
" Aunt Bertha had better be very careful, with
such a rotten cad as Uncle van der Welcke," Floortje
opined.
" I passed them the other evening on the Koningin-
negracht," said Jaap.
" And what were they doing? "
"How were they walking?"
" They had hold of each other."
"How?"
" Well, he had his arm around her waist."
" Did you see it? "
*' Did I see it? And he kept on spooning her all
the time."
" And Bertha," said Adolphine, " who just acts as
If she saw nothing . . . Good heavens, what a frump
Cateau looks to-night ! . . . She doesn't seem to be
coming, does she? "
" No, she doesn't seem to be coming now."
" How does Mamma take it, her staying away? "
" Mamma seems to get on without her," answered
Uncle Ruyvenaer.
" Mamma can't really be fond of her."
" Or else Granny would insist on her coming," said
Floortje.
" It's much quieter, now that she's staying away."
THE LATER LIFE 117
" Well, I don't mind a bit of a kick-up," said Jaap.
" Have you had to-day's Dwarskijker, Jaap? "
" Yes, but they've stopped putting in anything
about us."
" It's really a piece of cheek on her part, not to
come any more on Sundays . . ."
" And to go rushing off to Nice . . ."
" And not even arrange to be back on New Year's
Eve."
" Yes; and then we hear about ' longing for the
family.' "
" And even on New Year's Eve . . ."
" She takes good care to keep away."
" Yes," said Adolphine sentimentally, " on New
Year's Eve we ought all to be here."
" Just so," said Uncle Ruyvenaer. " I agree."
" Then, if you've had a quarrel
" You make it up again .
*' And start quarrelling again, with renewed cour-
age, on the first of January," grinned Jaap.
" But — I've always said so — what Constance
has not got is ... a heart," Adolphine continued,
pathetically.
" Do you know what I think? " said Floortje, sink-
ing her voice.
"What?"
" That she encourages Marianne."
"What for?"
" Well, deliberately."
• • •
ii8 THE LATER LIFE
**But what for?"
*' Why, to be free of her husband."
"Of VanderWelcke?"
" Yes."
" To get . . . rid of him? "
" Of course. He's young . . . and she's old,"
said Floortje, not sparing her mother, who was only
four years younger than Constance.
" But do you believe ... ? " said Uncle, nodding
his head.
" Oh, no, I don't say that I "
" But still ..."
" I expect it's only just spooning ... as Jaap
says."
" I don^t think! " said Jaap, with a knowing grin.
" Behave yourself, Jaap ! " said Adolphine, angry
because Floortje had used the word " old."
" Rats ! " said Jaap, rudely, shrugging his shoul-
ders, as much as to say that Mamma was an idiot.
" I'll eat my hat if it's only spooning."
They looked at one another: Uncle, Adolphine
and Floortje.
" You mustn't speak like that," said Adol-
phine, in a tone of reprimand, " when you don't
know . . ."
" And what does Floortje know and what do you
know? And you are both just as bad as I am, with
your insinuations. . . . Only, I say what you and
Floortje think . . ."
THE LATER LIFE 119
He flung down his cards and left his seat, because
he couldn't stand being treated like a little boy who
didn't know things.
The three others went on talking about Marianne
and Van der Welcke . . . because they saw. But
they saw nothing of Brauws and Constance . . .
and did not talk about them . . .
" Oh, dear! " whined Cateau. " What a frump
Aunt Adolph-ine looks to-night 1 "
She was sitting at the bridge-table with Aunt
Ruyvenaer, Toetie and Eduard van Raven and
looked over her ample bust at each card as she played
it, very carefully, putting It down with her fat, stumpy
fingers, the incarnation of unctuous caution,
" To-night? " asked Eduard.
*' Oh, so oft-en : such a frump ! " declared Cateau,
emphatically. "Sodowd-yl"
'* She's your husband's sister, after all," said Aunt
Ruyvenaer, quietly.
" Yes, Aunt-Ie, I know . . . But Ka-rel Is al-ways
a gen-tlemani "
" And Aunt Adolphine never," replied Van Raven,
to provoke her.
There was no love lost between aunt and nephew;
and Cateau said, meekly:
" Well, I'm not say-ing it to say any-thing un-kind
about Adolph-ine . . . But, Van Ra-ven, how ill
Emille-tje's looking: so tired! Are you two all
right to-gether? "
120 THE LATER LIFE
" Say, half right," said Van Raven, echoing her
emphasis.
Toetie tittered behind her cards; and Auntie said:
^'' Ajo,^ Edua-r-r-rd, you! . . . Attend to the
game . . . Your lead!"
Cateau was no match for Van Raven at laconic
repartee and so she preferred to go on talking about
Constance and said:
" Is she nev-er com-ing to Mo-ther's Sun-days
again? Ah, I ex-pect she's been fright-ened away! "
"By you?" asked Eduard, gleefully capturing
Cateau's knave of trumps.
" No, by the old aunts. It was re-ally ve-ry tact-
less ... of the two old aunts . . . Isn't it aw-ful :
about Mari-anne and Van der Wel-cke? "
Karel, Van Saetzema and Dijkerhof were playing
three-handed bridge at the third table. They had
begun in grim silence, each of them eager to play the
dummy, and inwardly Karel thought his sister
Adolphine dowdy. Van Saetzema thought his sister-
in-law Cateau dowdy, while Dijkerhof thought both
his aunts very dowdy, hardly presentable. All
three, however, kept their thoughts locked up in the
innermost recesses of their souls, so that outwardly
they were playing very seriously, their eyes fixed
greedily and attentively on the dummy's exposed
cards. Suddenly, however, Karel said:
1 Malay: " Corae on, now then."
THE LATER LIFE 121
" I say . . ."
" Well? " asked Van Saetzema.
" Isn't It caddish of Van der Welcke?'*
"What? Compromising Marianne? "
" Ah, those girls of Aunt Bertha's! " said Dijker-
hof, with a grin.
" What do you mean? " asked his father-in-law.
" Well, Louise is in love with her brother Otto,
Emilie with her brother Henri and now Marianne,
by way of variety, goes falling in love with her uncle."
" They're crazy, all that Van Naghel lot," said
Karel, who felt particularly fit and well that even-
ing, puffing luxuriously after a substantial dinner.
"I say, what about Constance? Isn't she coming
any more? "
" It doesn't look like it."
" Isn't Aunt Constance coming any more? "
" No, it doesn't look like it."
" Father, it's my turn to take dummy."
" Yes, Saetzema, it's Dijkerhof's turn."
Father-in-law and son-in-law exchanged seats.
The old aunts were sitting in a corner near the
door of the conservatory:
" Rine."
" Yes, Tine."
" She doesn't seem to be coming any more on Sun-
days."
" No, Tine, she doesn't come on Sundays now."
122 THE LATER LIFE
" A good thing too ! " Tine yelled into Rine's ear.
Mamma van Lowe, smiling sadly, moved from
table to table, with Dorine, asking the children if
they wouldn't like something to drink.
CHAPTER XVI
" You're absolutely humanizing Brauws," said Van
der Welcke to Constance, when Brauws had accepted
a second invitation to dinner. " And with other
people coming, too I . . . It's incredible ! "
She was fond of seeing people whom she liked at
her table; and she took a pleasure in making her
house comfortable for others as well as for herself.
Addie was to come down to dinner. Adeline was
going out for the first time after her recent confine-
ment; and Gerrit was glad to come, appreciated a
good dinner. Her only fear had been that Van
Vreeswijck would think it too much of a family din-
ner this time.
*' Tell me frankly, would you rather not come? "
she asked Van Vreeswijck.
But he almost flushed as he said:
*' But I'm delighted to come, mevrouw."
She had noticed lately that he was paying great
attention to Marianne; and she was almost glad of It.
They were very gay at dinner; and Brauws, feel-
ing quite at home, talked about America : how he had
stood on the platform of an electric tram, in wind
and rain, as driver.
" Constance," said Paul, " all the social elements
123
124 THE LATER LIFE
are assembled at your dinner-table to-night! Did
you choose them on purpose? Van Vreeswijck
represents the Court aristocracy; your husband, let us
say, the country aristocracy: it's the only word I can
find for him; Gerrit the army; Brauws labour; I the
middle-classes, the pure unadulterated capitalists; and
your boy the future, the mysterious future ! The
ladies are not so mixed : next time, you must mix your
ladies . . ."
" Mr. Brauws," Marianne asked, suddenly, " why
aren't you driving a tram now? "
" Freule,^ to explain that, I should have to talk to
you for two hours about myself; and you wouldn't be
interested in the explanation . . ."
" Oh, yes! " said Marianne, flippantly. " If you
had remained a tram-driver, your life would not have
interested me. Now that you have resigned your
rank as a workman and are eating pate and drinking
champagne with us, it does interest me. For it's
just that evolution which attracts me . . ."
" Marianne ! " said Paul, admonishing her.
" Not so fast, child: you're only a little girl and you
mustn't discuss such questions. You'll be making
Mr. Brauws afraid to take another mouthful! . . ."
Brauws was obviously a little annoyed; and Con-
stance whispered:
" Marianne . . . don't talk like that . . ."
" But, Auntie . . ."
^The title borne by the unmarried daughters of Dutch noblemen.
THE LATER LIFE 125
" No, dear, don't do It: don't talk like that . . ."
*' Am I always saying tactless things? "
** No, no, but ... if you keep on, you'll really
make Brauws refuse to come to the houses of people
like ourselves . . ."
" Who eat pdte! "
" Hush, Marianne ! "
*' Uncle ! " said Marianne to Van der Welcke.
"Yes?"
" Don't you think It silly? To become a work-
man and then leave off? Why? That's what I
want to know. If you want to become one, you
should remain one ! Are you In sympathy with those
ideas which lead to nothing? "
" I'm very fond of Brauws, Marianne."
" But not of his ideas? "
" No, he's a monomaniac. He's mad on that
point, or was."
" Just so; was."
"Marianne, are you always so implacable?"
The bells:
"No, I'm not Implacable. Paul is really right:
I mustn't talk like that. I blurt out the first thing
that comes into my head. Is Brauws angry, do you
think?"
"With you? No."
" I say, Uncle, do you think It's the least use, al-
ways thinking about that improvement of social con-
ditions? Why not, all of us, do good where we can
126 THE LATER LIFE
and, for the rest, try and be happy ourselves?
That's the great thing."
Van der Welcke laughed :
" What an easy solution, Marianne ! "
" Tell me, Uncle: do you do a lot of good? "
" No."
" Are you happy?"
" Sometimes . . ."
" Not always ... I don't do any good either, or
not much. I am happy . . . sometimes. You see,
I don't go very far, even according to my own super-
ficial creed. Uncle, are we very insignificant, should
you say? "
"Who, baby?"
" You and I ! Much more insignificant than
Brauws? "
" I think so."
"Are we small?"
"Small?"
" Yes, are we small souls . . . and is he ... is
he a big one? "
" Perhaps, Marianne."
" Yes, I'm a small one. And you too ... I
think. He's not. No, he's one of the big ones . . .
though he Is eating pate just now. But I, a small
soul, shall always like small souls best. I like you
much better than him."
" And yet he is more interesting than I; and one
doesn't come across many big souls."
THE LATER LIFE 127
" No, but I like you best. I daren't talk to him
again. I should start quarrelling with him at once.
Straight away. I could never quarrel with you.
That's the sympathy between small soul . . . and
small soul. Tell me, is your insignificance attracted
to mine also? "
" Perhaps, Marianne."
" You say perhaps to everything. Say yes."
" Well, then, yes."
"Are we both small? "
" Yes."
"Both of us?"
" Yes."
" In sympathy? "
" Yes."
The bells:
"Yes — yes — yes!" she laughed; and the little
bells tinkled merrily, the shrill Httle silver bells.
" Uncle, I drink to it."
"To what?"
" To our small . . . sympathy."
"Here goes!"
Their champagne-glasses touched, with a crystal
note. They drank.
"What are you drinking to?" asked Paul.
She put her finger to her tiny mouth. She was
radiant and, in her excitement, she became very
pretty, with her shining eyes. She felt that Brauws
was looking at her; and she felt that Brauws was still
128 THE LATER LIFE
angry. And, feeling mischievous and happy, with a
desire to tease them all, Brauws, Paul and Van der
Welcke, she murmured, with an airy grace :
" That's our secret; Uncle's and mine . . ."
" A secret? " asked Van Vreeswijck.
She laughed. The bells rang out merrily:
" And you," she said to Van Vreeswijck, ma-
liciously, " you sha'n't know the secret ever ! . . ."
CHAPTER XVII
The men remained behind to smoke ; Constance went
to the drawing-room with Adeline and Marianne.
" You're looking so happy to-night, Aunt Con-
stance," said Marianne. " Don't you think so, Aunt
AdeHne? Tell me why."
The girl herself looked happy, radiant as though
with visible rays, a great light flashing from her
sparkling eyes.
" Yes, Auntie's looking very well," said the simple
little fair-haired woman.
" That's because I think it so nice to have all of
you with me."
Marianne knelt down beside her, in her caressing
way:
" She is so nice, isn't she. Aunt Adeline? I say,
Aunt Adeline, isn't she a darling? So nice, so jolly,
so homy. I adore Aunt Constance these days."
And she embraced Constance impetuously.
*' Yes, Constance," said Adeline, " I'm very fond
of you too."
And she took her sister-in-law's hand. She was a
very gentle, simple, fair-haired little woman, the
quiet, obedient little wife of her big, noisy Gerrit;
and the family thought her insignificant and boring.
Because Constance had at once sought her affection
129
I30 THE LATER LIFE
and valued her affection, she had, after her first sur-
prise, grown very fond of Constance. She never
went out in the evening, because of the children, ex-
cept when Constance invited her. And she sat there,
happy to be with Constance, with her gentle smile on
her round, fair, motherly little face, pleasant and
comfortable with her matronly little figure, now too
plump for prettiness.
The men joined them; and, when Constance saw
Brauws come In with the others, she thought that he
looked strange, pale under the rough bronze of his
cheeks. His deep, grey eyes seemed to lose them-
selves in their own sombre depths; and for the first
time she examined his features in detail: they were
somewhat irregular in outline, with the short-cropped
hair; his nose was large and straight and the heavy
eyebrows arched sombrely over the sombre eyes; his
temples were broad and level; his cheekbones
wide; and all that part of his face was energetic, in-
telligent, rough and sombre, a little Gothic and bar-
barian, but yet curiously ascetic, with the asceticism
of the thinker. But the mouth might have belonged
to quite another face : almost weak, more finely and
purely drawn than any of his other features; the lips
fresh, without any heavy sensuality; the white teeth
seemed to hold a laughing threat as though they
would bite: a threat that gave him the look of a
beast of prey. And yet that mouth, the moustache
and the chin had something more delicate about them,
THE LATER LIFE 131
as though they belonged to another face; his voice
was gentle; and his laugh, which every now and then
burst out naturally and clearly, was charming, had a
note of kindliness, which softened all that was rough
and threatening into something surprisingly lovable.
In his vigorous, broad, powerful movements he had
retained an almost unceremonious freedom, which
most certainly remained to him from his workman
years: an indifference to the chair in which he sat, to
the mantelpiece against which he leant; an indifference
which seemed a strong and virile, easy and natural
grace in the man of culture whose hands had la-
boured: something original and almost impulsive,
which, when it did not charm, was bound to appear
antipathetic, rude and rough to any one who was ex-
pecting the manners prescribed by social convention
for a gentleman In a drawing-room. Constance was
sometimes surprised that she, of all women, was not
offended by this unceremonious freedom, that she was
even attracted by it; but a nervous girl like Marianne
— herself a delicate, fragile little doll of boudoir
culture — would tingle to her finger-tips with irri-
tation at that Impulsive naturalness, which was too
spacious for her among the furniture of Aunt Con-
stance' drawing-room. And a sort of uncontrol-
lable resentment surged through her when Brauws
came to where she sat and said:
" Do you always . . . take such an interest in
evolution, freule? "
132 THE LATER LIFE
She looked up at him quickly. He was bending
forward a little, in a protecting and almost mocking
attitude; and she saw only the barbaric, Teutonic
part of his head and the beast-of-prey threat of his
handsome teeth. She hated it all, because it was
very strong and as it were hostile to her caste. She
answered, with cool irony :
" No, Mr. Brauws, only in your case."
"And to what do I owe the honour?" asked
Brauws.
" It's only natural. You were not like every-
body . . . once. Now that I am meeting you just
as I meet everybody, it interests me to know how it
came about."
" From weakness, you think? Is that your secret
idea?"
" Perhaps."
" Perhaps you are right. And, if it were so,
would you despise me? "
The conversation was getting on her nerves. She
tried to evade it:
" You may be weak, you may be strong," she said,
irritably. " I don't know . . . and ... it doesn't
interest me so very much."
" It did just now."
Again she looked up quickly, with the quick,
nervous grace of all her movements, and it flashed
upon her that he was very angry with her, very hos-
tile towards her.
THE LATER LIFE 133
" Aunt Constance! " she called. " Do come and
help me. Mr. Brauws isn't at all nice."
Constance came up.
" He's not nice, your friend," Marianne went
on, like a spoilt child, a little frightened. " He
wants ... he absolutely insists on quarrelling with
me. Do take my part ! "
And she suddenly flitted away to another chair
and, bending behind her fan to Van der Welcke :
" That Brauws man is a most disagreeable per-
son. Why can't he let me alone? "
She felt safe with him, this man of her own class,
who joined hands with her own selfish, happiness-
craving youth — for he was young — a small soul,
like hers. Her small soul hung on his eyes; and she
felt that she loved him. As long as she did not think
about it and abandoned herself to her overflowing
happiness, she remained happy, full of radiance; it
was only at home that it cost her tears and bitter
agony.
" You're surely not angry with my little niece? "
asked Constance.
He was still pale, under the rough bronze of his
cheeks.
" Yes," he said, sombrely.
"Why?" she asked, almost beseechingly. "She
is a child!"
" No, she is not merely a child. She represents
to me . . ."
134 THE LATER LIFE
"What? . . ."
" All of you ! " he said, roughly, with a wave of
his hand.
" Whom do you mean? "
" Her caste, to which you yourself belong.
What am I here for? Tell me what I am here for.
A single word from that delicate, lily-white child,
who hates me, has made me ask myself, what am I
here for, among all of you? I'm out of place here."
" No. You are our friend, Henri's friend."
"And yours?"
" And mine."
"Already?"
" Already. So don't think that you are out of
place here."
" You also are a woman ... of your caste," he
said, gloomily.
" Can I help that? " she asked, half laughing.
"No. But why friendship? Our ideas remain
poles apart."
" Ideas? I have none. I have never thought."
" Never thought?"
" No."
" You are a woman : you have only felt."
" Not that either."
" Not felt? But then what have you done? "
" I do not believe that I have lived."
"Not ever?"
" No, not ever."
THE LATER LIFE 135
" How do you know that now? "
" I am beginning to feel it now, by degrees. No
doubt because I am getting old now."
" You are not old."
" I am old."
" And thinking: are you also beginning to think? "
" No, not yet."
" But, by the way you speak of yourself, you are
quite young! "
" Don't be angry with that child! " she entreated,
turning the conversation. " She is a nice girl, I am
very fond of her . . . but she sometimes says
things . . ."
''Do you like her?"
" Yes."
" I don't. I could almost say, I hate her as she
hates me."
"Why?" she asked, in a frightened voice.
" You don't know her. You can't hate her."
" I am different from other people, am I not,
mevrouw? I say different things and I say them
differently. You know it, you knew it before I en-
tered your house! " he said, almost fiercely.
" What do you mean? "
" I want to say something to you."
"What Is it?"
"That child . . . that delicate, that lily-white
child . . . is . . ."
"What?"
136 THE LATER LIFE
" The danger to your domestic happiness."
She gave a violent start :
" What do you mean? "
*' She's In love with Hans."
" Hush! " she whispered, trembling, and laid her
hand on his hand. " Hushl "
" She is in love with Hans."
" How do you know? "
" I see it . . . It radiates from their whole be-
mg . . . '
They both of them looked at Van der Welcke and
Marianne. The two were whispering together with
a glance and a smile, half-hidden behind a fan, while
Paul, Gerrit and Van Vreeswijck were in the midst
of an eager discussion and Addle gallantly entertain-
ing Aunt Adeline, who was smiling gently.
*' Please hushl " Constance entreated again, very
pale. " I know she's in love with him."
"You know it?"
" Yes."
*' Has she told you?"
" No. But I see it radiating out of her, as you see
it. But she is no danger ... to my domestic hap-
piness. That happiness lies in my son, not in my
husband."
" I like Hans," he said, almost reproachfully. " I
have always liked him, perhaps just because he was
always a child — and I already a man — when we
were boys. He is still a child. He also . . . loves
THE LATER LIFE 137
her. You see, I say different things from other peo-
ple, because I don't know how to talk . . ."
" I know," she whispered, " that he loves her."
"You know?"
" Yes."
"Has he told you?"
" No. But I see It radiating out of him as I do
out of her."
" So do L"
" Hush, please hush ! "
"What's the use of hushing? Everybody sees
it."
" No, not everybody."
" If we see It, everybody sees it."
" No."
" I say yes. I know that your brothers see it."
" No . . . Please, please . . . don't speak of It,
don't speak of It, don't speak of it! "
"She is happy!"
" She must be suffering as well."
" But she gives herself up to her happiness. She
is young, she does not reflect . . . any more than
Hans does. I am sorry . . . for your sake.
mevrouw."
" It is no sorrow to me for my own sake ... I
am sorry . . . for hers. Don't be angry with the
child I Who knows what she suffers ! Don't be
angry because she . . . annoyed you at dinner, with
her questions."
138 THE LATER LIFE
" One can't control one's likes ... or one's dis-
likes."
" No. But I do like the girl . . . and I want
you to try, as our friend, not to hate her . . . How
seriously we're talking! I can't talk like that: I'm
not used to it. I confess to you honestly, I'm getting
frightened . . ."
"Of me? . . ."
" You're too big ... to hate a child like that."
*' I'm not big at all ... I am very human. I
sometimes feel very small. But you are right: to
hate that child, for a single word which she said, for
a touch of hostility which I felt in her, is very small.
Thanks for the rebuke. I won't hate her, I promise
you."
At first, the sombre austerity of his frown and his
expression had almost terrified her. She now saw
his lips laugh and his face light up.
" I'm going to apologize."
" No, don't do that."
" Yes, I will."
He went to Marianne; and Constance heard him
say:
" Freule, I want to make friends."
She did not catch what Marianne answered, but
she heard the little bells of Marianne's laughter and
saw her put out her hand to Brauws. It was a
reconciliation; and yet she felt that the hostility con-
tinued to exist, Irreconcilably, like a hostility that was
THE LATER LIFE 139
too deep-seated, going down to the fundamental an-
tagonism of caste, even though this was innate in her
and cultivated in him . . .
" And why," she thought, " do not /feel that hos-
tility? . . ."
CHAPTER XVIII
There was a big official dinner at Van Naghel's;
and the guests were expected in three-quarters of
an hour.
" Mamma," whined Huigje to Frances, as she was
dressing, " what's happening? "
" There are people coming," said Frances, without
looking up.
" What sort of people. Mamma? "
" Oh, there's a dinner-party, dearl " said Frances,
irritably.
Huigje did not know what a dinner-party was:
" What's dinner-party? " he asked his httle sister
Ottelientje.
" Things to eat," said Ottelientje, importantly.
"Things to eat?"
" Yes, nice things . . . ices."
" Shall we have dinner-party. Mamma, and ices? "
whined Huigje.
" Jllah,^ haboe,^ keep the sinjo ^ with you ! . . .
But, baboe, do me up first."
Otto, who now had a billet at the Foreign Office,
came in, followed by Louise.
" Oh, aren't you dressing, Louise? " said Frances.
" No, I'm not going down," she answered. " I
1 Lord ! Heavens ! ^ Nurse, ayah. ^ The young master.
140
THE LATER LIFE 141
shall have my meal with the children and with
Marietje and Karel, in the nursery."
" I don't want you to have your dinner with the
children," said Frances, fastening her bracelet.
" No," said Louise, gently, " but I'm having din-
ner with Karel and Marie in any case."
*' One would think you were mad," said Frances.
" Why aren't you at the dinner? "
" I arranged it with Mamma. There's a place
short."
" But you're not a child! "
" Frances, what do I care about these dinners? "
said Louise, with a gentle little laugh.
" If there's a place short," said Frances, working
herself up about nothing, " I'll have my dinner with
the children."
*' Frances, please . . ."
"I will!"
" But, Frances, why make difficulties when there
are none?" Louise replied, very gently. " Really,
it has all been arranged . . . with Mamma."
" I'm only a step-daughter ! " cried Frances.
" You mean, a daughter-in-law! " Otto put in, with
a laugh.
" A step-daughter ! " Frances repeated, trembling
with nervous irritation. " You're a daughter.
Your place is at the dinner."
" Frances, I assure you, I'm not going in to din-
ner," said Louise, quietly but decidedly.
142 THE LATER LIFE
" Oh, shut up, Frances I " said Otto.
But Frances wanted to get angry, about nothing,
merely for the sake of working herself up. She
scolded the hahoe, pushed the children out of her
way, broke a fan:
" There, I've smashed the rotten thing! "
" Is that your new fan? " asked Otto, furiously.
"Yes. R-r-rootsh! . . . There, it's in shreds ! "
He flew into a rage :
" You needn't think I'll ever give you anything
again ! . . . You're not worth it ! "
" That's right, then you can give everything to
your sister: you're fonder of Louise as it is . . .
you're In love with Louise. R-r-rootsh! . . .
R-r-rootsh ! "
And she sent the fan flying across the room, in
pieces.
" Eh, njonjaf " ^ said the baboe in mild astonish-
ment.
" You're a regular nonna,^ that's what you are ! "
said Otto, flushing angrily.
But his wife laughed. The broken fan had re-
lieved her, made her feel livelier:
" Give me that other fan, baboe."
She was ready. She looked at her face in the
glass, added a touch of powder and smiled. She
thought that she looked nice, though she was a little
1 Mem-sahib. ^ Half-caste.
THE LATER LIFE 143
pale and thin. Suddenly, she sat down, straight up
in a chair:
" I feel so faint! " she murmured.
Louise went to her:
"What's the matter, Frances?"
" I feel so faint 1 " she said, almost inaudibly.
She was as white as a sheet.
*' Give me some eau-de-Cologne . . ."
" What's the matter with you now? " cried Otto,
in despair.
''^ Baboe,^^ said Louise, "get some vinegar; me-
vrouw's fainting."
" No," moaned Frances, " vinegar . . . stains
. . . one's . . . things . . . Mind . . . my . . .
dress. Eau . . . de . . . Cologne."
Louise dabbed her forehead.
"Don't ruffle my hair!" screamed Frances.
Oh dear, oh dear! " she moaned, the next second.
She rested her head against Louise:
"Louise!"
" What is it, Frances? "
" I haven't been nice to you . . . I'm going to
die."
" No, no, you're not."
"Yes, I am . . . Huigje! Ottelientje! Mam-
ma's going to die."
Otto took the children out of the room.
" Leave them with me ! " she moaned. " I'm
dying! . . ,"
144 THE LATER LIFE
" No, Frances. But won't you He down a little?
Take off your things? Lie down on your bed? "
" No ... no ... Lm a little better ... I
must go down . . ."
" Are you feeling better? "
" Yes . . . Give me some . . . eau-de-Cologne . . .
Oh, Louise, everything suddenly went black! . . ."
" You felt giddy, I expect. Did you take your
drops to-day? "
" Yes, but they're no good, those drops. I'm
much better now, Louise. Are you angry with
me? ..."
" No."
" For saying Otto was in love with you? "
"Oh, nonsense, Frances!"
" Yes, he is in love with you. You're mad, you
two: brother and sister; I never heard of such a
thing . . . I'm better, Louise. Will you help me
downstairs? And will you . . . zui// you have your
dinner with the children? That's sweet of you . . .
You see, the foreign secretary's coming and that's
why Papa wants Otto and me to be at the dinner.
Otherwise I don't care about that sort of thing . . .
I'm much better now, Louise . . . Come, take me
downstairs."
She stood up and Louise helped her down the
stairs, tenderly.
The maids were running upstairs, downstairs and
along the passages; footmen were waiting in the
THE LATER LIFE 145
hall; the house was one blaze of light. In the
drawing-room, Bertha, already dressed, was speak-
ing to Willem, the butler; the doors were open, show-
ing the long table glittering through its flowers.
"What's the matter with Frances?" asked Ber-
tha, seeing Frances come in slowly, looking very
pale, leaning on Louise's arm.
" I'm better now. Mamma ... I thought I was
dying ..."
At that moment, there was a loud peal at the
front-door bell.
"Who can that be?"
One of the footmen opened the door.
"Who Is it?" asked Bertha, softly, from the
stairs.
"It's I, Mammal"
"Emiliel"
XCd • • • -L • • •
Emilie came up. She had flung down a wet
waterproof in the hall and was very pale; her hair
hung in disorder over her face.
" But, Emilie . . . what's the matter? "
She had flown upstairs precipitately, seeing no-
thing; now she suddenly perceived the rooms, all open
and lit up, with the long table and the flowers; and
she remembered that there was a dinner-party . . .
"I've run away!" she said. "I'm not going
back!"
"Run away!"
146 THE LATER LIFE
" Yes. Eduard struck me . . . and insulted me
. . . Insulted me ... I won't go back home . . .
I shall stay here 1 "
"Emiliel Good heavens 1 "
" Unless you turn me away . . . Then I'll go Into
the streets, I don't know where ... to Leiden . . .
to Henri . . . I'll go to Henri. Understand what
I say, Mamma : I'll never go back to Eduard."
Van Naghel appeared at the door:
"What's happened, EmlHe?"
" Papa, Papa, I've run away . . ."
*' Run away . . ."
" From Eduard. It's a dog's life. He's a miser.
He's always bullying me, reproaching me, saying
that I spend too much money . . . that my parents,
yes, that you . . . that yoii spend too much money I
He's mad with meanness. He locks up my linen-
cupboard . . . because I wear too many chemises
and send too many things to the wash and employ
too expensive a laundress! He grudges me more
than one chemise a week! He's mad , . . he's
gone mad ! For a whole week, I put on three fresh
chemises a day, to annoy him, and I threw all those
chemises into his dirty-clothes-basket, to annoy him 1
He found them this morning! I told him that I
was the mistress of my own chemises and that I
should wear just as many as I pleased. Then he
flew Into a passion and he struck me . . ."
She burst out laughing:
THE LATER LIFE 147
"I flung all my chemises at his head!" she
screamed, hysterically. " And he flung them all
back. The room was one vast chemise! . . . Oh,
it's terrible . . . It's a dog's life. I won't go back
to him . . . Papa, I needn't go back to him, need
I?"
" Emilie, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! "
She threw herself upon her father, crushed her-
self against the orders on his breast:
" Oh, Papa, I am so unhappy ! I can't stand any
more of it: I am so unhappy! "
Marianne came in. She was looking very pretty :
a delicate, fair little society-girl, in her low-necked
white frock. She heard Emilie's last words, saw her
pale, thin, dishevelled:
"Emilietje! . . . Sissy! . . . What is it?" she
exclaimed. " Oh, that horrid man! It's that hor-
rid man ! "
Bertha shut her eyes:
" Emilie," she said, wearily.
" Mamma, don't be angry ... but /'w stay-
ing! "
The bell rang.
"There's the bell, Emilie!" said Van Naghel,
sternly.
" I'm going, Papa . . ."
She looked around her in perplexity, not knowing
which door to go out by.
" Come with me," said Louise, quickly.
148 THE LATER LIFE
And, taking Emilie almost in her arms, she hur-
ried her away.
The first arrivals were coming up the stairs.
Louise and Emilie just managed to escape into a
little boudoir. But the doors were open.
" We can run across the passage presently,"
whispered Louise.
" Just think," whispered Emilie, " he's absolutely
mad! He interferes with the cook's housekeeping-
book. He checks what she spends each day . . .
He's mad; he's mad! He won't eat at meals, so as
to save a bit of meat for next day. And, when we
give a little dinner, nothing's good enough. It's all
for people, all for show : he'd starve, in order to give
his friends champagne! "
"Hush, Emilie!"
They heard the exchange of greetings in the draw-
ing-room; their parents' well-bred, expressionless
voices; Marianne's nervous, tinkling laugh; Otto
and Frances making up to the foreign secretary.
It all sounded false. The bell kept on ringing.
More guests came upstairs, with a rustle of skirts, a
creaking of shoes ...
" We can't get away ! " said Emilie, plaintively,
almost collapsing in Louise's arms.
They succeeded In running upstairs between twO'
rings at the bell. The table was laid in the nursery:
Karel and Marletje were there, playing with Otte-
lientje and Hulg; the haboe sat huddled in a corner.
THE LATER LIFE 149
"I'll have something with you!" said Emilie.
" I'm faint with hunger . . . What a day, good
God, what a day ! "
" We'll get something to eat in between," said
Louise. " Come, Emilie, come to my room."
And, as if they were fleeing again, this time
from the children, she dragged Emilie up to her own
room.
" Emilie, do be sensible! " she implored.
" Louise, I mean what I said, give me a glass of
wine, a biscuit, anything: I'm sinking . . ."
Louise went out and Emilie was left alone. She
looked around the bright, cosy sitting-room, stamped
with the gentle personality of its owner: there were
many books about; the doors of a book-case were
open.
"The dear girl!" thought Emilie, lying back
wearily in a chair. " She lives her own life peace-
fully . . . and, when there's anything wrong, she's
the one who helps. Her life just goes on, the same
thing day after day! She was a girl while we were
still children; and, properly speaking, we never knew
her as we know one another. She's fond of Otto,
just as I'm very fond of Otto . . . but, apart from
that, her life just goes on in the same way . . . She's
always silent . . . She just lives and reads up here
. . . and, if there's anything wrong, she's the one
who helps . . . What have I done, my God, what
have I done! . . . But I won't go back! . .
ji
I50 THE LATER LIFE
Louise returned, with a glass of wine and a few
biscuits.
" We're dining presently," she said. " There,
drink that and be sensible, Emilie. Does Eduard
know you're here?"
" No. He was out when I left. I waited till he
was out . . . Louise, I won't go back! I've tele-
graphed to Henri to help me. I'm expecting him
here."
They heard voices below.
" Listen! " said Louise.
"Who is it?"
" Perhaps it's some one who has come late . . .
But that's impossible ... I hear a noise on the
stairs . . ."
"My God!" cried Emilie. "It's Eduard I
Hide me ! Say you don't know where I am ! "
" I can't do that, Emilie. Keep calm, Emilie, be
sensible. Go to my bedroom, if you like . . ."
Emilie fled. It was a renewed flight, the flutter-
ing of a young bird, a frail butterfly, hither and
thither. Her eyes seemed to be seeking, vaguely
and anxiously. . . . She and Louise had to go down
to the next landing and Emilie managed to escape to
Marianne's room, once the boudoir which they had
shared between them:
" My own little room ! " she sobbed, throwing
herself into a chair.
THE LATER LIFE 151
The gas was half-lowered. Everywhere lay
things of Marianne's; the dressing-table was in dis-
order, as though Marianne had had to dress quickly
and hurriedly for the dinner-party.
" How nice she looked! " sobbed Emille. " My
little sister, my dear little sister I O God, they say
she's in love with Uncle Henri ! "
She sprang up again in nervous restlessness, turned
the gas on, looked round, anxiously, feeling lost, even
in this room :
" His portrait I " she cried. " Uncle Henri's por-
trait!"
She saw Van der Welcke's photograph. True, it
was between Constance' and Addle's; but there was
another on Marianne's writing-table.
" My little sister, my poor little sister! " sobbed
Emilie.
And she dropped limply into another chair, on the
top of a corset and petticoats of Marianne's. She
lay like that, with drooping arms, among her sis-
ter's things. Suddenly she sat up. She heard
voices outside, in the passage: Louise with Eduard,
her husband.
"She's mad, she's mad!" he was snarling.
" She's run away! The servant didn't know where
to. Where is she, where is she? "
" She's here," said Louise, calmly.
"Where?"
152 THE LATER LIFE
" She's resting. But keep calm, Eduard, and
don't let them hear you downstairs. There's a din-
ner-party."
" I don't care ! I insist . . ."
" I insist that you keep quiet and don't make a
scene . . ."
"Where is Emilie?"
" If you're quiet, you can speak to her. If you
shout like that, so that you can be heard downstairs,
I'll send a message to Papa."
Emilie, on tenterhooks, quivering in every nerve,
stood up and opened the door:
" I am here," she said.
She stood in front of her husband. He was no
longer the dapper nonentity; he stood there coarse,
raving, like a clod-hopper:
"You're coming home with me!" he shouted.
" This minute ! "
"Eduard!" Louise entreated. "Don't shout.
C* »>
ome m.
She pushed him Into Marianne's room.
" You're coming home ! " he shouted again.
"Are you coming? Are you coming?"
" No, I'm not," said Emilie.
"You're not?"
" No I I won't go back to you."
" You've got to ! "
" I want a divorce."
" I don't; and you're coming home."
THE LATER LIFE 153
" rm not going home. YouVe struck me . . .
and I'm placing myself under my father's protec-
tion. I don't know the law, but I'm not going to be
struck by you."
" If you don't come . . . I'll make you, I'll
thrash you to the door."
She gave a contemptuous laugh:
" You're not a man," she said. " You're a cow-
ardly brute! "
He raved as though beside himself. He cursed
and foamed at the mouth. Louise stared at him in
dismay; hardly knew him, now that he had lost all
his veneer of manner, all his German, would-be cor-
rect politeness.
" Home you go ! " he roared again, pointing to the
door with his finger.
" I am not going."
He flew at her, seized her by her frail shoulders,
shook her, his mouth distorted by passion, his eyes
starting out of his head, like a madman's. She
writhed herself free, struck him full In the face. He
hit her back.
" Eduardl Emilie! " screamed Louise.
Her anger gave her strength. She threw herself
upon her brother-in-law, strong In her indignation,
pushed him away from his wife.
" Go away! " she cried aloud, clasping Emilie in
her arms. " Go away! Out of the room! "
" I want my wife back! "
154 THE LATER LIFE
Louise calmed herself :
" Eduard," she said, quietly, " leave the room."
" No."
" Once more, Eduard, leave the room, or I'll send
one of the men to Papa. If you want to make a
scandal, very well, do; but you'll be the chief suf-
ferer."
He suddenly remembered the Hague, his ca-
reer . . .
" Go out of the room, Eduard."
" He's hurt me! " moaned Emilie. " I've got a
pain, here . . ."
She lay like a dead thing in her sister's arms.
" Eduard, go out of the room."
" I'll go," he said. " But I shall stay until the
dinner is over . . ."
He went away.
" The wretch I The wretch ! " moaned Emilie.
" He's bruised my breast. Lucky that he did: now
I can get a divorce, can't I, Louise? . . . Louise,
do you know the law? "
" No, my darling, but Papa will tell you all about
it. But keep calm, keep calm . . ."
" Where has he gone? "
" If you don't mind being left alone, I'll go and
oCw • • •
" No, stay with me, stay with me . . ."
There was a knock at the door.
"Who's there?"
THE LATER LIFE 155
An old nurse entered :
" Freule," she said to Louise, " meneer asks if
you'll please not talk so loud up here. Meneer can
hear Mr. van Raven's voice."
" Where is Mr. van Raven now? "
" The blackguard has gone to Mr. Frans and Mr.
Henri's sitting-room."
" Very well, Leentje, we'll make less noise. But
you mustn't talk like that."
" It hurts! " moaned Emilie.
The woman looked at her compassionately:
*' The dirty blackguard ! " she said. " Did he hit
you, my poor dear? . . ."
" Leentje, I won't have you speak like that ! " said
Louise.
" And I'll tell him to his face . . . that he's a
dirty blackguard," the old nurse insisted, obstinately.
She knelt beside Emilie, opened the girl's blouse
and softly rubbed her breast:
" The blackguard! " she repeated.
The sisters let her alone. They were silent, all
three; the room was all In confusion. Emilie had
dropped back again limply among Marianne's
clothes. Leentje got up and began tidying.
*' Louise," whispered Emilie.
" My poor sissy! "
" I see Uncle Henri's portrait there . . . And
there . . . And another over there . . . Mari-
anne's fond of Uncle Henri . . ."
156 THE LATER LIFE
"Yes, but hush!"
" She's fond of him . . . she's In love with him,
Louise."
" Yes, I know. Hush, EmiUe ! "
" Does Mamma know? "
" We don't talk about it. But I think so."
" Does everybody know? "
"No, no, not everybody 1"
" Does Marianne never talk about It? "
" No, never."
" Is there nothing to be done? Aunt Adolphine
and Aunt Cateau were speaking of it the other day.
Everybody knows about it."
"No, no, not everybody, surely?"
" Yes, everybody. And everybody knows too
that Eduard beats me . . . Louise ! "
" Ssh! I hear voices."
"That's . . . Henri!"
" Yes, It's Henri's voice ..."
" And Eduard . . ."
"Heavens! . . . Leentje! " cried Louise. "Go
to Mr. Henri and Mr. Eduard and tell them that
Papa doesn't wish them to speak loud."
" The blackguard! " said Leentje.
She left the room and went down the stairs. The
whole house was lit up, the doors of the reception-
rooms were open; one caught the glitter of the din-
ner-table amid its flowers and the sound of laughing
THE LATER LIFE 157
voices: a soft, well-bred society-ripple, a ring of sil-
ver, a faint tinkling of crystal.
" The blackguard! " thought the old nurse.
She was down in the hall now: from the kitchen
came the voices of bustling maids, of the chef, the
footmen. The cloak-room was lighted and open,
was full of wraps and overcoats. On the other side
of the hall was the sitting-room of the two under-
graduates.
Old Leentje opened the door. She saw Van Ra-
ven standing opposite Henri; their voices clashed,
in bitter enmity:
" Then why did Emilie telegraph to me? "
" I don't know; but our affairs don't concern you."
" Mr. Henri, Mr. Eduard," said the old nurse,
" your papa asks, will you please not speak
loud ..."
" Where is Emilie? " asked Henri.
" The poor dear is in Marianne's room," said
Leentje. " Come with me, my boy . . ."
She took Henri, who was shaking all over, by the
hand. And, as she left the room with Henri, she
said, out loud:
"The blackguard 1"
"Who?" asked Henri.
"He!"
"What has he done?"
" What hasn't he done ! "
158 THE LATER LIFE
She hesitated to tell him, dreading his temper,
went cautiously up the stairs, past the open doors of
the lighted rooms.
Henri caught a glimpse of the dinner-table,
through the flowers, and of three of the guests talk-
ing and laughing, lightly and pleasantly, in their
well-bred, expressionless voices.
And then he found his two sisters in Marianne's
room. As soon as Emilie saw him, she threw her-
self into his arms:
"Henri!"
" Sissy, what Is it?"
She told him, briefly.
" The cad ! " he cried. " The cad ! Has he hit
you? I'll . . . I'll . . ."
He wanted to rush downstairs; they held him
back:
" Henri, for goodness' sake," Louise entreated,
" remember there are people here! "
" Don't you all want your dinner? " asked Karel,
at the door. " We're starving."
They went to the nursery, as it had been called
for years, and sat down to table.
" I'm not hungry now," said Emilie.
" I don't want anything either," said Henri.
" I'm calmer now . . . and I'm going downstairs."
They held him back again. And the time
dragged on. Ottelientje and Huig were put to bed;
Karel went to do his home-work; Marietje hung
M
n
THE LATER LIFE 159
round her elder sisters, Inquisitively. And they
listened, with the doors open, to the sounds below.
" They've finished dinner .
" Yes, I can hear them in the drawing-room
Marianne suddenly came running upstairs, ap-
peared in the doorway, looking very white and
sweet :
" I couldn't bear It any longer! " she exclaimed.
" The dinner's over. I escaped for a moment.
Emille! Sissy! "
" He's here! " said Emille. " Eduard: he's wait-
ing downstairs. He wants to take me home with
him. You must all help me. He struck me! "
" My sissy, my sissy! " cried Marianne, excitedly,
wringing her arms and her hands, kissing Emille.
" Is he downstairs? I'll tell Papa. I daren't stay
any longer. Oh, those tiresome people down there !
It's nearly nine. They'll be gone In an hour. Now
I must go."
And she started to hurry away.
" Marianne! " said Henri.
"What Is It?"
" I want to speak to you presently."
" Very well, presently."
And she flitted down the stairs.
" How pretty she's growing ! " said Henri.
"And I," said Emille, "so ugly!"
She leant against Louise. They heard a rustle
on the stairs. It was Bertha herself:
i6o THE LATER LIFE
"My child!"
"Mamma!"
" I managed to slip away, just for a moment.
My dear child! "
" Eduard is here, Mamma. He's downstairs.
He wants to take me away with him. He Is waiting
till the people are gone. He was shouting so. . . ."
" I heard him."
" We told him to be quiet. I won't go with him,
Mamma. I'll stay with you, I'll stay with you. He
struck me ! "
" The cad! " cried Henri, pale in the face.
" The dirty blackguard! " said the old nurse.
Bertha, very pale, shut her eyes, heaved a deep
sigh:
" My child, my dear child ... be sensible, make
it up."
" But he Is brutal to me. Mamma! "
She flung herself, sobbing. Into Bertha's arms.
"My darling!" Bertha wept. "I can't stay
away any longer."
She released herself, went away; her dress rustled
down the stairs. Her guests were sitting In the
drawing-room; one or two looked at her strangely,
because she had absented herself. In a moment she
was once more the tactful, charming hostess.
Marianne, with a smile on her face, had gone to
Van Naghel's study, where the men were having
their coffee, smoking:
THE LATER LIFE i6i
*'Papa ..."
"What is It, dear?"
*' Eduard is downstairs ! " she whispered. " I
only came to tell you. He wants to take Emille
with him. He has struck her."
" Tell him I'll speak to him ... as soon as our
visitors have gone."
And, as the host, he turned to his guests again.
Marianne went downstairs, found Eduard in the
boys' sitting-room. He was quietly smoking.
" Papa will speak to you as soon as they're all
gone. The carriages will be here in three-quarters
of an hour."
" Very well," he said laconically.
Her blood seethed up :
"You're a cowardly wretch!" she cried.
" You've struck Emille ! "
He flared up, losing all his stiff German society-
manners :
" And I'm her husband! " he roared. " But you
. . . you . . ."
"What about me?"
" You've no decency ! You're In love with your
uncle! With a married man!"
"0-o-oh!" screamed Marianne.
She hid her face with her hands, terrified. Then
she recovered herself, but her pale face flushed red
with shame :
" You don't know what you're saying! " she said,
1 62 THE LATER LIFE
haughtily, trying to withdraw into her maidenly re-
serve. " You don't know what you're saying. But
your manners are only put on, for strangers. And
at heart you're a cowardly cad, a cowardly cad, who
strikes and insults women."
He made an angry movement at her words.
" You're not going to strike me, I suppose? " she
said, drawing herself up haughtily. " You've in-
sulted me : isn't that enough for you ? "
She made an effort to turn away calmly, walked
out of the room, up the stairs. The sobs welled up
in her throat; she could no longer keep them back:
" O God! " she thought. " Everybody knows it.
Everybody sees it. I can't keep it hidden: I love
him, I love him I . . . Hush! Hush! I must sup-
press it, deep, deep down in myself. But, if I love
him, if I love him ... if I am happy when I see
him . . . Oh, hush, hush ! "
She pressed her two hands to her breast, as
though to thrust her emotion deep down in her soul.
She wiped her eyes, had the strength to return to the
drawing-room. She talked gaily and pleasantly, as
the daughter of the house, but she suddenly felt
tired to death:
" Everybody knows it, everybody sees it," she
kept on thinking; and she tried to read in the faces
of the guests what they saw, what they knew.
It was over at last. The butler was continually
coming to the door, announcing the carriages.
THE LATER LIFE 163
Those people would not remain much longer. It
was ten o'clock; and they began to say good-bye.
They followed one after the other, at short inter-
vals, as is proper at big dinner-parties . . . There
was only one of the ministers left, talking earnestly
to Van Naghel, In a low voice, probably about some
government matter: he was not thinking yet of going
. . . But at last he also hastened away, apologi-
zing. And Van Naghel and Bertha, Marianne,
Frances and Otto all listened while he put on his
overcoat downstairs, said a word to the butler . . .
The front-door slammed. They were alone.
They looked at one another . . .
And, as if driven by an irresistible impulse, Van
Naghel went downstairs, to his son-in-law, and Ber-
tha and Marianne upstairs, to Emilie . . .
" Mamma, have you come to me at last? " said
Emilie, plaintively. "Mamma, I shall stay here:
I won't go back . . ."
She was clutching Henri desperately; and Mari-
anne went up to her, comforted her, kissed her.
" Marianne," said Henri, " here, a minute . . ."
He led her out into the passage:
" Marianne," he said, " you don't know how fond
I am of you . . . almost as fond as of Emilie.
Marianne, let me just say this to you: be sensible;
everybody's talking about it . . ."
"Everybody?" she asked, frightened; and she
did not even ask what it was, because she understood.
1 64 THE LATER LIFE
"You even know it yourself then?" he asked,
quickly, to take her by surprise.
She withdrew into the mysterious recesses of her
little soul, which was too transparent, reflected its
radiance too much; she wanted to veil that radiance
from him and from the others:
" What? " she said. " There's nothing to know I
. . . Everybody? Everybody who? Everybody
what? . . ."
" Everybody's talking about it, about Uncle
Henri's making love to you? "
She tried to laugh; and the little silver bells
sounded shrill and false:
" Making love to me? . . . Uncle Henri? . . .
People are mad! "
" You were out with him yesterday ... in a mo-
tor-car."
" And what is there in that? "
" Don't do it again."
"Why not?"
" Everybody's talking about it."
Again she tried to laugh; and the little silver bells
sounded shrill and false :
" Uncle Henri ! " she said. " Why, he might be
my father! "
" You know you don't mean what you say."
"Uncle Henri!"
" He is a young man . . . Marianne, tell mc
that it's not true . . ."
THE LATER LIFE 165
"That he makes love to me? I'm fond of him
. . . just as I'm fond of Aunt Constance."
" That you love him. There, you can't deny it.
You love him."
" I do not love him," she lied.
" Yes, you do, you love him."
" I do not love him."
" Yes, you do."
" Very well, then, I do ! " she said, curtly. " I
love him. What then? "
" Marianne ..."
" I like being with him, like talking to him, cycling
with him, motoring with him: what then? There's
no harm in it; and ... I love Aunt Constance
too."
" Marianne, I've warned you," he said, sadly.
" Be sensible."
" Yes," she answered. " But you be sensible
also."
" How do you mean? "
"Be sensible with Eduard! Control your tem-
per, Henri ! It can only make things worse, if you
don't control your temper."
"I will control myself!" he promised, clench-
ing his fists as he spoke.
"Henri . . ."
" I hate the bounder ... I could murder him,
wring his neck."
" Henri, be quiet, I hear Papa coming."
51
M
1 66 THE LATER LIFE
" Promise me, Marianne, that you will be care-
ful."
" Yes, Henri. And you promise me also, Henri,
that you will be careful."
" I promise you."
She went up to him, put her arms round his neck:
" My brother, my poor brother! "
" My dear little sister, my little sister! "
"Hush, hush! .
"Hush! . . ."
" Here's Papa .
Van Naghel came up the stairs.
And they went with him into the nursery, where
Bertha was waiting with Emilie, Otto and Fran-
ces.
" Eduard has gone now," said Van Naghel,
quietly. " I calmed him down; he Is coming back
to-morrow, to talk things over. You can stay here
to-night, Emilie."
" Papa, I won't go back to him ! "
" No, Emilie," cried Frances, excitedly, " you
can't go back to him ! "
" Be quiet, Frances," said Van Naghel, severely.
And he repeated, " You . . . can . . . stay here,
Emilie . . . to-night . . ."
He suddenly turned purple.
" Tell me what the law is, Papa," Emilie insisted.
"The law?" asked Van Naghel. "The
law? . . ."
THE LATER LIFE 167
And, almost black In the face, he pulled at his
collar.
" Bertha I " he cried, In a hoarse voice.
They were all terrified . . .
He tore open his collar, his tie, his shirt:
" Airl " he implored.
And his eyes started from his head, he staggered,
fell into a chair.
Louise rang the bell. The girls screamed for the
maids, the butler. Henri flew down the stairs to
fetch a doctor.
It was was too late . , .
Van Naghel lay dead, struck down by apoplexy.
CHAPTER XIX
The winter months dragged sadly and monoto-
nously past, with their continual rains and no frost:
even such snow as fell melted at once in the raw,
damp atmosphere. But the wind blew all the time,
kept on blowing from some mysterious cloud-realm,
carrying the clouds with it, violet clouds and grey
clouds, a never-ending succession, which came sail-
ing over the trees in the Woods as though over the
sea. And Constance followed them with her eyes,
vaguely and dreamily, dreaming on and on in an
endless reverie. The clouds sailed everlastingly
on the wind; and the wind blew everlastingly,
like an everlasting storm, not always raging, but al-
ways rustling, sometimes high up above the trees,
sometimes straight through the trees themselves.
Constance remained mostly at home and sat by
her window during those short afternoons, which she
lengthened out in the dim shadows of the fire-lit
room, where at three o'clock dusk was falling . . .
The everyday life went on, regularly and monoto-
nously: when the weather was tolerable. Van der
Welcke went bicycling; but for the rest he stayed
upstairs a great deal, seldom going to the Witte or
the Plaats, smoking, cursing inwardly because he
was not rich enough to buy a " sewing-machine " of
168
THE LATER LIFE 169
his own. Addle went to and fro between home and
school; and It was he that enlivened the meals . . .
And Constance, in her drawing-room, sat at the
window and gazed at the clouds, looked out at the
rain. Through the silent monotony of her short,
grey days a dream began to weave itself, as with a
luminous thread, so that she was not oppressed by
the sombre melancholy of the rainy winter. When
Van der Welcke went upstairs, cursing because it
was raining again and because he had nothing to do,
she settled herself in her drawing-room — in that
room in which she lived and which was tinged as it
were with her own personality — and looked out at
the clouds, at the rain. She sat dreaming. She
smiled, wide-eyed. She liked the ever louring skies,
the ever drifting clouds; and, though at times the
gusty squalls still made her start with that sudden
catch in her throat and breast, she loved the raging
and rustling winds, listened to them, content for
them to blow and blow, high above her head, her
house, her trees — hers — till, blowing, they lost
themselves in the Infinities beyond . . . She had her
work beside her, a book; but she did not sew, did not
read: she dreamt . . . She smiled, looking out, look-
ing up at the endlessly rolling skies . . . The clouds
sailed by, sometimes high, sometimes low, above
the houses, above the people's heads, like passions
disdaining mankind: dank, monstrous passions ri-
ding arrogantly by upon the passion of the winds.
I70 THE LATER LIFE
from a far-off land of sheer passion, sullen and tem-
pestuous; and the threatening cohorts rolled on,
great and majestic, like Olympian deities towering
above the petty human strife hidden under the roofs
over which they passed, ever opening their mighty
flood-gates . . . When Constance looked up at
them, the vast, phantom monsters, coming she knew
not whence and going she knew not whither, just
shadowing across her life and followed by new mon-
sters, no less vast and no less big with mystery, she
was not afraid or sad, for she felt safe in her dream.
The sombre skies had always attracted her, even in
the old days, though they used to frighten her then,
she did not know why; but now, now for the first
time she smiled, because she felt safe. A soft radi-
ance shone from her eyes, which gazed up at the
phantom monsters. When the wind whistled,
soughed, moaned and bellowed round the house, like
a giant soul In pain, she remained as It were looking
up at the wind, let her soul swell softly in unison with
Its dirges, like something that surrenders Itself, small
and weak but peaceful, to a mighty force. In her
little house, as she gazed out at the dreary road, on
these winter days, especially when It grew dark of an
afternoon, the wind and the rain round about her
seemed almost one element, vast and sad as life,
which came from over the sea, which drifted away
over the town and which continued to hold her and
her house in Its embrace . . .
THE LATER LIFE 171
She looked outside, she smiled. Sometimes she
heard her husband's step In the passages, as he went
through the house, grumbling, muttering, cursing, be-
cause he wanted to go out . . . Then she would
think for a moment :
" He hasn't seen Marianne for days."
But then she would think no more about either of
them; and her dream shone out before her again.
The dream shone softly and unfalteringly, like a
gentle, steady ray: a path of soft light that Issued
as It were from her eyes to the sombre, frown-
ing clouds out yonder. Over the soft-shining path
something seemed to be wafted from her outwards,
upwards, far and wide and then back again, to where
she sat . . . It was so strange that she smiled at
It, closed her eyes; and, when she opened them. It
was once more as though she saw her dream, that
path of light, always . . . Her dream took no more
definite shape and remained thus, a gentle, kindly
glow, a pale, soft ray from her to the sombre skies
... It was dusk now and she sat on, quite lost in
the misty, shadowy darkness all around her, quite
invisible In the black room; and her eyes continued
to stare outside, at the last wan streaks In the dark-
ening heavens . . . The road outside was black
... A street-lamp shone out, throwing Its harsh
light upon a puddle . . .
Then she covered her face with her hands,
ashamed because she had sat musing so long,
172 THE LATER LIFE
ashamed especially because she had allowed herself
to wander along that luminous thread, the path of
her dream . . . She rang, had the lamps lit and
waited for Addie, who would soon be home.
But those were the lonely afternoons . . . Some-
times in those wet, dull afternoons when it grew dark
so early, she saw his figure pass the window, heard
him ring. It was Brauws. She did not move and
she heard him go upstairs first, when Van der Welcke
was in. But, since he had recommenced his visits
to their house, he had got into the way of saying
to Van der Welcke, in half an hour or so :
" Now I'll go and pay my respects to your wife."
The first few times. Van der V^elcke had gone
with him to the drawing-room; but, now that Brauws
had taken to calling in a more informal fashion. Van
der Welcke stayed upstairs, let him go his own way.
And, after the first shock which Brauws' ideas had
produced in their house, his friendship became some-
thing cheering and comforting which both Van der
Welcke and Constance continued to appreciate for
their own and each other's sakes. He and Van
Vreeswijck were now the only friends whom they
both really liked, the two regular visitors to their
otherwise lonely house. And for that reason Van
der Welcke let Brauws go to Constance alone, stay-
ing away, never entering his wife's drawing-room
unnecessarily . . . except when he heard the little
bells of Marianne's voice and laugh.
THE LATER LIFE 173
Constance' heart beat when she heard Brauws'
voice on the stairs:
" Now I'll go and pay my respects to your wife.
She's at home, isn't she? "
" Sure to be, in this beastly weather."
She heard Brauws' step, which made the stairs
creak as it came down them. Then she felt a violent
emotion, of which she was secretly ashamed, ashamed
for herself. For she was severe with herself: she
was afraid of becoming ridiculous in her own eyes.
When she felt her emotion grow too violent, she at
once conjured up Addie's image: he was fourteen
now. The mother of a son of fourteen! Then a
smile of ironic indulgence would curve the dimples
by her lips; and it was with the greatest composure
that she welcomed Brauws:
" Isn't it dark early? But it's only half-past three
and really too soon to light the lamp."
" There are times when twilight upsets me," he
said, " and times when it makes me feel very calm
and peaceful."
He sat down near her, contentedly, and his broad
figure loomed darkly in the little room, among the
other shadows. The street-lamps were already
lighted outside, glittering harshly on the wet road.
" It's been awful weather lately."
" Yes, so I prefer to stay indoors."
" You're too much indoors."
" I go out whenever it's fine."
174 THE LATER LIFE
" You don't care for going out ' in all weathers.' "
" I like looking at the weather from here. It's a
different sky every day . . ."
Then they talked on all sorts of subjects. He
often spoke of Addie, with a sort of enthusiasm which
he had conceived for the lad. Her face would glow
with pride as she listened. And, almost involunta-
rily, she told him how the boy had always been a
comfort to them, to Van der Welcke as well as to
her. And, when she mentioned her husband's name,
he often answered, as though with a touch of re-
proach:
" I'm very fond of Hans. He is a child; and still
I'm fond of him . . ."
Then she would feel ashamed, because she had just
had a wordy dispute with Van der Welcke — about
nothing at all — and she would veer round and say :
" It can't be helped. We can not get on. We
endure each other as well as we can. To separate
would be too silly . . . and also very sad for Addie.
He is fond of both of us."
And their conversation again turned on the boy.
Then she had to tell him about Brussels and even
about Rome.
" It's strange," he said. " When you were in
Brussels ... I was living at Schaerbeek."
" And we never met."
" No, never. And, when you and Hans went to
the Riviera, I was there in the same year."
THE LATER LIFE 175
" Did you come often to Monte Carlo? "
" Once or twice, at any rate. Attracted by just
that vivid contrast between the atmosphere out there,
where money has no value, and my own ideas. It
was a sort of self-inflicted torture. And we never
saw each other there . . . And, when you were here,
in the Hague, as a girl, I used often to come to the
Hague and I even remember often passing your
parents' house, where your mother still lives, in the
Alexanderstraat, and reading your name on the door:
Van Lowe . . ."
" We were destined never to meet," she said, try-
ing to laugh softly; and in spite of herself her voice
broke, as though sadly.
" No," he said, quietly, " we were destined not to
meet."
" The fatality of meeting is sometimes very
strange," she said.
" There are thousands and millions, in our
lives . . ."
" Don't you think that we often, day after day,
for months on end, pass quite close to somebody . . ."
" Somebody who, if we met him or her, would in-
fluence our lives? . . ."
" Yes, that's what I mean."
" I'm certain of it."
" It's curious to think of ... In the street,
sometimes, one's always meeting the same people,
without knowing them."
176 THE LATER LIFE
" Yes, I know what you mean. In New York,
when I was a tram-driver, there was a woman who
always got into my car; and, without being in love
with her, I used to think I should like to speak to
her, to know her, to meet her . . ."
" And how often it is the other way round I I
have met thousands of people and forgotten their
names and what they said to me. They were like
ghosts. That is how we meet people in society."
" Yes, it's all so futile . . ."
" You exchange names, exchange a few sentences
. . . and nothing remains, not the slightest recol-
lection . . ."
" Yes, it all vanishes."
" I was so often tired ... of so many people, so
many ghosts ... I couldn't live like that now."
" Yet you have remained a society-woman."
" Oh, no, I am no longer that! "
And she told him how she had once thought of
making her reappearance in Hague society; she told
him about Van Naghel and Bertha.
" Are you on bad terms with your sister now? "
" Not on bad terms . . ."
" He died suddenly ... ? "
" Yes, quite suddenly. They had just had a din-
ner-party ... It was a terrible blow for my sister.
And I hear there are serious financial difficulties. It
is all very sad . . . But this doesn't interest you.
Tell me about yourself."
THE LATER LIFE 177
"Again?"
*' It interests me."
" Tell me about your own life."
" I've just been telling you."
" Yes, about Rome and Brussels. Now tell me
about Buitenzorg."
"Why about that?"
" The childhood of my friends — I hope I may
number you among my friends? — always interests
me."
" About Buitenzorg? I don't remember any-
thing ... I was a little girl . . . There was no-
thing in particular . . ."
" Your brother Gerrit . . ."
She turned pale, but he did not see it, in the dim
room..
" What has he been saying? "
" Your brother Gerrit remembers it all. The
other night, after your dinner here, he told me about
it while we were smoking."
"Gerrit?" she said, anxiously.
" Yes : how prettily you used to play on the great
boulders In the river . . ."
She flushed scarlet, in the friendly dusk:
"He's mad!" she said, harshly. "What does
he want to talk about that for? "
He laughed:
"Mayn't he? He Idolizes you . . . and he
Idolized you at that time . . ."
lyS THE LATER LIFE
" He's always teasing me with those reminiscences
. . . They're ridiculous now."
"Why?"
" Because I'm old. Those memories are pretty
enough when you are young . . . When you grow
older, you let them sleep ... In the dead, silent
years. For, when you're old, they become ridicu-
lous."
Her voice sounded hard. He was silent.
" Don't you think I'm right? " she asked.
" Perhaps," he said, very gently. " Perhaps you
are right. But it is a pity."
" Why? " she forced herself to ask.
He gave a very deep sigh:
" Because it reminds us of all that we lose as we
grow older . . . even the right to our memories."
" The right to our memories," she echoed almost
under her breath. And, in a firmer voice, she re-
peated, severely, " Certainly. When we grow older,
we lose our right . . . There are memories to
which we lose our right as we grow old . . ."
" Tell me," he said, " is it hard for a woman to
grow old? "
" I don't know," she answered, softly. " I believe
that I shall grow old, that I am growing old as It is,
without finding it hard."
" But you're not old," he said.
" I am forty-three," she replied, " and my son Is
fourteen."
THE LATER LIFE 179
She was determined to show herself no mercy.
" And now tell me about yourself," she went on.
"Why should I?" he asked, almost dejectedly.
*' You would never understand me, however long I
spoke. No, I can't speak about myself to-day."
" It's not only to-day: it's very often."
" Yes, very often. The idea suddenly comes to
me . . . that everything has been of no use. That
I have done nothing that was worth while. That
my life ought to have been quite different ... to be
worth while."
" What do you mean by worth while? "
" Worth while for people, for humanity. It al-
ways obsessed me, after my games in the woods.
You remember my telling you how I used to play in
the woods? "
" Yes," she said, very softly.
" Tell me," he suddenly broke in. " Are those
memories to which I have no right? "
" You are a man," said she.
" Have I more right to memories, as a man? "
"Why not ... to these?" she said, softly.
" They do not make your years ridiculous ... as
mine do mine."
" Are you so much afraid . . . of ridicule?"
" Yes," she said, frankly. " I am as unwilling to
be ashamed in my own eyes ... as in those of the
world."
" So you abdicate . . ."
i8o THE LATER LIFE
" My youth," she said, gently.
He was silent. Then he said:
" I Interrupted myself just now. I meant to tell
you that, after my games as a child, it was always
my obsession ... to be something. To be some-
body. To be a man. To be a man among men.
That was when I was a boy of sixteen or seventeen.
Afterwards, at the university, I was amazed at the
childishness of Hans and Van Vreeswijck and the
others. They never thought; I was always thinking
... I worked hard, I wanted to know everything.
When I knew a good deal, I said to myself, ' Why
go on learning all this that others have thought out?
Think things out for yourself ! ' . . . Then I had a
feeling of utter helplessness . . . But I'm boring
you."
" No," she said, impatiently.
" I felt utterly helpless . . . Then I said to my-
self, ' If you can't think things out, do something.
Be somebody. Be a man. Work!' . . . Then I
read Marx, Fourier, Saint-Simon: do you know
them?"
" I've never read them," said she, " but I've heard
their names often enough to follow you. Go on."
" When I had read them, I started thinking, I
thought a great deal . . . and then I wanted to
work. As a labourer. So as to understand all those
who were destitute . . . God, how difficult words
are ! I simply can't speak to you about myself."
THE LATER LIFE i8i
" And about Peace you speak ... as if you were
inspired! "
" About Peace . . . perhaps, but not about my-
self. I went to America, I became a workman.
But the terrible thing was that I felt I was not a
workman. I had money. I gave it all to the poor
. . . nearly. But I kept just enough never to be
hungry, to live a little more comfortably than my
mates, to take a day's rest when I was tired, to buy
meat and wine and medicines when I wanted them
... to go to the theatre dressed as a gentleman.
Do you understand? I was a Sunday workman. I
was an amateur labourer. I remained a gentleman,
a 'toff.' I come of a good middle-class family:
well, over there, in America, while I was a workman,
I remained — I became even more than I had been
— an aristocrat. I felt that I was far above my
fellow-workmen. I knew more than they, I knew a
great deal : they could tell it by listening to me. I
was finer-grained, more delicately constituted than
they: they could tell it by looking at me. They re-
garded me as a wastrel who had been kicked out of
doors, who had 'seen better days;' but they con-
tinued to think me a gentleman and I myself felt a
gentleman, a ' toff.' I never became a proper work-
man. I should have liked to, so as to understand
the workman thoroughly and afterwards, in the light
of my knowledge, to work for his welfare, back in
my own country, in my own station of life. But,
i82 THE LATER LIFE
though I was living among working people, I did not
understand them. I shuddered involuntarily at their
jokes, their oaths, their drinking, their friendship
even. I remained a gentleman, a ' toff.' I re-
mained of a different blood and a different culture.
My ideas and my theories would have had me
resemble my mates; but all my former life — my
birth, my upbringing, my education — all my own
and my parents' past, all my inherited instincts were
against it. I simply could not fraternize with them.
I kept on trying something different, thinking it was
that that was amiss: a different sort of work, a dif-
ferent occupation. Nothing made any difference.
I remained a harmless, inquisitive amateur; and just
that settled conviction, that I could leave off at any
time if I wished, was the reason why my life never
became the profoundly serious thing which I would
have had it. It remained amateurish. It became
almost a mockery of the life of my mates. I was
free and they were slaves. I was vigorous and they
were worked to death. To me, after my brain-
work, that manual and muscular labour came as a
tonic. If I was overtired, I rested, left my job,,
looked for something else after a few weeks. Thq
others would be sweated, right up to their old age,
till they had yielded the last ounce of their working-
power. I should work just as long as I took pleasure
in it. I looked healthy and well, even though my
face and hands became rough. I ate in proportion
THE LATER LIFE 183
to the hardness of my work. And I thought: if they
could all eat as I do, it would be all right. Then I
felt ashamed of myself, distributed all my money,
secretly, among the poor and lived solely on my
wages . . . until I fell ill . . . and cured myself
with my money. It became absurd. And never
more so than when I, habitually well-fed, looked
down upon my mates because their unalterable ideal
appeared to be ... to eat beef every day! Do
they long for nothing better and higher and nobler,
I thought, than to eat beef? It was easy for me to
think like that and look down on them, I who ate beef
whenever I wanted to ! Well-fed, even though
tired with my work, I could think of nobler things
than beef. And yet . . . and yet, though I felt all
this at the time, I still continued to despise them for
their base ideal. That was because of my blood and
my birth, but especially because of my superior train-
ing and education. And then I became very de-
spondent and thought, ' I shall never feel myself their
brother; I shall remain a gentleman, a " toff; " it is
not my fault: it is the fault of everything, of all my
past life.' . . . Then, suddenly, without any trans-
ition, I went back to Europe. I have lectured here
... on Peace. In a year's time, perhaps, I shall
be lecturing on War. I am still seeking. I no
longer know anything. Properly speaking, I never
did know anything. I seek and seek . . . But why
have I talked to you at such length about myself? I
1 84 THE LATER LIFE
am ashamed of myself, I am ashamed. Perhaps I
have no right to go on seeking. A man seeks when
he is young, does he not? When he has come to my
age, which is the same as yours, he ought to have
found and he has no right to go on seeking. And,
if he hasn't found, then he looks back upon his life
as one colossal failure, as one huge mistake — mis-
take upon mistake — and then things become hope-
less, hopeless, hopeless . . ."
She was silent . . .
She thought of her own life, her small feminine
life — the life of a small soul that had not thought
and had not felt, that was only just beginning to feel
and only just beginning at rare intervals to think —
and she saw her own small life also wasting the
years in mistake upon mistake.
" Oh," he said, in a voice filled with longing, " to
have found what one might have gone on seeking for
years I To have found, when young, happiness . . .
for one's self . . . and for others! Oh, to be
young, to be once more young 1 . . . And then to
seek . . . and then to find when young . . . and to
meet when young . . . and to be happy when young
and to make others — everybody ! — happy 1 . . .
To be young, oh, to be young! "
" But you are not old," she said. " You are in
the prime of life."
" I hate that phrase," he said, gloomily. " The
prime of life occurs at my age in people who do not
THE LATER LIFE 185
seek, but who have quietly travelled a definite, known
path. Those are the people who, when they are my
age, are in the prime of life. I am not: I have
sought; I have never found. I now feel all the sad-
ness of my wasted efforts; I now feel . . . old. I
feel old. What more can I do now? Think a little
more; try to keep abreast of modern thought and
modern conditions; seek a little, like a blind man.
And," with a bitter laugh, " I have even lost that
right: the right to seek. You seek only when you
are very young, or else it becomes absurd."
" You are echoing me," she said, in gentle re-
proach.
" But you were right, you were right. It is so.
There is nothing left, at our age; not even our
memories . . ."
" Our memories," she murmured, very softly.
" The memories of our childhood ..."
" Of our childhood," she repeated.
" Not even that."
" Not even that," she repeated, as though hypno-
tized.
" No, there is nothing left . . . for us . .
The door opened suddenly: they started.
*' Mamma, are you there? "
It was Addie.
" Yes, my boy . . ."
*' I can't see you. It is quite dark."
" And here Is Mr. Brauws."
5>
1 86 THE LATER LIFE
" I can see nothing and nobody. May I light one
of the lamps? "
" Yes, do."
He bustled through the room, hunted for matches,
lit a lamp in the corner:
" That's it. Now at least I can see you."
He came nearer: a young, handsome, bright boy,
with his good-looking, healthy face and his serious,
blue eyes; broad and strong, shedding a note of joy
in the melancholy room, which lit up softly with the
glow of its one lamp, behind Constance. She smiled
at him, drew him down beside her, put her arms
round him while he kissed her:
^' He is left!" she said, softly, with a glance at
Brauws, referring to the last words which he had
spoken.
He understood:
" Yes," he answered — and his gloom seemed sud-
denly to brighten into a sort of rueful gladness, a
yearning hope that all was not yet lost, that his
dreams might be realized not by myself, but by an-
other, by Addle — and he repeated her own, radiant
words, " Yes, yes, he is left! "
The boy did not understand, looked at them both
by turns and smiled enquiringly, receiving only their
smiles in answer . . .
CHAPTER XX
For a long time, Constance had not been to Mamma
van Lowe's Sunday-evenings; and at first Mamma
had not insisted. Now, however, one afternoon,
she said, gently:
" Are you never coming again on a Sunday, Con-
stance? "
She saw that her mother had suddenly become very
nervous and she was sorry that she had not made
an effort and overcome her reluctance to attend the
family-gatherings after that terrible evening.
" Yes, Mamma," she said, without hesitation, " I
will come. This is Saturday: I will come to-mor-
row."
The old woman leant back wearily in her chair,
nodded her head up and down, as though she knew
all sorts of sad things :
" It is so sad . . . about Van Naghel," she said.
" Bertha is going through a lot of trouble."
It seemed as if Mamma wished to talk about it;
but Constance, with an affected indifference to her
relations' affairs, asked no questions.
The next evening, Constance and Addie were
ready to start for the Alexanderstraat.
"Aren't you coming?" she asked Van der
Welcke.
187
1 88 THE LATER LIFE
He hesitated. He would rather not go, feeling
unfriendly towards the whole family, but he would
have hked to see Marianne. Still he said:
" No, I think not."
He was afraid that his refusal would cause a scene ;
but latterly, even though anger welled up inside her,
she had shown a forbearance which surprised him;
and she merely said :
" Mamma would like us all to come again."
He was really fond of the old lady: she had al-
ways been kind to him.
" Who will be there? " he asked.
" Why, all of them I " she said. " As usual."
" Surely not Bertha . . . and her children ... ? "
" I think so," she said, gently, feeling that he was
sounding her to see if Marianne would be there.
" Why shouldn't they go, though they are in mourn-
ing? It's not a party: there will be no one but the
family."
" Perhaps I'll come on later," he said, still hesi-
tating.
She did not insist, went off on foot with Addie. It
was curious, but now, whenever she went to her
mother's house, nice though her mother always was
to her, she felt as if she were going there as a
stranger, not as a daughter. It was because of the
others that she felt like a stranger, because of Bertha,
Adolphine, Karel, Cateau and Dorine. Gerrit and
Paul were the only ones whom she still looked upon
THE LATER LIFE 189
as brothers; and she was very fond of Adehne.
This evening again, as she entered the room, she
felt like that, like a stranger. The old aunts were
sitting in their usual places, doing their crochet-work
mechanically. Mamma, as Constance knew, had
had an angry scene with the two old things, to explain
to them that they mustn't talk scandal and, above all,
that they mustn't do so out loud, a scene which had
thoroughly upset Mamma herself and which the old
aunts had not even seemed to understand, for they
merely nodded a vague consent, nodded yes, yes, no
doubt Marie was right. Yet Constance suspected
that Auntie Rine had understood at least something
of it, for she was now looking at Constance askance,
with a frightened look. Constance could not bring
herself to speak to the old aunts: she walked past
them; and Auntie Tine whispered to Auntie Rine:
" There she is again ! "
"Who?" screamed Auntie Rine, aloud.
But Auntie Tine dared not whisper anything
more, because of their sister Marie, who had flown
into such a passion; and she pinched Auntie Rine's
withered hand, whereupon Auntie Rine glared at her
angrily. Then they cackled together for a moment,
bad-temperedly. The three young Saetzemas, play-
ing their cards in a corner of the conservatory, sat
bursting with laughter at the bickering of the two
old aunts.
Constance sat down quietly by Mamma. And she
I90 THE LATER LIFE
felt, now that Addie spoke to Marietje — Adol-
phine's Marietje — but did not go to the boys in the
conservatory, that there was no harmony among
them all and that they only met for the sake of
Mamma, of Grandmamma. Poor Mamma ! And
yet she did not seem to notice it, was glad that the
children and grandchildren came to her Sundays, to
her " family-group."
Adolphine and Cateau sat talking in a corner; and
Constance caught what they said :
" So Ber-tha is wo? . . . keep-ing on the house? "
" I should think not, indeed ! They have nothing
but debts."
" Is it their bro-ther-in-law who is see-ing to things
and ad-min-istering the es-tate? "
" Yes, the commissary in Overijssel." ^
" So they are not well oiff "
" No, they haven't a farthing."
" Yes, as I al-ways used to say to Ka-rel, they al-
ways lived on much too lar^e a scale."
" They squandered all they had."
" Well, that's not very pleas-ant for the chil-
dren!"
" No. And there's Emilie, who wants a divorce.
But don't mention that to Mamma: she doesn't
know about it."
1 The " Queen's Commissary " of a Dutch province has no
counterpart in England except, perhaps, the lord lieutenant of a
county. His functions, however, correspond more nearly with
those of a French prefect.
THE LATER LIFE 191
" Ve-ry well . . . Yes, that's most unfor-tunate.
Your Floor-tje, Phlne, is bet-ter off than that with
Dij-kerhof."
" At least, they're not thinking of getting di-
vorced. I always look upon a divorce as a scandal.
We've one divorce in the family as it is; and I con-
sider that one too many."
Constance turned pale and felt that Adolphine
was speaking loud on purpose, though it was be-
hind her back . . . Dear Mamma noticed nothing!
. . . She had been much upset on that one Sunday,
that terrible evening, but had not really understood
the truth : the terrible thing to her was merely that
the old sisters had talked so loud and so spitefully
about her poor Constance, like the cross-grained,
spiteful old women that they were; but what hap-
pened besides she had really never quite known . . .
And this, now that Constance was gradually draw-
ing farther away from her brothers and sisters, sud-
denly struck her as rather fine. Whatever hap-
pened, they kept Mamma out of it as far as they
could, in a general filial affection for Mamma, in a
filial conspiracy to leave Mamma her happiness and
her illusion about the family; and it seemed as if
the brothers and sisters also impressed this on their
children; it appeared that Adolphine even taught it
to her loutish boys, for, to her sudden surprise, she
saw Chris and Piet go up to Addie and ask him to
join in their game. Addie refused, coldly; and now
192 THE LATER LIFE
Constance was almost ashamed that she herself had
not pointed out to Addie that Grandmamma must
always be spared and left In her fond illusion that
all was harmony. But fortunately Addie of his own
accord always knew what was the right thing to do ;
for, when Adolphine's Marietje also came up with a
smile and asked him to come and play cards in the
conservatory, he went with her at once. She smiled
because of it all: no, there was no mutual sympathy,
but there was a general affection for Mamma. A
general affection, for Mamma, was something rather
touching after all; and really she had never before
seen it in that light, as something fine, that strong
and really unanimous feeling among all those differ-
ent members of a family whose interests and inclina-
tions in the natural course of things were divided.
Yes, now that she was standing farther away from
her brothers and sisters, she saw for the first time
this one feature which was good in them. Yes, it
was really something very good, something lovable;
and even Adolphine had it ... It was as though
a softer mood came over Constance, no longer one
of criticism and resentment, but rather of sympathy
and understanding, in which bitterness had given
place to kindliness; and in that softer mood there
was still indeed sadness, but no anger, as if every-
thing could not well be other than it was, In their
circle of small people, of very small people, whose
eyes saw only a little way beyond themselves, whose
THE LATER LIFE 193
hearts were sensitive only a little way beyond them-
selves, not farther than the narrow circle of their
children and perhaps their children's children . . .
She did not know why, but, in the vague sadness of
this new, softer mood, she thought of Brauws.
And, though not able at once to explain why, she
connected her thought of him with this kindlier feel-
ing of hers, this deeper, truer vision of things around
her. And, as though new, far-stretching vistas
opened up before her, she suddenly seemed to be con-
templating life, that life which she had never yet
contemplated. A new, distant horizon lay open be-
fore her, a distant circle, a wide circle round the nar-
row little circle past which the eyes of her soul had
never yet been able to gaze ... It was strange to
her, this feeling, here in this room, in this family-
circle. It was as though she suddenly saw all her
relations — the Ruyvenaers had now arrived as well
— sitting and talking in that room, all her relations
and herself also, as very small people, who sat and
talked, who moved and lived and thought in a very
narrow little circle of self-interest, while outside that
circle the horizon extended ever wider and wider,
like a vision of great cloudy skies, under which towns
rose sharply, seas billowed, bright lightning glanced.
It all shot through her and in front of her very
swiftly: two or three little revealing flashes, no
more; swift revelations, which flashed out and then
darkened again. But, swiftly though those revela-
194 THE LATER LIFE
tions had flashed, after that brightness the room re-
mained small, those people remained small, she her-
self remained small . . .
She herself had never lived: oh, she had so often
suspected it! But those other people: had they also
never, never lived? Mamma, in the narrow circle
of her children's and grandchildren's affection;
Uncle and Aunt, in their interests as sugar-planters;
Karel and Cateau, In their narrow, respectable, com-
placent comfort; Adolphine, in her miserable strug-
gle for social Importance; and the others, Gerrit,
Dorlne, Ernst, Paul: had they ever, ever lived?
Her husband: had he ever lived? Or was it all just
a mere existence, as she herself had existed; a vege-
tation rooted In little thoughts and habits. In little
opinions and prejudices, In little religions or philoso-
phies; and feeling pleasant and comfortable therein
and looking down upon and condemning others and
considering one's self fairly good and fairly high-
minded, not so bad as others and at least far more
sensible In one's opinions and beliefs than most of
one's neighbours? . . . Oh, people like themselves;
people In their " set," In other sets, with their several
variations of birth, religion, position, money; decent
people, whom Brauws sometimes called " the
bourgeois: " had they ever lived, ever looked out be-
yond the very narrow circle which their dogmas drew
around them? What a small and Insignificant
merry-go-round It was! And what was the ob-
THE LATER LIFE 195
ject of whirling among one another and round one
another hke that? . . . It suddenly appeared to her
that, of all these people who belonged to her and of
all the others, the acquaintances, whom with a swift
mental effort she grouped around them, there was
not one who could send a single thought shining out
far and wide, towards the wide horizons yonder,
without thinking of himself, his wife and his children
and clinging to his prejudices about money, position,
religion and birth ... As regards money, it was
almost a distinction among all of them not to have
any and then to live as if they had. Position was
what they strove for; and those who did not strive
for it, such as Paul and Ernst, were criticized for
their weakness. Religion was, with those other peo-
ple, the mere acquaintances, not belonging to their
circle, sometimes a matter of decency or of political
interest; but, in their set, with its East-Indian leaven,
it was ignored, quietly and calmly, never thought
about or talked about, save that the children were
just confirmed, quickly, as they might be given a
dancing- or music-lesson. Birth, birth, that was
everything; and even then there was that superior
contempt for new titles of nobility, that respect only
for old titles and a tendency to think them-
selves very grand, even though they were not titled,
as members of a patrician Dutch-Indian family
which, in addition to its original importance, had
also absorbed the importance attaching to the high-
196 THE LATER LIFE
est official positions In Java . . . And over It all lay
the soft smile of Indulgent pity and contempt for
any who thought differently from themselves. It
formed the basis of all their opinions, however
greatly those opinions might vary according to their
personal interests and views: compassion and con-
tempt for people who had no money and lived
economically; for those who did not aim at an ex-
alted position; for those, whether Catholics or anti-
revolutionaries — they themselves were all moder-
ate liberals, with special emphasis on the " moder-
ate " — who cherished an enthusiasm for religion;
for those who were not of such patrician birth as
themselves. And so on, with certain variations In
these opinions ... It was as though Constance
noticed the merry-go-round for the first time, whirl-
ing in that little circle. It was as though she saw It
in the past, saw It whirling In their drawing-rooms,
when her father was still alive, then especially. She
saw it suddenly, as a child, after it is grown up, sees
its parents and their house, their former life, in
which It was a child, in which it grew up. She saw
it now like that at her mother's, only less vividly, be-
cause of the Informality of that family-gathering.
She saw it like that, dimly, in all, in every one of
them, more or less. But she also saw the respect,
the love for Mamma, the wish to leave her in the
illusion which that love gave her.
She had never seen It like that before. She her-
THE LATER LIFE 197
self was just the same as the others. And she
thought herself and all of them small, so small that
she said to herself:
" Do we all of us live for so very little, when
there is so very much beyond, stretching far and
wide, under the cloudy skies of that immense hori-
zon? Do we never stop outside this little circle in
which we all, with our superior smile — because we
are so distinguished and enlightened — spin round
one another and ourselves, like humming-tops, like
everlasting humming-tops? "
And again Brauws' figure rose before her eyes.
Oh, she now for the first time understood what he
had said, on that first evening when she saw and
heard him, about Peace ! . . . Peace ! The pure, im-
maculate ideal suddenly streamed before her like a
silver banner, fluttered in the wide cloudy skies!
Oh, she now for the first time understood . . . why
he sought. He had wanted to seek . . . life ! He
had sought . . . and he had not found. But,
while seeking, he had lived: he still lived! His
breath came and went, his pulses throbbed, his chest
heaved . . . even though his sadness, because he
had never " found," bedimmed his energies. But
she and all of them did not live ! They did not live,
they had never lived. They were born, people of
distinction, with all their little cynicisms about money
and religion, with all their fondness for birth and po-
sition; and they continued to spin round like that, to
198 THE LATER LIFE
spin like humming-tops : moderate liberals. That
they all tolerated her again, in the little circle, was
that not all part of their moderate liberal attitude?
Oh, to live, to live really, to live as he had lived, to
live ... to live with him!
She was now startled at herself. She was in a
room full of people and she sat in silence next to
her mother. Dear Mamma ! . . . And she was
weary of her own thinking, for swift as lightning it
all flashed through her, that revelation of her
thoughts, without sentences, without images, without
words. It just flashed; and that was all. But that
flashing made her feel weary, enervated, almost
breathless in the room, which she found close . . .
And the very last of her thoughts, which had just
for a moment appeared before her — sentence,
image and word — had startled her. She had to
confess it to herself: she loved, she loved him. But
she inwardly pronounced that love — perhaps with
the little cynical laugh which she had observed in her
own people — she pronounced that love to be ab-
surd, because so many silent, dead years lay heaped
up there, because she was old, quite old. To wish
to live at this time of day was absurd. To wish to
dream at this stage was absurd. No, after so many
years had been wasted on that meaningless existence,
then she, an old woman now, must not hope to live
again when it dawned too late, that life of thinking
and feeling, that life from which might have sprung
THE LATER LIFE 199
a life of doing and loving, of boundless love, of love
for everybody and everything . . . No, after so
many years had been spent in living the life of a
plant, until the plant became yellow and sere, then
inevitably, inexorably extinction, slow extinction, was
the only hope that remained . . .
The absurdity, of being so old — forty-three —
and feeling like that! . . . Never, she swore,
would she allow anybody to perceive that absurd-
ity. She knew quite well that it was not really ab-
surd, that its absurdity existed only in the narrow
little circle of little prejudices and little dogmas.
But she also knew that she, like all of them, was
small, that she herself was full of prejudice; she
knew that she could not rise, could never rise above
what she considered absurd, what she had been
taught, from a child, in her little circle, to look upon
as absurd!
No, now that she was old, there was nothing for
her but to turn her eyes from the radiant vision
and, calmly, to grow still older ... to go towards
that slow extinction which perhaps would still drag
on for many long and empty years: the years of a
woman of her age ... in their set . . .
CHAPTER XXI
The door opened and Bertha, Louise and Marianne
entered. And they stepped so suddenly right across
Constance' thoughts that she was startled at their ap-
pearance: mother and daughters in deep mourning.
She had not seen Bertha except on that first hurried
visit immediately after Van Naghel's death and on
the day of the funeral, six weeks ago; and she knew
v^ery little of what was happening; she had seen
Marianne only once. And now that they both
stepped right across her thoughts, Into that narrow
circle — which she condemned, though she herself
was unable to move out of it — a great compassion
suddenly surged through her, like a torrent. Bertha
looked very pale, tired, wasted, grown all at once
into an old woman, hopeless and resigned, as though
broken under much silent sorrow. Louise's face
wore a rather more tranquil expression; but Mari-
anne beside her, delicate and white, still more
delicate and white In her black dress, also diffused
an almost tearful melancholy. Mamma rose and
went towards them. It was the first time since her
husband's death that Bertha had come to Mamma's
Sunday-evening; and the gesture with which the old
woman rose, approached her daughter, embraced her
and led her to the sofa where she had been sitting
2(X)
THE LATER LIFE 201
showed the same open-armed and open-hearted
motherly affection with which, as Constance remem-
bered, Mamma had received her, Constance, at the
door, on the landing, on the first evening of her own
return. Dear Mamma!
It touched her so much that she herself rose, went
to Bertha, kissed her tenderly, kissed Louise and
Marianne. Her voice, for the first time for many
a day, had a sisterly note in it that took Bertha by
surprise. She pressed Constance' hand and, after
the others had spoken to her, sat down quietly near
Mamma, Aunt Lot and Constance. How pale, de-
jected and resigned she was! She seemed to be
•looking helplessly around her, to be looking for some
one to assist her, to be wishing to say something, to
somebody, that would have relieved her. She
sighed:
" I have come. Mamma . . . but I cannot stay
long," she said. " I am very tired. There are all
those business matters; and, though Adolph is very
kind and sympathetic and is a great help, it is ter-
ribly complicated and I sometimes feel half-dead
with it all. . . . It's lucky that I have Otto and
Frances; I don't know what I should do without
them . . . You know we are going to live in the
country? . . ."
" You were thinking about It the other day, dear,"
said Mamma, anxiously, " but it wasn't decided yet
. . . Bertha, must I lose you ? "
202 THE LATER LIFE
"Dear Mamma, It's better in the country.
Adolph wanted us to look round in Overijssel, but
I would rather be at Baarn, for instance : it's nearer
to the Hague and you . . ."
"Why, Baarn, my child? There's nobody there
but Amsterdam people, business-people: such a very
different set from ours ! . . ."
" We sha'n't expect to make friends, Mamma,
at first. I shall be alone with the girls. Otto and
Frances have found a little house at the Hague :
it's lucky that Otto is provided for at the Foreign
Office. The minister spoke very nicely about him
the other day . . . Frans and Henri must finish their
university-course quickly now," she said, in a hesitat-
ing tone. " Karel is going to a boarding-school, for
I can't manage him. And Marietje too: she was
going soon, in any case. So there will be just the
three of us: Louise, Marianne and I . . . Things
have changed very much, all at once, Aunt Lot. We
want to live quietly. In the first place, we shall just
have to live quietly; and the girls are quite con-
tent to do so . . ."
It again seemed to Constance as if Bertha were
looking for somebody in the room, were hushing
something up. Constance had Emilie's name on her
lips, but she did not like to ask. Mamma knew
nothing more than that Emilie and Van Raven some-
times had differences.
" I shall have a lot of trouble and worry before
THE LATER LIFE 203
me," said Bertha. " But, when it Is all settled and
we have our little villa . . ."
She sank back in her chair and stared before her
with dim eyes.
Constance took her hand compassionately, held it
tight. It looked as though Bertha, after that busy
life which had suddenly snapped with Van Naghel's
death, an hour after their last dinner-party, no
longer knew what to do or say, felt derelict and
helpless ...
Though there was so much business to attend to,
she seemed stunned all at once, in the grip of a
strange lethargy, as though everything was now
finished, as though there was nothing left now that
there would soon be no more visits to pay, no recep-
tions to hold, no dinners to give; now that Van
Naghel no longer came home from the Chamber,
tired and irritable from an afternoon's heckhng; now
that there would be no more calculating how they
could manage to spend a thousand guilders less a
month; now that she would simply have to live
quietly on what she and the girls possessed. And
it seemed as if she no longer knew how or why she
should go on living, now that she would no longer
have to give her dinners and pay her visits . . . for
her children, particularly her girls. Louise and
Marianne had said to her so calmly that they wanted
very soon to begin living quietly that Bertha now
began to wonder:
204 THE LATER LIFE
*' Why did I always make so much fuss, if the girls
cared for it so little? Why did I go on till I was
old and worn out? "
It was true, that had been Van Naghel's ambition:
he had wanted to see his house a political salon.
What he wished had happened. Now it was all
over. Now there was nothing to be done but to live
quietly, in the little villa at Baarn; to make no debts;
to let the boys finish their college-course as quickly
as possible; and then to educate Karel and Marietje
and let theirs be a different life from the others' : how
she did not know . . .
Bertha remained sitting wearily, staring vaguely
before her, half-listening to the sympathetic words,
uttered with an emphatic Indian accent, of Aunt Lot,
who kept saying:
" Kassian! . . J"-
But suddenly an access of nervousness seemed to
startle her out of her depression. She looked round
again, as though seeking for somebody . . . some-
body to say something to. Her glance fastened
for a moment on Aunt Lot and then on Con-
stance. Suddenly she rose, with a little laugh, as
though she wanted to speak to Louise, farther away.
But the nervous pressure of her hand seemed to be
urging Constance also to get up, to go with her,
somewhere, anywhere . . . They went through the
other drawing-room, past the card-table at which
1 Poor thing !
THE LATER LIFE 205
Uncle, Adolphine, Karel and Dotje were sitting, past
the other with Cateau, Van Saetzema, Dijkerhof and
Pop; and the conversation at both tables at once
flagged; the cards fell hurriedly one after the other
. . . They were talking about Bertha, thought Con-
stance, as Bertha drew her gently to the little bou-
doir, the room where the wine and cakes were set out,
where Papa van Lowe's portrait hung, stern and inex-
orable; the little room where they all of them went
when they had anything confidential to say to one
another, when there was a scene, or a difference, or a
private discussion. And Constance at once remem-
bered how, five months ago, she had appealed to
Van Naghel and Bertha in this very room; how they
had refused to receive her " officially " at their
house; how Van der Welcke had lost his temper,
flown into a rage, made a rush for Van Naghel . . .
She was now here with Bertha once more; and
Papa's portrait stared down coldly and severely upon
the two sisters.
They looked at each other in silence. Bertha
glanced round timidly: she felt that, in the big
drawing-room, at the card-tables, the brothers and
sisters had at once begun to talk again, criticizing
her, because she had retired for a moment with Con-
stance . . . with Constance. And, lowering her
voice to a hardly audible whisper, she murmured:
" Constance . . . Constance . . ."
"What is it. Bertha?"
2o6 THE LATER LIFE
" Help me . . . help me ... be kind to me."
" But what's the matter? "
" Oh dear, nobody knows about It yet, but I can't
keep it all . . . here ... to myself 1 "
" Tell me what it is and what I can do."
" I don't know what you can do. But, Constance,
I felt I had to . . . had to . . . tell you . . ."
" Tell me then."
" Nobody, nobody knows yet . . . except Louise
and Marianne."
"What is it?"
" Emille . . . Emilie has . . ."
"Has what?"
" She has gone away . . . with Henri . . ."
" Gone away? "
" Run away perhaps . . . with Henri ... I
don't know where. Van Raven doesn't know where.
Nobody knows. Adolph van Naghel, my brother-
in-law the commissary, has made enquiries . . . and
has found out nothing . . . We dissuaded her from
seeking a divorce; so did Adolph. Then, no doubt
because of that, she ran away with Henri, with her
brother. She absolutely refuses to live with Eduard.
She has run away . . . Constance, where has she
gone to? I don't know! Constance, It's a terrible
thing! But keep it to yourself, don't tell anybody.
Mamma doesn't know. I want to pretend, If
there's nothing else for It, if they don't come back,
that she has gone on a little journey, a trip some-
THE LATER LIFE 207
where, alone with her brother. We must pretend
that, Constance. I don't think they Intend to come
back. Henri has been very excited lately: he fought
Eduard, came to blows with him, for ill-treating his
sister. You know how fond they are of each other,
Emilie and Henri. It's almost unnatural, in a
brother and sister. Now they've run away . . .
Oh dear, Constance, I am so terribly unhappy! "
She threw herself into Constance' arms, sobbed,
with her arms round Constance' neck:
" Constance, Constance, help me! ... I have no
one to turn to, no one I can talk to. Adolph is
helping me with the business-matters; Otto too.
Louise is very kind; but she and Otto think that
Emilie ought to divorce her husband, on the ground
of cruelty. But, Constance, in our class, men don't
beat their wives ! It never happens. It's an awful
thing. It only happens with the lower orders ! . . .
Oh dear, Constance, I am so unhappy! . . . The
business-matters will be settled . . . But there are
debts. I thought that we were living within our in-
come, but I don't know: there appear to be debts.
Bills mount up so ... I did so hope that the boys
would finish their course. Frans will; but now
Henri . . . that mad Idea . . . going away with
Emilie . . . running away . . . nobody knows
where . . . Oh dear, Constance, I am so unhappy:
help me, do help me ! "
She lay back limply in Constance' arms and the
2o8 THE LATER LIFE
tears flowed Incessantly down her pale face, which
in those few weelcs had fallen away till it was the
face of an old woman. She lay there feeble and ill;
and it seemed as if Van Naghel's death, coming sud-
denly as an additional catastrophe on that evening
of misfortunes — her guests in the drawing-room,
Emilie hiding upstairs. Van Raven waiting below —
had so terribly shaken her composure, the compo-
sure of a prudent, resourceful woman of the world,
that she was simply compelled to speak of private
matters which she would never have mentioned be-
fore . . . An instinct drove her into Constance'
arms, drove her to unbosom herself to Constance as
the only one who could understand her. Her near-
sighted, blinking eyes sought anxiously, through hei*
tears, to read the expression on Constance' face.
And she was so broken, so shattered that Constance
had to make an effort to realize that it was really
Bertha whom she held in her arms.
The ill-feeling which she had cherished for months
past was gone. None of it remained in her soul, in
her heart, as though she had passed out of the depths
of that atmosphere to purer heights of understand-
ing and feeling. Only for a moment did she still
remember that evening when she herself, in this same
room, had implored Bertha and Van Naghel to help
her " rehabilitate " herself in the eyes of their
friends and of the Hague. It seemed long ago,
years ago. She could hardly understand herself:
THE LATER LIFE 209
that she could have begged so earnestly for some-
thing that was so small, of such little Importance
to her soul, to the world. She could not have done
it now . . . She did not understand how she could
so long have cherished a grudge against Van Naghel,
against Bertha . . . because they did not ask
her to their official dinners, when the invitation
would have given her the rehabilitation which she
sought. At the present moment, she did not even
desire that rehabilitation, did not care about it,
treated it as something that had become of no value :
an idea which had withered and shrivelled within her
and which blew away like a dead leaf to far-off spa-
cious skies . . . Addle? He did not need his
mother's rehabilitation in the eyes of the Hague.
The boy would make his own way in life . . . Oh,
how small she had been, to beg for it; to go on bear-
ing a grudge, months on end, for something so little,
so infinitesimal ... so absolutely non-existent!
. . . She felt that something had grown up inside
her and was looking down upon all that earlier busi-
ness . . . No, there was no bitterness left. She
felt a deep pity and a sisterly affection for this poor,
old woman, Bertha, who now lay feebly and Impo-
tently in her arms, begging . . . for what? She
collected her thoughts : what could she do, how could
she help Bertha? Her thoughts crowded upon one
another rapidly; she thought vaguely of Van der
Welcke, of Addle: what could they do, how could
2IO THE LATER LIFE
they help Bertha, how get upon the track of Emille
and Henri? And in the end she could think of no-
thing to say but :
" Yes, Bertha, the best thing will be to pretend
that Emilie has gone for a trip with her brother.
We will put it like that, If necessary. What does
Van Raven want to do?"
" He won't consent to a divorce . . . And it
would be an awful thing, you know . . . Oh, Con-
stance, they have not been married ten months! "
A weariness suddenly came over her, like the
abrupt extinction of all the little mundane interests
that had always meant so much to her.
" But," she murmured, " if he beats her . . . per-
haps it is better that they should be divorced . . .
I don't know . . . We are going to Baarn: there
is a small villa to let there. I should prefer to take
it at once and go down there with Louise and
Marianne . . . Karel gives me a lot of trouble : he
doesn't behave well, no, he doesn't behave well.
And he is still so young. Perhaps he will go to live
with Adolph, his guardian, who will be very strict
with him. I don't know what to do, I can do no-
thing ... I used to do everything with Van Naghel,
he and I together. He was really good and kind.
We were always thinking of the children, both of
us. He was tired ... of being in the Cabinet; but
he went on, for the children's sake . . ."
Her unconscious simplicity, in implying that Van
THE LATER LIFE 2n
Naghel was In the Cabinet for the sake of his child-
ren and not of his country, seemed to strike Con-
stance for the first time: she almost smiled, held
Bertha closer to her.
" He couldn't very well resign . . . and he didn't
want to," Bertha continued, feebly. " And now I
don't know what to do. I feel so very much alone;
and yet I was once a capable woman, wasn't I, Con-
stance? Now I no longer feel capable. Perhaps
that life was too crowded. And, Constance, v>'hat
was the use of it all? My children, our children,
for whom we lived, are none of them happy. I have
grown weary and old ... for nothing. I wish
that we were at Baarn now. I want to live there
quietly, with the two girls. Louise is nice, so is
Marianne. They neither of them want to go about
any more. They're not happy, no, they are not
happy. Oh, my poor, poor children! . . . You
must never tell Mamma, Constance. Mamma
doesn't know: dear Mamma! There is no need for
her to know, poor dear! Better leave her under
the impression that all is well with us, even though
Van Naghel is gone . . ."
And she sobbed at the thought that she was alone.
Then, suddenly, she drew herself up a little, made
Constance take a chair, sat down beside her and
asked, peering anxiously through her tears into Con-
stance' face:
"Constance, tell me . . . Marianne?"
212 THE LATER LIFE
"Yes, Bertha?"
"Are you fond of Marianne?"
" Yes, very."
"Still?"
"Yes, still."
" Constance . . ."
"Yes, Bertha?"
" It is just as well . . . that we are going
to Baarn . . . Tell me, Constance: Van der
Welcke . . ."
"Well?"
"What sort of a man is he?"
" What do you mean, Bertha? " asked Constance,
gently.
'Hs . . . is it his fault? ... Is he a gentle-
man? "
Constance defended her husband calmly, but not
without astonishment that Bertha could speak so
frankly about that ... as if they both knew all
about it:
" No, Bertha, I don't think that Henri . . . that
it is Henri's fault. I don't think it's Marianne's
fault either. Bertha, I don't believe they can help
it. They have an attraction for each other, a very
great attraction . . ."
A tenderness came over her soul, like a glow, like
a glowing compassion.
" Constance, they must not let themselves go.
They must struggle against it."
THE LATER LIFE 213
"Who can tell what they are doing, Bertha?
Who can tell what goes on inside them? "
" No, they are not struggling."
"Who can tell?"
" No, no . . . Constance, It is just as well that
we are going to Baarn."
They heard voices in the drawing-room, loud
voices, with an Indian accent. The Ruyvenaers
were going:
" Good-bye, Ber-r-rtha," said Aunt Lot, looking
through the door. " We're going, Ber-r-rtha."
Constance and Bertha went back to the drawing-
room. Bertha forgot to wipe the tears from her
eyes, kissed Aunt Lot. Adolphine and Cateau
came up to Bertha :
" Ber-tha," whined Cateau; and this time she
whined with a vengeance. " We just want-ed to say
a word to you. Emilie-tje must not get a di-vorce."
" No," said Adolphine, " if she goes and gets a
divorce, the family will become impossible. It'll
create a scandal, if they are divorced."
" Ye-es," Cateau droned aloud, " it would be a
scan-dal, Ber-tha. Don't you think so too, Con-
stance? "
" There's no question of it . . . for the mo-
ment," said Constance. " Emilie has gone abroad
for a bit with Henri; and the change is sure to do
her good and make her a little calmer."
"Oh? . . . Has she gone a-broad?"
214 THE LATER LIFE
" Where to? " asked Adolphine, all agog.
" They were to go to Paris," said Constance, with-
out hesitating.
"O-oh? . . . Has Emilie-tje gone to . . .
Pa-ris?"
" Yes, with her brother," Constance repeated.
A minute later, she found an opportunity of say-
ing quietly to Bertha:
"It's better like that. Bertha; better to say it
as if it was quite natural ... If you don't say it
yourself . . . and they come to hear . . ."
" Thank you, Constance . . . thank you."
" Oh, Bertha ... I wish I could do something
for you ! "
'* You have helped me as it is . . . Thank you
. . . That's all that I can say . . ."
She lay back helplessly in her chair, staring dimly
before her. Constance followed her glance. She
saw that Van der Welcke had come, very late. He
was sitting in the conservatory — where the boys
had cleared away the cards after their game, as
Grandmamma always expected them to do — sitting
a little in the shadow, but still visible. He was
bending over towards Marianne, who sat beside him,
her face a white patch in the darkness: a frail little
black figure making a faint blur in the dim conserva-
tory, where the gas was now turned out. She
seemed to be weeping silently, sat crushing her hand-
kerchief. He appeared to be saying something,
THE LATER LIFE 215
anxiously and tenderly, while he bent still nearer to
her. Then, suddenly, he took her hand, pressed it
impulsively. Marianne looked up in alarm. Her
eyes met, at the far end of the long drawing-room,
the eyes of Aunt Constance, the dull, staring eyes of
her mother. She drew away her hand . . . and her
pale face flushed with a glow of shame . . .
Grandmamma stood in the middle of the drawing-
room, a little sad at the gloom which the recent
mourning had cast over her rooms. The children
took their leave.
CHAPTER XXII
Constance began to love her loneliness more and
more.
Her daily life was very uneventful: she could
count the people with whom she came into contact.
First her husband and her son: there was something
gentler in her attitude towards Van der Welcke,
something almost motherly, which prevented her
from getting angry with him, even though the in-
clination welled up within her. Addie was as usual,
perhaps even a little more serious: this disquieted
her. Then there was Brauws, who came regularly.
He dined with them regularly, on a fixed day in the
week, quite informally; and moreover he had become
the friend of both Van der Welcke and Constance
and even of Addie. Then there were Mamma,
Gerrit and his little tribe and, now and again, Paul.
And then there was Van Vreeswijck; and Marianne,
of course; and latterly she had seen more of Bertha.
For the rest she seemed to drift away from all
the others, even from warm-hearted Aunt Lot. She
kept in touch only with those with whom she was
really in sympathy.
Still, though she had these few friends, she often
216
THE LATER LIFE 217
had quite lonely afternoons. But they did not de-
press her; she gazed out at the rain, at the cloud-
phantoms. And she dreamed . . . along the path
of light. She smiled at her dream. Even though
she very much feared the absurdity of it for herself,
she could not help it: a new youthfulness filled her
with a gentle glow, a new tenderness, like the deli-
cate bloom of a young girl's soul dreaming of the
wonderful future . . . And then she would come
back to herself suddenly and smile at her sentimen-
tality and summon up all her matronly common-
sense; and she would think:
*' Come, I oughtn't to be sitting like this 1 . . .
Come, I oughtn't to be acting like this and thinking
of everything and nothing! . . . Certainly, I like
him very much; but why cannot I do that without
these strange thoughts, without dreaming and pictur-
ing all manner of things and filling my head with
romantic fancies . . . as if I were a girl of eighteen
or twenty? . . . Oh, those are the things which we
do not speak about, the deep secret things which we
never tell to anybody I ... I should never have
suspected them in myself ... or that they could
be so exquisitely sweet to me. How strangely sweet,
to dream myself back to youth in visions which,
though they never really take shape, yet make a
shining path to those cloudy skies, to imagine my-
self young again in those dreams ! ... If I never
had these thoughts and dreams before, why do I
2i8 THE LATER LIFE
have them now? Come, I oughtn't to be sitting like
this and thinking Hke this ! . . . I make up a host of
pretty stories, sentimental little stories, and see my-
self, see us both, years ago, as quite young children,
both of us. He played and I played . . . almost
the same game : he a boy, I a girl. It was as though
he were seeking me. It was as though I, in my
childish dreams, divined something of him, far, far
away, as though there were a part of me that wanted
to go to him, a part of him that wanted to come to
me . . . Stop, I am giving way again to those
secret enthusiasms which lie deep down in my soul
like strange, hidden streams, those vague, romantic
ferments such as I imagined that young girls might
have, but not I, a woman of my years, a woman with
my past, the mother of a big son ... I will not do
it any more, I will not ... It is morbid to be like
this . . • And yet . . . and yet , . . when the
wind blows and the rain comes down, it is, it still is
the dear secret that brings the tears to my eyes . . .
If I love him, quite silently, deep down within my-
self, why may I not just dream like that? The ab-
surdity of it exists only for me: nobody, nobody
knows of It. I have some one else hidden within
me : a younger woman, a sister, a young sister-soul,
a girl's soul almost. It is absurd, I know; but some-
times, sometimes it is so strong in me and I love
him so well and feel, just like a girl, that he is the
first man I have ever loved . . . Oh, Henri ! I can
THE LATER LIFE 219
see now what that was: he was young; it was at first
mere play-acting, just like a comedy; then it became
passion, very quickly, a mad impulse, an almost
feverish impulse to hold him in my arms. That is
all dead. Passion is dead . . . This is a dream,
a young girl's dream. It is the beginning. It is ab-
surd; and I am often ashamed of it, for my own
sake. But I cannot resist it: it envelops me, just as
the spring sunshine and the scent of the may and the
cherry-blossom in the Woods envelop one with
languorous sweetness. I cannot resist it, I can tiot
resist it. My eyes go towards those clouds, my soul
goes towards those clouds, my dreams go towards
them . . . and I love him, I love him ... I feel
ashamed: sometimes I dare not look my son In the
face ... I love him, I love him; and I feel
ashamed: sometimes I dare not go across the street,
as though people would notice it, by the light on my
face . . . But ah, no, that light does not shine from
me, because I am old! It does from Marianne,
poor child, but not from me . . . oh, thank God
for that I ... I want to struggle against it, but it
is stronger than I; and, when I think of him, I feel
as if I were numbed here in my chair. When he
comes into the room, I tremble, powerless to make
a movement. Let me be ashamed of myself, argue
with myself, struggle as I may, it is so, it is something
real, as though I had never felt anything real in
my life : it is a dream and it is also reality . . ."
2 20 THE LATER LIFE
She often strove against it, but the dream was
always too strong for her, enveloping her as with a
multitude of languorous spring scents. It imparted
a strange tenderness to her, to her fresh, round face,
the face of a woman in her prime, with the strange,
soft, curly hair, which the years were changing with-
out turning grey. If he came, she awoke from that
dream, but felt herself blissfully languid and faint.
" I am not a girl," she thought, now that she
heard herself speak; but her fixed idea, that she was
old, quite old, retreated a little way into the back-
ground.
But, though she now no longer felt so old in her
dream, after her dream she thought herself igno-
rant. Oh, how ignorant she was ! And why had
she never acquired an atom of knowledge in her
wasted days, in her squandered, empty years.
When she was talking to Brauws — and now that he
came regularly, they often talked together, long and
earnestly, in the friendly twilight — she thought :
" How ignorant I am I "
She had to make an effort sometimes to follow
him in the simplest things that he said. She was
obliged to confess to him that she had never learnt
very much. But he said that that was a good thing,
that it had kept her mind fresh. She shook her
head in disclaimer; she confessed that she was igno-
rant and stupid. He protested; but she told him
THE LATER LIFE 221
frankly that it sometimes tired her to follow him.
And she was so honest with him that she herself was
sometimes surprised at it. If ever their conversa-
tion became too hopelessly deep, she preferred to be
silent rather than lie or even seek an evasion in
words . . . Ignorant, yes; and it distressed her to
such an extent that, one afternoon, when Henri was
out and Addie at school, she went to her son's room
and opened his book-case. In addition to the ordi-
nary school-manuals, It contained a few boys'-books;
and she laughed at herself, her little tender, mocking
laugh of gentle irony. But she found a couple of
volumes on Universal History, a present from Van
der Welcke to Addie, who was very fond of history;
and she opened them where she stood. She turned
the pages. She was afraid that some one might
come in: the maid, perhaps, by accident. She sat
down in the only easy-chair, impregnated with the
smoke of the cigarettes which Van der Welcke
smoked one after the other, silently, while Addie was
preparing his lessons; and she turned the pages and
read. She continued to suffer from that sense of
her own absurdity. She felt like a schoolgirl
dreaming . . . and learning her lessons. She went
on reading; and, when Truitje was looking for her
all over the house and she heard her ask the cook
where on earth mevrouw could be, she blushed vio-
lently, quickly put the books back on the shelves and
222 THE LATER LIFE
left the room. She would have liked to take the
books with her, but dared not; however, that even-
ing at dinner she plucked up courage and said:
" Addie, Mr. Brauws was saying something about
the French Revolution the other day; and I felt so
stupid at being so ignorant on the subject. Have
you any books about it? "
Yes, he had this book and that book, in fact he
had always been attracted by that period and had
collected as many books upon it as his scanty pocket-
money permitted. He would bring them to her
after dinner. And she acquired a sort of passion
for reading and learning. She indulged it almost
hastily, feverishly, without any method, as though
nervously anxious to make up for the deficiencies of
her own education. And at the same time she was
frightened lest other people — even Van der Welcke
and Addie — should notice that fevered haste; and
she devoured book after book with studied cunning,
sometimes turning the pages over hurriedly, fever-
ishly, then again reading more attentively, but never
leaving the books about, always replacing them on
hei* boy's shelves, or returning them to Brauws and
Paul when they had been borrowed from them, or
carefully putting away those which she had bought
herself, so that her room apparently remained the
same, without the confusion and untidiness of a lot
of books. Her reading was a strange medley: a
volume of Quack's Socialists, which Brauws lent her;
THE LATER LIFE 223
Zola's novel, UCEtivre; a pamphlet by Bakunin and
an odd number of the Gids ; a copy of The Imitation
which had strayed among Van der Welcke's books;
Gonse on Japanese Art; Tolstoi's novels and pam-
phlets. But it was a strange bold power of discrim-
ination that at once taught her to pick and choose
amid the chaos of all this literature, made her accept
this and reject that: a psychological analysis; a new
work on modern social evolution; an aesthetic rhap-
sody about a Japanese vase. She learnt quickly to
look into them boldly and to take from them what
was able as it were to develop her; and out of many
of those books there flashed forth such entirely new
revelations of hitherto unperceived truths that often,
tired, dazed, astounded, she asked herself:
" Is there so much then? Is so much thought
about, dreamt about, so much sought for, lived for?
Do people have those visions then, those dreams?
And does It all exist? And can it all be taken in
by me, by my intelligence? "
And, as she thought, it seemed as if crape veils
were being raised everywhere from before her and
as if she, whose gaze had never wandered from her
family and friends, now saw, suddenly, through the
distant clouds, right into those cities, right Into those
civilizations, into the future, into the past, into so
much of the present as still hovered closely around
her own existence. She experienced shock after
shock: she felt dimly that even the terrible French
224 THE LATER LIFE
Revolution, though it did cost Marie-Antoinette
her life, had its good side. Zola seemed to her so
magnificent that she was almost frightened at her
own enthusiasm and dared not put her feeling into
words. And the noble dreams of those apostles of
humanity, even though they anathematized the power
of the State and money — all that she had uncon-
sciously looked upon, all her life, as indispensable to
civilized society — made her quiver first with alarm,
then with compassion, then with terror, with despair,
with exultation . . . She did not utter her
thoughts; only, in her conversations with Brauws,
she felt that she was gradually better able to follow
him, that she was more responsive, less vague In her
replies ... If in all this, this new self-education,
there was something hurried and superficial, the
tremulous haste of an eager, nervous woman who
fears that she Is devoting herself too late to what
Is vitally necessary, there was at the same time some-
thing fresh and ingenuous, something youthful and
unspoilt, like the enthusiasm of a woman still young
who, after her girlish dreams, wants to grasp some
part of the vivid, many-coloured, radiant life around
her, who grasps with joyous open hands at the
colours and the sunbeams and who, though she
grasps wildly, nevertheless gathers fresh life In her
Illusion . . . She gathered fresh life. The wind
that blew outside seemed to blow through her soul;
the rain that pelted seemed actually to wash her face ;
THE LATER LIFE 225
the continual gusts on every hand blew the mist
from before her eyes, drew it aside like a curtain
. . . Her eyes sparkled; and, when the winter had
done blowing and raining, when suddenly, without
any transition, a breath of spring — the limpid blue
of the sky, the tender green of the stirring earth —
floated over and through the Woods, it was as
though she yearned for movement. She managed,
every afternoon that Addie was free, to take him
away from Van der Welcke and to lure him out for
a long walk, out of the town, over the dunes, ever
so far. Addie, with his eyes bright with laughing
surprise, thought it very jolly of her and would go
with her, though he was no walker and preferred
bicycling, athirst for speed. But, in his young, gal-
lant boy's soul, he laughed softly, thought Mamma
charming: grown years younger, grown into a young
woman, suddenly, in her short skirt, her little cloth
cape, with the sailor-hat on her curly hair and the
colour in her cheeks, slim-waisted, quick-footed, her
voice clear, her laugh sometimes ringing out sud-
denly. He thought of Papa and that she was now
becoming as young as he; and Addie felt himself old
beside her. He saw nothing of what was happening
in his mother, even as nobody saw it, for she kept it
to herself, was no different to the others, spoke no
differently to the others, perhaps only just with a
brighter laugh. What she read, what she learnt,
what she felt, what she thought: all this was not per-
226 THE LATER LIFE
ceptible to the others. It did not shine out from her;
and her foot merely moved a shade quicker, her
speech became a shade more spontaneous. But
everything that blossomed and flamed up in her she
kept to herself, in the vast silence of her broad but
unshared vistas. To her husband she was gentler, to
her son she was younger. Only now, in those walks,
perhaps Addie was the one person in her life who
noticed that, when Mamma happened to mention
Mr. Brauws' name, an unusual note sounded in her
brighter, younger voice. A boy of his age does not
analyse a subtle perception of this kind; only, with-
out reasoning, without analysing, just instinctively,
this boy of fourteen thought of his father, whom he
worshipped with a strange, protecting adoration such
as one gives to a brother or a friend — a younger
brother, a younger friend — and felt a pang of jea-
lousy on his behalf, jealousy of this man who did
what Papa never did, talked with Mamma for hours
three or four times a week, so often In fact that she
was growing younger, that she had taken to reading,
so as no longer to be ignorant, that she had deve-
loped a need for walking great distances. But the
lad kept this jealousy locked up within himself, al-
lowed none to perceive It. Perhaps he was just a
trifle colder to him, to this man, the friend of the
family, though Brauws was so fond of him, Addie,
almost passionately fond of him Indeed: Addie knew
that. This jealousy for his father, jealousy of that
THE LATER LIFE 227
friend of the family, was very strong In him; and
he felt himself to be the child of both his parents,
felt within himself their double heritage of jealousy.
The image of his father appeared constantly before
him, appeared between the images of Brauws and
of his mother. But he let her see nothing of it.
She gathered fresh life in those walks. When
Addie was at school, she walked alone, no longer
fearing the loneliness out of doors, she who had
come to love her indoor loneliness and the still
deeper loneliness of her soul. It was as though,
after dreaming and educating herself — quickly,
nervously, superficially and with youthful simplicity
— in what great men had thought and written, she
felt herself breathe again in the midst of nature.
No longer from her arm-chair, through the windows,
along the bend of the curtains did she see the great
clouds, but she now saw them out of doors and over-
head, blue, white, Immense, Irradiated by the sun in
the vault of the boundless spring skies all vocal with
birds, saw them as she stood on the dunes, with the
wind all round her head, all round her hair and
blowing through her skirts. . . .
" I love him, I love him," a voice Inside her sang
softly and yet Insistently, while the wind's strong
passion seemed to lift her up and waft her along.
But in the movement of her hands there was
something as though she were resisting the wind,
with a smile of gentle irony, of tender mockery.
228 THE LATER LIFE
The wind blew past, as if grumbling, and she walked
on, saw the sea. She seemed to look upon the sea
for the first time. It was as though, in the strong
wind, under the blue-white clouds, the sea streamed
to her for the first time from the ethereal fount of
the horizon and were now rushing towards her, roar-
ing and frothing, like a triumph of multitudinous,
white-crested horses. And the sky and the sea were
as one great triumph of mighty, omnipotent nature.
A nameless but overwhelming triumph seemed from
out of those clouds to hold reins in thousands of
fists, the reins of the multitudinous white-crested
horses; and all that triumph of nature advanced to-
wards her like a riot of youth. It was as though
every atom of her former life, every memory flew
away around her like sand, like dust, like straw. It
all flew away; and the waves broke, the sea uplifted
itself like an exulting menace, as though to carry
her with it in the riotous rush of its triumphant
crested steeds, over all that small life, over every-
thing ... if she did not take care.
It was all big, wide, far-reaching, like a world.
When she reached home, she was tired out, sobered
by the tram-ride and the last bit of walking, past
casual, shadowy people. Worn out, she fell asleep,
woke shortly before dinner, welcomed Addie in a
dream. Until sometimes she read her son's eyes,
made an effort, plunged her face in a basin of water,
tried to be, to appear as she had always been. And
THE LATER LIFE 229
then, In the glass, she saw herself like that, to all ap-
pearance the same woman, with just something live-
lier in her eyes, her gait, her movements. But inside
her everything was changed.
At home sometimes the past would still rise up
before her, but different, quite different. She
seemed to withdraw from her former personality and
it was as though, far removed from the woman that
she had once been, she was now for the first time
able to judge her past from another point of view
than her own. She saw suddenly what her father
must have suffered. Mamma, the brothers even, the
sisters. She realized for the first time the sacrifice
which those old, pious people, Henri's parents, had
made. She thought in dismay of the injury which
she had done her first husband, De Staffelaer. She
thought of them all, in dismay at herself, in com-
passion for them. And she felt sorry even for her
husband and for what he had always querulously
resented, his shattered career, which had constituted
his grudge, his obsession, the excuse for his inertia :
for Van der Welcke and even for that grudge she
felt compassion. How young he was when she met
him, when they had acted their comedy, their comedy
which had become deadly earnest! And she had at
once fettered him to herself, in ever-increasing an-
tagonism! Then her eyes would rest on him with
a more understanding glance, sometimes almost with
a certain pity, as she looked into his eyes, his young
230 THE LATER LIFE
blue boyish eyes, which Addie had inherited from
him, but which in the father looked younger, more
boyish than in the son. If, at the sound of his
voice, the inclination to speak to him irritably welled
up in her from the eternal antagonism between them,
as from a gloomy spring deep down in her, she
would restrain herself, control herself with that new
sympathy and pity, answer gently, almost jokingly,
and would let him have the last word. And, now
that she herself was in love and felt herself live
again, she had a sympathy that was almost motherly
for his love, even though she herself was beginning
to feel young again, and with it a strange tenderness
for the two of them, Marianne and Henri. She did
not think of the danger for him; she still had only,
in her new world of romance, a sympathy for ro-
mance. He was her husband, but she felt none of
a wife's jealousy. And for Marianne she felt the
same strange compassion, as for a younger sister-in-
love. . . .
There came to her scarcely a fleeting thought of
the immorality which the world, people, small peo-
ple — the whirlers in the little circle, with their little
prejudices and dogmas, their little creeds and philoso-
phies — would see in such strange views from a mar-
ried woman concerning herself and a friend, concern-
ing her husband and the little niece with whom her
husband was evidently in love. She was a small
creature like all of them, she was a small soul, like
THE LATER LIFE 231
all of them; but her soul at least was growing, grow-
ing upwards and outwards; she no longer felt de-
pressed; and it seemed as if she were being borne on
wings to the greater cloud-worlds yonder, to the far
cities, where flashed the lightnings of the new reve-
lations, the new realities. . . .
Everything in her was changed. . . .
CHAPTER XXIII
Max Brauws was a thinker as well as a man of
action; and each of these two personalities insisted on
having its period of domination. After his college
days, he had wandered over Europe for years,
vaguely seeking an object in life. Deep down in
himself, notwithstanding all his restless activity, he,
remained a dreamer, as he had been in his childhood
and boyhood. It seemed as if that which he had
sought in his dreams when playing as a boy on the
fir-clad hills and over the moors went on beckoning
him, darkly and elusively, a mystic, nebulous veil
on the dim horizons of the past; and, when
he ran towards them, those far horizons, they re-
ceded more and more into the distance, fading little
by little; and the veil was like a little cloud, melting
into thin air. . . . He had wandered about for
years, his soul oppressed by a load of knowledge, by
the load of knowing all that men had thought,
planned, believed, dreamed, worshipped, achieved.
An almost mechanically accurate memory had ar-
ranged those loads in his brain in absolute order;
and, if he had not been above all things driven by the
unrest of his imagination, with its eternal dreaming
and its eternal yearning to find what it sought, he
would have become a quiet scholar, living in the coun-
232
THE LATER LIFE 233
try, far from cities, with a great library around him;
for very often, when spent with weariness, he had
a vision of an ideal repose. But the unrest and the
yearning had always driven him on, driven him
through the world; and they had both made him
seek, for himself as well as for others, because, if he
had found for others, he would also have found for
himself. They, the unrest and the yearning, had
driven him on towards the great centres of life, to-
wards the black gloom of the English and German
manufacturing-towns, towards the unhappy moujiks
in Russia, towards the famine-stricken villages of
Sicily, all in a heart-rending passion to know, to have
seen, penetrated and experienced all the misery of
the world. And the capitals had risen up around
him like gigantic Babels of fevered pride, accumula-
tions of egotisms; the smoke of the manufacturing-
towns had smeared along the horizon of his life the
soot-black clouds through which he could not see and
in which the days remained eternally defiled; the
Russian snow-landscapes had spread out as eternal,
untraversable steppes — steppes and steppes and
steppes — of absolutely colourless despair; in Italy
he had beheld an appalling contrast between the mag-
nificence of the country — the glory of its scenery, the
melancholy of its art — and the sorrows of the af-
flicted nation, which, as In a haze of gold, against a
background of sublime ruins and shimmering blue,
along rows of palaces full of noble treasures, uttered
234 THE LATER LIFE
its cry of hunger, shook Its threatening fist, because
the old ground brought forth not another oHve, not
one, after the excesses of the past, exhausted by the
birth-pangs of the untold glories of old. . . .
His mind, schooled in book-lore, also read life it-
self, learnt to know it, fathomed it with a glance.
He saw the world, saw its wickedness, its selfishness,
saw especially its awful, monstrous hypocrisy. Like
so many leering, grinning masks, with treacherous
honeyed smiles, contradicting the furtive glances of
the diabolical eyes, he saw the powers of the world
above the world itself: a huge nightmare of com-
pact distress, the greedy, covetous, grasping fingers
hidden as though ready to clutch at the folds of the
majestic purple, ready to strike like vultures' claws.
And he saw — O terrible vision ! — the world as a
helpless, quivering mass lying for centuries under
that eternal menace. He saw it everywhere. Then
he wanted to free himself with a gigantic effort from
the sphinx-like domination of his impotence, with
its eternally unseeing eyes, its eternally silent lips, its
undivining mind; and his movement was as that of
one who lies crushed under granite, the granite of
that omnipotent sphinx of impotence, who, with her
eternal immovability, seemed to be saying nothing
but this:
" I am unchangeable, eternally; against me every-
thing Is eternally dashing Itself to pieces; against me
your dreams scatter into mist. I alone am, but I am
THE LATER LIFE 235
that which is unchangeable: human impotence, your
own impotence. Lie still at my feet, do not move:
I alone am."
That was the vision of his hopeless eyes. But
desperation drove him on, wandering ever on and on
to other lands, to other capitals, to other towns black
with smoke : the smoke through which nothing shone,
not a single gleam of hope. And for years it was
the same: wandering, seeking, not finding; only see-
ing, knowing, realizing. But the more he saw, knew
and realized, the more terrible It was to him that he
could not find the very first word of the solution,
the more terrible it became to him that only the
sphinx remained, the immovable granite impotence;
and her blank gaze seemed to utter her solitary reve-
lation:
" I alone am. I am impotence; but I am Immov-
able, I am omnipotent."
Then he had felt in himself the need to do still
more, to be really a doer, a common workman, as
they all were, everywhere, the poor and wretched.
And he went to America, in order no longer to think,
read, ponder, dream, see or know, but to do what
they were all doing, the poor and wretched. And
it was as he had succeeded in telling Constance at
last, after so many hesitations: everything that was
atavistic In him had prevented him from becoming
a brother, a fellow-worker. But he was scarcely
back In Europe before he felt the air around him
236 THE LATER LIFE
full of noble aims, passionate hopes; and Peace had
shone before his eyes. He spoke; and his words
were as the words of one inspired; and everybody
went to hear him. He had spoken in Holland; he
now went to Germany and spoke there. He wrote
his book there : Peace. He went on doing and mov-
ing, until he was laid low not only with the fatigue
of thinking and meditating, but also with the strain
of constantly travelling hither and thither, of con-
stantly appearing in overcrowded halls, of speaking
in a clear, resonant voice to thousands of people.
For a moment he said to himself that he was doing
something, something even greater and better than
his manual labour in America had been. For a mo-
ment he said to himself that he had found, if not
everything, at least something, an atom of absolute
good, and that he was imparting that atom to the
world. But dull discouragement came and smote
him, as well as physical strain, and left him saying to
himself:
" They cheer and applaud, but nothing is changed.
Everything remains as it is, as if I had never
spoken."
His impatience demanded an immediate realiza-
tion and the sight of the ideal flashing across the
horizon. And then he lost all hope even for the
future, for the brighter ages that were dawning.
A mocking laugh, a sarcastic word in a report
on his lectures was enough to shatter him for weeks.
THE LATER LIFE 237
He hid himself like a leper, or allowed himself
to be luxuriously lapped in the leafy melancholy of
the German mountain-forests, or went, farther and
higher, into the Alps, made reckless ascents, just
himself and a guide, as though, along the pure world
of the slippery glaciers, he hoped to find what he
had sought in vain in the Old World and the New,
in the world of all and of himself.
Then he remained for weeks lingering on In a
lonely little village in Switzerland, high up among
the eternal snows, as though he wished to purify
himself of all the dust of his humanity. Merely
through breathing the exquisite rareness of the air,
especially at night, when in the higher heavens the
stars shone nearer to him, twinkling out their living
rays, it seemed as if the pure cold were cleansing
him to his marrow, to his soul. He gazed back al-
most peacefully upon his life as a man of thought
and action, thought and action being two things in
which a man is able to indulge only if he be willing to
live, for others and for himself. If anything of his
thought, of his action remained drifting in those
lower atmospheres of the suffering world, he was cer-
tain that this would be so little, so infinltesimally
small, that he himself did not perceive it, like an
atom of dust floating in the Immensity of the future.
Perhaps then the atom would prove to be a little
grain and, as such, be built into the substance of the
ideal. But, even if this were so, his thought and
238 THE LATER LIFE
his action and their possible results seemed to him
so small, so slight that he was filled with humility.
And in this humility there was a pride In being hum-
ble; for did he not remember all the complacency,
the dogmatism, the conviction, the assurance, the
self-consciousness, all the pedantry that battened
down there ?
Amid the serenity of the mountains, as he sent his
gaze roaming over the frost-bound horizons, all
within him became pure and crystal-clear, his soul a
very prism. He saw its colours lying there plainly,
shining, glittering, with none of the foulness of that
lower world. And these weeks were weeks of the
deepest and most health-giving rest that he had ever
known.
He now felt very lonely. He was not the man to
give himself up to the simple enjoyment of this heal-
ing rest. He loved best to feel the multitude around
him, to fling out his strong arms wide towards hu-
manity, feeling his most ardent and happiest glow
when embracing humanity. But, after his discour-
agements, he seemed to have thrust It gently, though
kindly, a little farther from him, had abandoned it,
had sequestered himself. In order to recover from
himself and from humanity In the ample, restful si-
lence of utter solitude. He now felt very lonely.
And a longing awoke In him, stirring but feebly as
yet, for love to come towards him now, because
hitherto love had always gone out from him, eager
THE LATER LIFE 239
and passionate; a longing to be sought himself, for
once in his life; to see arms opened to him this time,
waiting to embrace him, to press him to a loving
heart. ... A feeling of melancholy softened him,
made him small and human, while the mountain-wind
swept past on giant wings. . . .
He looked back upon his life. That was one
thing which it had never known: that concentration
of all feeling on an individual. With him, any-
whole-hearted feeling had always been for the many.
When he looked back, he saw spectres wandering
through the past: the individual, the unit, just a faint
blur here and there; he had never felt that all-de-
vouring passion for them, the individuals. And yet,
as a child, as a boy, playing his dream-game amid
woods, fields, heather and stream, for whom had his
longing been? To find all of them, humanity, or
the one individual soul? He did not know, but a
dreamer he had always remained, for all his thinking
and doing. And now, after the many had brought
him sorrow, he began to dream, for the first time,
of the one . . .
Of the one . . . the one Individual soul that
would open wide arms to him and approach him with
a loving embrace . . . one individual soul. . . .
Had his quest always been the self-deception of im-
potence and was it possible that now that quest had
become a search for the one individual soul? Sud-
denly, through his longing, he remembered an even-
240 THE LATER LIFE
ing: a table with flowers and candles; men talking
amid the smoke of their cigars; the burly figure of a
fair-haired ofl^cer; and some strange words which
that officer had just uttered as though unconsciously,
in the course of ordinary conversation: a vision call-
ing up early years of childhood, childish play, a little
girl, fair, with red flowers at her temples, dressed in
white, running barefoot over great boulders in a river
full of rocks, under the heavy foliage of the tropical
trees, and beckoning, beckoning with her little hand
to the two elder brothers who were playing with her,
fascinated by their little sister. . . .
There, in that room, through the smoke of the
cigars, amid the hum of indifferent talk, in three or
four sentences, no more, that big, fair-haired man
had said it, said it just casually, with a softening of
his rough, noisy voice :
" It was wonderful, the way she had of playing.
She would run over the rocks and pluck the flowers.
Lord, how adorable she looked, the little witch 1
And we boys used to run with her, run after her, as
far as ever she pleased. She only had to beckon to
us . . . the damned, adorable little witch! "
And the oath sounded like a caress; and the whole
thing was only a picture lasting two or three seconds,
no more ; and then they returned to the smell of coffee
and liqueurs, the cigar-smoke, the noisy voice grow-
ing rough again, becoming coarse and jovial as the
burly, fair-haired soldier told some mess-room tale
THE LATER LIFE 241
immediately afterwards, after that reminiscence.
But in him, Brauws, the reminiscence had lingered,
as though always visible : the picture shining in the
tenderness with which the brother had spoken of his
sister; and it seemed to him as though he himself had
seen, but more vaguely and dimly, once in his life, on
those Dutch horizonsof his childhood, a blur like that
of the little figure, the bright, fair-faced child, even
the little red note of her flowers. . . . Oh, how vague
it was, how visionary ! You thought of it . . . and
it had gone, all of it, leaving hardly the memory of a
perfume, nay, hardly the reflection of a memory!
Really, it was nothing, nothing, too airy for thought
and impossible to describe In words, however ten-
derly chosen. It was nothing: if he thought about
It for more than the one second that the reflection
flashed across him, It was gone, quite lost. . . .
He was feeling very lonely now. . . . Oh, to think
of the passing years with their millions of meetings,
so many men and women just brushing against one
another, in that casual passing, just looking into one
another's eyes, with the Indifferent look of non-
recognition, and then passing one another again,
never seeing one another after! . . . And perhaps
among them the one had passed, her eyes looking
indifferently into his eyes, a bit of her body or dress
brushing against his body or dress . . . and she
was gone, gone, lost altogether forever. Was that
how it had happened In his life? Or not? Was
242 THE LATER LIFE
life sometimes merciful at the eleventh hour, giving
the one, the individual soul, as a consolation, as a
reward for that love for the many?
Now he felt quite lonely, he who was a dreamer
as well as a thinker and a man of action. And an
irresistible wish to be no longer lonely made him
come down suddenly from that ring of glittering
peaks. There was nothing waiting for him in Hol-
land, nothing to draw him towards those low lands
of his birth, into the swarm of utterly indifferent
people, full of petty insignificance, save alone, per-
haps, that it was there — in the same house where
the vision had been conjured up — there that the
soul was waiting, there that the one individual soul
would bide his coming.
" It is only a fancy," he now thought. " A
fancy ... at my age ! No, if any such thing had
to happen, it would have happened in the years of
youth in which we have the right to feel, to dream,
to seek ... to seek for the one. Now that so
many years, silent, dead years, lie heaped up around
her and around me . . . and between us, now it be-
comes absurd to feel, to dream, to seek those sweet
solaces which we feel, dream and seek only when
we are very young, but not when we have lost even
our right to the remembrance of our youth, the re-
flection of our childish memories. . . ."
Still he came down from the mountains. . . .
CHAPTER XXIV
It was not until he was standing in front of her, at
the Hague, that he knew, in his innermost soul, that
he had come back to Holland because of her and of
her alone. It struck him at once that her eyes were
brighter, her movements younger, that her voice
sounded clearer.
"I have read your book!" was the first thing
that she said to him, radiantly.
*' Well? " he asked, while his deep, almost sombre
eyes laughed in his rough, bronzed face.
She would not tell him that the book, Peace,
written in his clear, luminous style, prophesying in
ringing tones the great watchword of the future, had
consoled her for his three months' absence. She
managed to speak of it in terms of quiet apprecia-
tion, betraying no sign of her enthusiasm except by
an added brightness in her eyes and a curious lilt in
her voice, with its echo of summer and of carolling
birds. The book was a great success, written as it
were in one breath, as though he had uttered it in a
single sentence of quiet knowledge, warning them
of the coming changes in the world; in a single sen-
tence of quiet consolation, foretelling its future des-
tinies. There was in his words, in that one long
sentence of prophetic consolation, an irresistible
243
244 THE LATER LIFE
sweetness, a magic charm which affected for a mo-
ment even the most sceptical of his readers, even
though they scoffed at it Immediately afterwards;
something wonderful, inspired . . . and so simple
that the word was spoken almost without art, only
with a note that sounded strangely clear, as though
echoing from some higher plane. He had thought
out the book during his lecturlng-period in Holland
and Germany; he had written it up there, high up in
the Alps, with his eyes roaming over the ice-bound
horizons; and it had often seemed to him as if
Peace were waving her argent banners In the pure
air, her joyous processions descending from the
eternal snows of the upper air to the pollution of
the lower, to trumpet forth with blithe clarions the
holy tidings, the fair, unfaltering prophecy. . . .
The book had comforted her; she had read it in the
Woods, on the dunes, by the sea; and. In the warm
summer air, with its tang of salt, she had sat with the
book in her hands and felt him with her, though ab-
sent. . . . She knew the sentences by heart; but
she tempered her enthusiasm, lest she should betray
herself. And, when she had spoken of the book
and was silent for a moment, he said:
"And now tell me about yourself! What have
you been doing all these months? "
"What have I been doing? . . ."
" Yes. You must have done something besides
reading my Peace! "
THE LATER LIFE 245
She almost blushed; and a thrill went through her,
that catch at her throat and grip at her heart which
his step, his voice, his glance could still always give
her; and she was not able to answer at once. Yes,
really she had done nothing that summer except read
his Peace! So it seemed to her for a moment.
But, when she recovered from that sudden wave of
emotion, she reflected that it was not so; that she
had read other things; that she had dreamt, had
thought; that she had lived! It was very strange,
but she reflected . . . that she had lived!
It was as though both of them had much to say
to each other and yet did not know how to say it.
Van der Welcke was not at home; and they talked
together for a long time of indifferent things. He
felt all the while that a vague question was rising
to his lips, a question hardly formulated even in
his mind. He longed to ask her something, such a
question as a brother's tenderness might have
prompted, to which she would answer with a sister's
ready sympathy. But he did not know how to
speak; and so he buried within himself that strange
bright tenderness which longed to give itself expres-
sion, to ask its questions; and he locked himself up
in his deep, mournful seriousness, the sombreness of
a middle-aged man. She also, opposite him, was
the same, sat and spoke like a middle-aged woman;
he remarked the soft grey of her curling hair; and
both of them, serious, almost indifferent, talked
246 THE LATER LIFE
quietly, If sympathetically, of casual things . . . And
yet he felt that, deep down in herself, she was
changed. She had never looked like that before,
never spoken so clearly, with such young and lively
gestures. He noticed that she had been reading,
that she had read other books than his Peace; and,
when he told her of the world of misery which he
had seen quite lately In Germany, she replied In a
tone of compassion which struck him, because It
was no more the shuddering pity of a woman of the
world for the misery that swarms far beneath her
like vermin, but true compassion, the welling up
of a new and generous youth in her soul, an
enthusiasm now experienced for the very first time.
How sincerely her answer rang, how fervent were
the words In which she uttered It! He was aston-
ished and told her so, told her that he would never
have suspected such sincerity, such fervour, such
capacity for pity in a woman of her caste. But she
defended her caste, especially because she did not
wish to be too exuberant In her new youth and new
life and was perpetually suppressing herself. And
so now, to hide her feelings, she defended her caste :
did he not think that there were others who had the
power of feeling as she did for the misery of the
world, women like herself, women of her caste, not
merely those who perform their perfunctory little
works of charity, but other women who welcome the
new Ideas and above all the new sentiments of uni-
THE LATER LIFE 247
versal brotherhood, women who will perhaps stamp
them on their coming children, are already implant-
ing them, germ by germ, so that later, soon indeed,
they will bear a new generation whose lives will be
based on those sentiments of brotherhood? He
was surprised at what she said, but he brushed it
aside with a rough gesture, while a glance of hatred
flashed from his sombre, brooding eyes, deep-set in
his rough face — a glance that was sometimes an-
guished as though with pain — and he said to her
that this was not true, that it could not be, that her
whole caste was nothing but egoism, nothing but
hypocrisy, vast and monstrous, its hypocrisy perhaps
even more colossal than its egoism, and that he was
surprised at himself for having any friendly feeling
towards her, a woman of her caste. A rough can-
dour made his voice sound harsh. But she was not
offended by it; she listened to him although out of
his rough words there came a gust which seemed
likely to overthrow all that she had long looked upon
as cultured, correct, respectable, irreproachable,
moral and aristocratic. It was as though her read-
ing, like a breeze from the sea or the dunes, had
suddenly removed and blown away from her all the
pettiness, the miserable distortion of the dwarf
plant with its aping of greatness; all the everlasting
strife of opinions, interests and prejudices waged in
and around all those creatures of the world, the
women of her set. He noticed it, with a thrill of
248 THE LATER LIFE
happiness; and he knew that they understood each
other. There had sprung up between them the com-
mon understandnig, the common discussion of things
that are never discussed In current conversation.
And, because of his happiness, he knew that he
loved her, even though It was late In the day, even
though It was too late. He had never known a
love like that; he felt It now for the first, the very
first time, that wave of exultant, smiling happiness,
but at the same time he felt it like a shadow, a grief,
a regret for what might have been. She had not
yet felt it like that, a regret for what might have
been, because she was living again, because she was
living for the first time, late but not too late, since
she was living at last in a real, intense, pulsating
life; but to him, the man who had lived but only
never loved, it came at once, came as regret for what
might have been. . . .
And his love seemed never likely to become any-
thing else than just that : regret. . . .
CHAPTER XXV
In these days, when Constance felt herself becoming
so strangely young and alive — she who for so long
believed that she had never, never lived — she was
compelled to step outside that life dominated purely
by feeling. Van Vreeswijck came to her one evening
and sat talking for hours. She liked him; she val-
ued him as a good friend who, notwithstanding that
he really belonged to the most insufferable section
of the Court set, had shown that he was not too
much afraid of degrading himself by associating with
Van der Welcke, with her or even with Brauws,
though he loudly and sweepingly condemned Brauws'
views. She, in her new pride of life, looked down
upon him, with a kindly contempt, as one of the little
people in the narrow little circle, a humming-top
spinning around itself and around other humming-
tops, just another figure in the merry-go-round which
they represented to her, all of them; but she valued
his unaffected friendship and, though she thought
him anything but a great soul, she did not think him
a base or evil soul. And so she spoke to him sym-
pathetically that evening and promised to help him.
She promised; and yet it was exceedingly difficult.
A new honesty had sprung up in her, making her
hesitate to whom to turn first. She had meant to
249
250 THE LATER LIFE
speak to Van der Welcke the next morning, In quite
an ordinary way. But, when she saw him for a
moment before he went out, he seemed to her to be
suppressing some secret grief deep down in himself:
his blue boyish eyes were overcast, his mouth half-
sulking, as on rainy days when he was not able to go
cycling; and yet It was fine now, a fine autumn day,
and he came down in his cycling-suit, fetched his
bicycle, said that he was going a long way, that he
would perhaps not be back for lunch. She suspected
in him a craving to get away, as fast as possible and
as far as possible, and to deaden with that wild speed
the pain of his gnawing grief. But, In the soft
glow of her new youth, which illuminated everything
within her and around her, she had not the heart to
tell him what she was going to do, what she had
promised to do, though In her secret self she thought
It dishonest not to tell him straight out. So she
said nothing, let him go. She looked after him for
a moment, watched the angry curve of his shoulders,
as he pedalled desperately. In his mad craving to get
away, far away.
She sighed, felt sorry for him, she no longer knew
why or wherefore . . . But she had promised Van
Vreeswijck; and perhaps, she thought, it would be
best so. She went out therefore, took the tram to
the Bezuidenhout, rang at Bertha's door, found her
at home. In the hall, the removers' men were busy
packing china and glass in big cases. Louise and
THE LATER LIFE 251
Frans were going from room to room with a list in
their hands, making notes of the furniture which
Mamma would want at Baarn. The little villa had
been taken.
Constance found Bertha upstairs in Van Naghel's
study. She was sitting at an open window in the
large room with its dark, heavy furniture, gazing
into the garden, with her hands in her lap. She
seemed calmer than she had been the other evening,
at Mamma's. She sat there in her black dress, her
face old and drawn, but calmer now; and her eyes
never left the garden, a town garden full of rose-
trees and fragrant in the late summer air. But all
around her the room was gloomy and deadly and
desolate. The book-cases were empty: the books
had been taken out and divided among the boys.
Only the large bronze inkstand remained on the
writing-table. The furniture stood stiff, formal,
stripped, unused, lifeless, as though awaiting the day
of the sale. The bare walls showed the marks of
the etchings and family-portraits that had been taken
down.
Bertha rose when Constance entered; she kissed
her and sat down again at once, sinking into her chair
and folding her hands in her lap. And Constance
asked if she could have a moment's serious conversa-
tion with her. A shade of weariness passed over
Bertha's face, as if to convey that she had had so
many serious conversations lately and would rather
252 THE LATER LIFE
go on gazing into the garden. She lifted her eyes
almost sorrowfully from the riot of roses, turned
them on Constance, asked what it was about. And
Constance began to tell her: Van Vreeswijck had
been with her for a long time the evening before
and had told her that he had loved Marianne for so
long, so long . . .
Bertha was interested for a moment, seemed to
wake from a dream :
"Van Vreeswijck?" she asked.
Constance went on. He had never said a word
to Marianne, because he feared, was almost certain,
indeed, that she did not care for him. Had it not
been mentioned that they were moving to Baarn, he
would perhaps not have ventured to speak even now.
But this threatened change had suddenly compelled
him to open his heart ... to her, to Constance.
And he had begged Constance to ask Bertha, to ask
Marianne herself if he might hope . . . perhaps
later . . .
" Van Vreeswijck? " Bertha repeated.
Two months ago, though she had never been a
match-making mother, she would have welcomed this
proposal, would have rejoiced at it: Van Vreeswijck
was a man of good family, belonged to their own
circle and to the Court set, had a little money; not
very young, perhaps, but a good-looking, pleasant,
well-bred fellow. But now she did not know,
showed little or no interest after that momen-
THE LATER LIFE 253
tary flicker and went on dully, with her hands lying
motionless on her black dress:
" Well, I have nothing against It, Constance. If
Marianne likes the idea, I do too."
Her voice sounded as if she were withdrawing
herself from everything, including her children's in-
terests. She sat there, just blankly staring, leaving
everything to them. Louise and Frans went through
the house looking out the furniture for which there
would be room at Baarn. Constance heard their
voices on the stairs:
" So," Louise was saying, " we have, in addition
to the furniture in Mamma's bedroom, in Marianne's
and mine, enough for one spare-room; then there's
the piano, from the drawing-room, and the china-
cabinet . . ."
" Isn't the china-cabinet ever so much too big . . .
for those small rooms down there?"
" Yes, perhaps . . . Perhaps we had better leave
the china-cabinet . . ."
Bertha heard as well as Constance : perhaps
Louise and Frans were speaking loudly in the pas-
sage on purpose. Bertha, however, did not stir: her
eyes remained vague, her hands lifeless. It was
obviously a matter of supreme indifference to her
whether they took the china-cabinet with them or
not . . .
And, as she did not speak at all, Constance was
obliged to ask:
254 THE LATER LIFE
" Would you mind, Bertha, If I just spoke to
Marianne?"
" Very well," said Bertha, " do."
"Now? Here?"
" Yes," said Bertha.
Constance rose, opened the door.
" So that's two more tables . . . two sofas,"
Frans counted, making notes on his list,
" Louise," said Constance, at the door, " would
you ask Marianne to come here a moment?"
She sat down again by her sister, affectionately,
took her hand, brimming over with pity for the tired
woman whom she had always looked upon as an
ever capable, busy woman of the world, now ex-
hausted with all the thousand cares of her life and
smitten by the sudden blow that had befallen her.
And Constance' heart beat anxiously In dread of
what was coming: she trembled, felt her eyes become
wet . . .
Marianne entered, pale, almost diaphanous; and
her black blouse made her look a frail little figure
of mourning, slender and drooping. For the thing
which she could not conceal In her innermost self
was no longer a light shining from her, visible to
all: it was now a cloud around her, still visible, but
as a shadow of grief, whereas but lately It had been
a glow of happiness. Constance at once drew her
to her, kissed her, held her to her. And she could
not find words. Bertha did not speak.
THE LATER LIFE 255
" Marianne . . ." Constance began.
"Are you angry, Aunt Constance?"
" No, darling, why . . ."
" Yes, you are angry with me."
"Why, Marianne!"
" Yes, you are different. I have seen it for some
time; there's something, I know . . ."
It was no longer the joyous, playful, almost mis-
chievous voice in which she had said this before.
It now sounded rather like a cry of fear, because it,
" that," seemed so obvious that every one was
bound to see it, that Aunt Constance herself must
needs see it . . . and be angry.
" Really, Marianne, I am not angry. But I
wanted to speak to you alone . . ."
" Oh, then you are angry ! " she said, passionately,
almost hiding herself in Constance' arms. " Don't
be angry! " she said, almost entreatingly. " Do tell
me that you will try . . . not to be angry with me ! "
She betrayed herself almost entirely, incapable of
keeping back that which had once shone from her
and which now nearly threatened to sob itself from
her. Constance could find no words.
"We shall soon be going away. Auntie!" said
Marianne, her features wrung with grief. " And
then you will not see me any more . . . and then
. . . then perhaps you will never have any reason
to be angry with me again . . ."
And then, all at once, she gave a sob, an irresisti-
256 THE LATER LIFE
ble sob, jarring every nerve with a shock that seemed
to leave her rigid. She shut her eyes, buried her
face in Constance' shoulder and remained lying like
this, after that one convulsive sob, motionless, pale,
as though she were dying, as though devastated with
sorrow. Bertha, opposite her, stared at her
vaguely, with her hands lying helplessly on her black
dress.
And Constance could find no words. Time after
time she thought of mentioning Van Vreeswijck's
name, time after time the name died away on her
lips. She gently urged Marianne to control herself,
assuring her that she was not angry, had never been
angry. And for a moment, thinking of herself, she
felt afraid.
If love could be now gladness and now mourning,
as it had been and was in this suffering, love-stricken
child, should it not be the same with her — that
gladness and oh, perhaps later, O God, that mourn-
ing!— with her, the middle-aged woman, who felt
herself growing younger and a new life coursing
through her: at first, in the soft spring flush of a
girl's dreams; now in the summer glory of a woman's
— a young woman's — love? But there was a mir-
ror opposite her; and she saw Marianne grief-
smitten, shaken with sobs . . . and in herself she
saw nothing! She seemed to have the power to
hide her happiness in her secret self: her agony — O
God ! — she would also hide later in her secret
THE LATER LIFE 257
self. She saw nothing In herself. And she knew
that nobody saw It In her. It remained secretly,
mysteriously hidden. Adolphine, Cateau, the Ruy-
venaers, all of them talked about her husband and
Marianne: she knew it; but she also knew that they
never talked about herself and Brauws . . . though
she had now known him for months, though he was
the friend of the house and came to their house al-
most daily. He was a friend of Van der Welcke's,
he was a friend of the house and a very well-known
man; and that was all. It was not visible to any-
body, to anybody . . ,
Oh, was It not strange? That this same feeling,
which she bore in her innermost self, unseen by any,
should shine within her as a sun, while with
Marianne it had shone out, for all the world to see,
as an illicit joy . . . and was now streaming forth
from her, In a convulsive sob, as an illicit sorrow.
What she, the woman, hid within her the child could
not hide within her, as though her soul were too
slight for It, so slight that It had glowed through
her soul as through alabaster and now flowed from
it as from alabaster . . . Oh, was it not strange,
was It not strange? After all, she did not hide It
Intentionally, for she, the middle-aged woman had
never, in her new young life, thought of the people
outside ... In connection with her reviving youth I
But It was so, It was so, beyond a doubt . . . And
it made her feel strong: It seemed to her a grace
258 THE LATER LIFE
that had been accorded her, this power to live and
go on living a new life deep in her secret self, in-
visible to the people outside, this power to live and
love . . .
She felt grateful: something sang in her like a
hymn of thanksgiving; but she was filled with com-
passion for Marianne. The girl, despite Constance'
cheering words, still lay motionless against her
shoulder, with closed eyes, as though dead. Con-
stance now gently forced her to rise, led her away
without a word . . . while Bertha remained sitting,
just followed them both with her dull, indifferent
eyes, then looked out at the roses in the garden, her
hands lying helplessly in her black lap.
Constance opened the door, led the girl into the
drawing-room. The carpet had been taken up, the
curtains taken down; the furniture stood cold and
lifeless on the bare boards.
"Marianne, darling, do listen to me now!"
Constance forced herself to say, in a firmer voice.
" I am not angry and I wanted to speak to you . . .
and I have something to ask you . . . But first tell
me : do you believe that I care for you and that any-
thing I say and ask comes from nothing but my
love for you? "
Marianne opened her eyes:
" Yes, Auntie."
" Well, then," said Constance, " Van Vrees-
wijck . . ."
THE LATER LIFE 259
But Marianne suddenly drew herself up where
they were sitting — she with Constance' arms around
her — nervous, terrified, at once knowing, under-
standing:
"No, Auntie, no!" she almost screamed.
"Marianne! . . ."
" No, Auntie, oh, no, no, no ! I can't do it, I
can't do it! "
And she threw herself back, sobbed out her
words, as though she no longer dared fling herself
into Constance' arms.
" Marianne, he is very fond of you . . . and he
is such a good fellow. . . ."
" Oh, Auntie, no, no, no ! . . . No, no. Auntie,
no! ... I can't do it! "
Constance was silent. Then she said:
" So, it's no, darling? "
" No, Auntie, no, no! ... I don't care for him,
I can never, never care for him! Oh, no, no, it
is cruel of you, if you ask that of me, if you want
to force me into it! ... I don't care for him . . .
There is . . . there Is some one else . . ."
She was silent, stared before her like a mad-
woman, with the same fixed stare as her mother.
And suddenly she became very still, accepting her
anguish, and said, gently, with a heart-rending smile :
" No, Auntie . . . no. I would rather go . . .
with Mamma and Louise ... to Baarn. We shall
live very pleasantly there . . . cosily, the three of
26o THE LATER LIFE
us together . . . Marietje will join us later, from
her boarding-school . . . Karel . . ."
She tried to utter just a word of interest in her
mother, sisters and brothers, but her indifferent,
dead voice belied her. There was nothing in her
but what had once shone from her, what was now
trying to sob from her . . .
Constance clasped her in her arms:
"My child!"
" No, Auntie, you will tell him, won't you? . . .
Tell him that I am sorry . . . but . . . but that I
don't care for him ... I care ... I care for some
one else . . ."
And now, without speaking a word, raising her
beseeching, tear-filled eyes to her aunt's, she said to
Constance, without speaking a word, told her only
with her beseeching glance, told her that she loved
. . . that she loved Uncle Henri . . . and that
she couldn't help it; that she knew it was very wrong
of her; that she begged her aunt to forgive her and
implored her please not to be angry; that she en-
treated only to be allowed to suffer and sob about
it; but that for the rest she hoped for nothing more
from life, nothing, nothing; that she would go
quietly to Baarn, with her mother and sisters, and
try to manage to live there and pine away silently in
her grief , . .
And Constance, as she held her in her arms,
thought :
THE LATER LIFE 261
" Living . . . Living . . . This child . . . this
poor child ... is living early; and, if I have begun
to live late . . . O God, O God, must I also suffer
as she is doing . . . must I also suffer some day
. . . soon, perhaps ... if one cannot have life
without suffering? . . ."
CHAPTER XXVI
When Constance returned home, she was even more
troubled than she had been in the morning by what
she called her dishonesty towards Van der Welcke.
She lunched alone with Addie; Van der Welcke did
not come in, was evidently trying to lose himself on
his bicycle in the roads outside the Hague and lunch-
ing off a sandwich and a glass of beer at a country
inn. He did not come home till very late, tired and
dusty, and he was in an unbearable mood, as though
his surfeit of movement and speed and space had
produced nothing but an evil intoxication and not the
beneficent anaesthesia which he had expected of it.
Roughly, as though dispirited and disgusted, he put
away his machine, without bestowing on it the care
which he usually gave to it after a long ride, angry
with the lifeless steel which had not consoled him,
which had not shown itself a friend this time. It
was three o'clock; and he went straight to his room
to change his clothes.
Constance, in her drawing-room, remained uneasy.
In her heart there was a deep pity for Marianne;
and for him too an almost motherly pity, which
made her eyes fill with tears. Oh, when she had
found so very much for herself, so much that was
broad and lofty, radiant and lovely, of which she
262
THE LATER LIFE 263
asked no more than that it should exist, exist in soft
radiance within herself, a mystic sun, a glowing mys-
tery, invisible to all but her, it pained her that those
two, Henri and Marianne, could find nothing for
themselves and for each other! . . . She listened
anxiously to the sounds upstairs. She heard his foot-
steps tramping overhead, heard him even throwing
his clothes about, splashing the water noisily, almost
breaking the jug and basin in his savage reckless-
ness, his violent resentment against everything. It
all reechoed in her; she kept on starting: there he
was flinging his boots across the room; bang went
the door of his wardrobe; and, when he had finished,
she heard him go to his den. Everything became
still; the warmth of the summer afternoon floated in
through the open windows; a heat mist hung over
the garden of the little villa ; in the kitchen, the maid
was droning out a sentimental song, in a dreary
monotone . . .
Constance' uneasiness increased. Yes, she must,
she must tell him something: she almost became
frightened at the idea of telling him nothing, of
concealing from him entirely that Van Vreeswijck
had asked her to go to Marianne. And yet nothing
compelled her to say anything to Henri; and it
would perhaps not even, she thought, be fair to Van
Vreeswijck. She did not know; her thoughts ram-
bled on uneasily. But persistently, as though from
out of the new, fresh youth that was hers, one idea
264 THE LATER LIFE
obtruded itself: it would not be honest to tell Henri
nothing, not even a casual word, so that at any rate
he should not imagine, if he came to hear later, that
she had been plotting behind his back . . .
All of a sudden, the anxiety, the uneasiness became
so great in her that she rose, impulsively, and went
upstairs. The servant was droning sentimentally.
Constance quietly opened the door of Henri's little
den. He was sitting in a chair, with his arms
hanging down beside him; he was not even
smoking.
" Am I disturbing you? " she asked. " I should
like to speak to you for a moment ..."
He gave her a sharp look. Usually, when she
came in like that, it meant that she had something
to reproach him with, that she was spoiling for a
scene . . . about a trifle, sometimes about nothing.
She would come in then with the same words; and
her voice at once sounded aggressive. This time,
though she tried to speak gently, her voice, be-
cause of her uneasiness and anxiety, sounded harsh
and discordant; and he, with his irritated nerves,
seemed to hear the aggressive note, the prelude to a
scene. It was as though his nerves at once became
set, as though he were puUing himself together in
self-defence :
" What is It now? " he asked, roughly.
She sat down, outwardly calm, inwardly trem-
bling, anxious, uneasy. And she made an effort to
THE LATER LIFE 265
clear her hoarse voice and to speak calmly ... so
that he might know:
" Oh," she began, reflectively, wishing to show
him at once that she had not come to make re-
proaches, that she did not wish to make a scene, " I
wanted to speak to you ... to ask your ad-
vice . . .
Her voice, now under control, sounded soft, as she
wished it; and he was astonished for a second, just
remembered, almost unconsciously, that she had not
been so quick-tempered lately, that in fact they had
not had a scene for weeks. Still he continued sus-
picious: she, who never asked his advice I And he
echoed :
" To ask my advice? "
" Yes," she went on, in that same calm, reflective
tone, with a certain constraint, " I wanted to tell you
— what do you think? — Vreeswijck stayed talking
to me for a long time yesterday evening . . . and
he wanted absolutely . . ."
*' Wanted what?"
She saw him turn pale; his eyes blazed angrily,
as though sparks were flashing from that vivid blue,
generally so young and boyish.
" He would so much like ... he asked me . . ."
She could not get the words out, looked at him,
afraid of his eyes, now that she was in no mood for
a scene of mutual recrimination. But she could not
keep silent either:
i66 THE LATER LIFE
" He asked me ... if I thought . . . that
Marianne . . ."
She saw him give a shiver. He understood it
all. Nevertheless, she went on:
" That Marianne could get to care for him . . .
He asked me to go to Bertha . . . and ask
her . . ."
"Van Vreeswijck? Marianne?" he repeated;
and his eyes were almost black. " Asked you . . .
to go to Bertha? . . . Well, you're not mixing
yourself up in it, are you? You're not going,
surely? "
"I went this morning," she said; and her voice
once more sounded discordant.
He seemed to hear a hostile note in It. And,
unable to contain himself, he flew Into a passion :
"You went? You went this morning?" he
raved; and even in his raving she saw the suffering.
" Why need you mix yourself up in it? What busi-
ness has Van Vreeswijck to come asking you? . . .
Van Vreeswijck . . ."
He could not find the words. All that he could
get out was a rough word, cruel, hard and Insult-
ing:
" Plotting and scheming ... if you want to go
plotting . . ."
Her eyes flamed; she felt his intention to Insult
her. But his suffering was so obvious, she saw him
so plainly writhing under his pain, that the angry
THE LATER LIFE 267
tempest died down at once and she merely said, very
gently :
" She has refused him."
He looked at her. The black cloud lifted from
his eyes, which turned blue again, and his gloomy
frown gave way to his usual boyish expression, full
of wide-eyed astonishment now. His features re-
laxed, his whole body relaxed; he gave a shiver and
sat down, as though all his temper and rage were
subsiding like a sudden storm that had arisen for
no reason at all. And he asked, slowly:
"She . . . has refused him? "
" Yes. Of course. Bertha had nothing against
it. But Marianne, when I spoke to her, declined at
once. I did not insist. Poor Vreeswijck! "
" Yes, poor fellow! " he said, mechanically.
" I wanted to tell you, because . . ."
" Because what? "
" Because Vreeswijck is a friend and I thought
it better that you should know. I meant to tell you
this morning, before I started. But you went
out . . ."
He looked at her again, with a keen glance, won-
dering if she was sincere or if there was anything
behind her words; wondering what she thought,
knew or guessed about him and Marianne; what she
would really have liked; if it was a disappointment
to her that Marianne had declined so promptly: so
promptly that Constance had not insisted for a mo-
268 THE LATER LIFE
ment. But she was so calm and gentle, as she stood
leaning against his table, that he found her incom-
prehensible and was only conscious of breathing
again after that first moment when it had seemed
to him that his throat, lungs, chest and heart were
all gripped in one hideous constriction.
They were silent, she standing there and he look-
ing at her, with his keen glance. A heat haze hung
over the garden; the heavy summer scent floated up
to them; from the kitchen came the monotonous
voice of the housemaid droning out her love-song.
And suddenly a sort of remorse loomed as a spectre
before Constance, because she had fettered him to
her life, for all his life, years ago; because she had
fettered him to her then by accepting his sacrifice
and that of his parents In her despair and helpless-
ness, reviled outcast as she then was. It flashed
before her: the recollection of that day when he
came to her in Florence, when he made his gift of
himself to her, made it despairingly, feeling even
then perhaps, despite the forced love-illusion of pas-
sion, the life-long mistake which they were mutually
making. She had accepted his gift, taken his youth;
she had rendered him aimless, him and his life, his
career and his happiness: all that he might perhaps
yet have found. It flashed before her again: the
recollection of that good-looking boy, the way he
had come to her in Florence and the way she had
taken everything, without having anything to give
THE LATER LIFE 269
him In exchange. Oh, how the past oppressed her
now, how it hung round her shoulders, crushing her
like a nightmare that was not to be shaken off, like
the embrace of some leering monster! Oh, the re-
morse, the remorse that was beginning to torture
her!
She stared before her as she stood leaning against
the table; and beads of perspiration began to come
out on her forehead in the small, warm room, full
of summer haze. He continued to look at her, pene-
tratingly. And suddenly he heard her voice speak
his name :
" Henri . . ."
He did not answer, thought her strange, did not
recognize her; and again he wondered what she
thought, guessed or knew . . . and what else she
wanted to say. But she, while a sweat of fear broke
from her, made a great inward effort to release her-
self from the oppression of her past and her re-
morse, to be once more the woman that she had
become: the woman young again; the woman whose
life was beginning for the first time; the woman
who thought, dreamed and loved; the woman in
whom nowadays the thoughts and dreams sometimes
darted and darted like multitudes of laughing butter-
fly fancies, swiftly, swiftly in front of them; the
woman who loved so deeply that she floated in
ecstasy as in the mystic sun of herself. Did she not
now see farther than the usual little circle which
270 THE LATER LIFE
had bounded her vision for years: the httle circle of
the Httle prejudices, the little moralities, the litde
foUies; the little circle in which all the others — her
own people, people like herself, the small people —
felt happy and comfortable with their little philoso-
phies, their little religions, their little dogmas?
Had she not, for weeks and months past, been con-
templating more distant prospects, all the distant
cities of light on the horizons above which sailed the
spacious cloud-worlds and across which shot the re-
vealing lightning-flashes? In the love which she
had already confessed to herself so honestly that it
etherealized into sheer ecstasy, had she not risen
above all that was still left in her and about her of
prejudice and insincerity, that sneering at herself
and others, with all the rest of that feeble cynicism ?
If she wanted to live, must she not be honest, honest
In all things? Oh, she felt — in these thoughts
which rushed through her mind in those few seconds
while she leant against the table, her forehead be-
dewed with heat and excitement — that she was
shaking off the nightmare of the past and that, if she
felt remorse, she must also try to give back what
she had taken . . . and what had never belonged to
her, because it had never been her right, because it
had never been her happiness, any more than his,
nor her life, any more than his life ! No, she had
grown out of that prejudice, the horror of making
herself ridiculous; and what she had stolen she
THE LATER LIFE 271
would like to give back now ... in so far as was
possible to her!
" Henri," she repeated, for her whole thought
had rushed through her in those two or three sec-
onds, " there is something more I want to say to you.
I should like to talk frankly to you. Promise me
to keep calm; and do not let us lose our tempers.
It is not necessary to lose our tempers, Henri, in
order to understand each other at last . . ."
" What do you mean? " he asked.
" I have been thinking a great deal lately," she
continued, turning her steady eyes towards him. " I
have been thinking a very great deal, about our life,
about both our lives . . . and about the mistake we
made ..."
He became impatient:
" What on earth are you driving at and what is
it all about?" he asked, with an irritable shake of
his shoulders.
" Come, Henri," she said, gently, " let us talk for
once, for once in our lives, and be quite frank and
serious. Our life has been a mistake. And the
fault . . ."
"Is mine, I suppose?" he broke in, angrily, ag-
gressively, working himself up for the scene which
he foresaw.
She looked at him long and deeply and then said,
firmly :
" The fault is mine."
272 THE LATER LIFE
He remained silent, again shook his shoulders,
restlessly, not understanding her, not recognizing her
at all. This woman was now a stranger to him;
and, above all, her calm seriousness confused him :
he would almost have preferred that she should fly
out at him and have done with It and tell him that
he had no business to go bicycling alone with
Marianne.
But she did not do this, she merely repeated,
calmly:
" The fault is mine. The fault, the blame is
mine alone, Henri. I ought not, in Florence, to
have accepted the sacrifice which you made for me,
which your father and mother made for me. It
was my fault that your life did not become . . .
what it might have been."
Yes, she was frank and calm: he had to admit
that; and it was not a crafty prelude leading up to
one of her angry scenes. She was speaking so
quietly and gently; her voice had a note of sorrowful
humility that almost touched him.
" But what are you driving at? " he said, never-
theless, in a voice that was still nervous and jerky.
" You are very frank and honest in looking at
things like that; but what is the use of it all now?
It is so long ago. It is the past. And it was my
duty then to make up for the wrong which I had
done you."
" I had done you quite as great a wrong, Henri.
THE LATER LIFE 273
I should not have accepted your sacrifice. I ought
not to have become your wife."
" But what would you have done then? "
" I should have gone away, somewhere or other.
If I had been then the woman that I am now, I
should have gone away, somewhere or other. And
I should have left you to your life . . . and to the
happiness that was perhaps awaiting you else-
where . . ."
u
I should have had to give up the service just
the same . . ."
" But you would have been freer without me.
You were still so young : you had your whole life be-
fore you; and you would perhaps have found your
happiness. As it is, you have never found it . . .
or . . . perhaps too late."
He stood up, very restless and nervous, and his
boyish eyes pleaded anxiously:
" Constance, I can't talk in this way. I'm not
used to it . . ."
" Can't you face things seriously for a mo-
ment? . . ."
" No, I can't. It upsets me. I don't know: you
mean to be nice, I believe, but please don't let
us talk like this. We're not accustomed to it. And
I ... I can't do it. You can see for yourself, It
upsets me."
" Come," she said, in a motherly tone, " you
are not so much upset as all that. You can have a
274 THE LATER LIFE
bicycle-ride afterwards and you will feel better.
But first let us talk seriously for a moment . . ."
He sighed, sank into his chair, submitted to her
stronger will. If only she had flown out at him, he
would have stormed back at her; but she was say-
ing such strange things, the sort of things that peo-
ple never said, and she was so calm and frank about
it, calmer and franker than people ever were.
" You will listen seriously for a moment? Well,
what I want to ask you is this: have you never
thought that it would be better ... if we just
quietly separated, Henri?"
He said nothing, looked at her with his great won-
dering eyes.
" It is certainly very late," she said, " very late
for me to propose it. But it is perhaps not too
late . . . Let us be honest, Henri: we have never
been happy together. You might perhaps still be
happy without me, released from me, free . . ."
He continued to look at her, his eyes still full of
amazement; and It seemed as though he was afraid
to turn his gaze towards a life of such transcendent
peace and quietness and sincerity. It seemed to him
that she was urging him to take a road which grew
fainter and fainter as It took Its mystic, winding way
towards clouds . . . towards things that did not
exist.
"I? . . . Happy? " he stammered, not knowing
what to say.
THE LATER LIFE 275
But a more concrete thought now came into his
mind:
"And Addie?" he asked.
" I am not forgetting him," she said, gently.
" He is the child of both of us, whom we both love.
If we quietly . . . quietly separate, if you become
happy later, he will be able to understand that his
parents, however passionately they both loved him,
separated because it was better that they should.
He need not suffer through it. He will not suffer
through it. At least, I like to think that he will not.
If we are only honest, Henri, he cannot suffer
through it."
" And you . . . what would you do? "
She blushed, but did not lose her composure; he
did not see her blush. She had not yet thought of
herself for a moment: she was thinking, had been
thinking, after that wave of remorse and after hold-
ing Marianne that morning in her arms, only of him
and Marianne, of their happiness, his and
Marianne's, even though she did not mention the
girl's name again, once she had told him that
Marianne had refused Van Vreeswijck. She was
thinking only of the two of them. . . . What would
she do? She did not know. Her love, it is true,
rose radiantly before her: her love, her new life;
but she was not thinking of outward change. Life,
the real life, was an inward thing; outwardly she was
the mother of her son and would remain so . . ,
276 THE LATER LIFE
"I?" she asked. "Nothing. I should simply
stay as I am. Addie could be with us in turns."
" It would distress him, Constance . . ."
" Perhaps, at first . . . But he would soon under-
stand."
" Constance, tell me, why are you speaking like
this?"
" In what way? "
"What do you really mean, Constance? What
do you mean by my happiness?"
" Only what I say, Henri : that you may still be
able to find your happiness."
" You are frank," he said, forcing himself to
adopt her tone, though it was difficult for him to
speak like that. " You are frank. I will also try
to be frank. My happiness? You speak of my
happiness? ... I am too old to find that now."
" No, you are not old. You are young."
"And you?"
" I ... am old. But there is no question about
me. I am thinking ... of you."
She looked at him and he suddenly understood
her. He understood her, but he writhed under so
much frankness and at seeing life so honestly:
" No, no, Constance," he mumbled.
" Think it over," she said, gently. " If you like
... I will agree. Only ... let us do it quietly,
Henri, ... let us do it, if possible,, with something
of affection for each other."
THE LATER LIFE 277
Her eyes filled with tears. He was very much
moved :
" No, Constance, no," he mumbled.
" Henri, have the courage to be honest. Have
the courage and do not be weak. Be a man. I am
only a woman and I have the courage."
" Constance, people . . ."
" No, Henri, you must not hesitate because of peo-
ple. If we cannot do it, it would be because of Ad-
die. But I like to think that, if he understands,
he will not suffer through it. He must not suffer
through it: that would be selfish of him; and he is
not selfish."
"No, Constance, nol" he protested again.
" Think it over, Henri," she repeated. " Think
it all out. I shall think of Addie also. You know
how passionately devoted I am to him. But . . ."
" Constance, it is all too late."
" But think it over, Henri."
" Yes, yes, Constance, I shall ... I shall think
it over."
" And, if we decide upon it . . . let us do it . . .
let us decide to do it with something of affection for
each other . . ."
" Yes, Constance . . . yes, with affection . . .
You are nice . . . you are kind . . ."
He looked at her, his chest heaving with emotion;
a haze dimmed the boyish glance of his eyes. She
had meant to go, quietly, to leave him alone. She
278 THE LATER LIFE
went to the door, without another word, another
look, wishing to leave him alone with his thoughts.
*' Constance! " he cried, hoarsely.
She looked round. He was standing before her;
and she saw him quivering, trembling with the emo-
tion, the shock which the reality of life had sent
shuddering through him. For a moment they stood
in front of each other; and, because they saw into
each other's eyes, they told each other once more —
silently, without words — that they understood each
other! A great gratitude, an emotion that to him
was almost superhuman shot through his small soul
•and flowed over her. And, Impotently, he cried
once more, like a man in a fever:
" Constance ! "
He flung himself, distractedly, desperately, with a
wild impulse, into her arms; bursting Into sobs, he
buried his head in her breast. She started violently;
she felt his convulsive tremors against her heart.
Then she threw her arm around him, stroked his
hair. It was as though she were comforting her
son.
" I am mad, I am mad! " he muttered.
He released himself, hurriedly pressed a quiver-
ing kiss on her forehead and tore down the stairs.
And, when she went down to her drawing-room, she
suddenly heard the front-door slam and saw him
bicycling away like a madman, his back arched like
a professional's. He pedalled, pedalled furiously:
THE LATER LIFE 279
she watched him lose himself ... In movement,
speed and space . . .
" Poor boyl " she thought.
Then she sank into a chair, while the room swam
round her. She closed her eyes and her hands fell
limply at her side. So she sat for half an hour,
unconscious, alone ... as if the new life had been
too keen, too intense, with Its pure air, its honesty
. . . too rare and keen in its cold-blue ether . . .
and as If she were swooning away in it . . .
CHAPTER XXVII
She came to herself with a start and did not know
whether she had been unconscious or asleep. At
the same moment, she heard the bell and through the
curtain she saw Brauws, standing outside the door.
" It is he, it is he ! " an exultant voice cried Inside
her.
But at the same time she felt too nervous and
overwrought to receive him, just ordinarily and na-
turally. She stopped Trultje in the hall, said that
she had a headache and the girl must say not at
home; and she fled to her bedroom and locked her-
self In.
" It was he, it was he! " the voice still sang, al-
most sorrowfully.
But she could not have talked ordinarily and na-
turally . . . Suddenly she did what she had not yet
done that day: she thought of herself. If they were
to separate, Henri and she, then she herself would
be freel . . . Free! A violent longing surged up
in her to see Brauws, to speak to him, to say just
one word to him, to ask his advice, to abandon her-
self, as It were, to that advice! ... At this mo-
ment, for the first time, the thought occurred to her
that he must love her too. Would he come so often,
if not? Would he speak as he did, reveal himself
280
THE LATER LIFE 281
so completely, otherwise? Would he otherwise
. . . she did not know what; but, as she recalled him
since he returned from Switzerland, she felt, indeed
she was certain that his whole being was permeated
with love for her ... a love that was strangely
akin to regret, but still love . . . Was her love re-
gret? No . . . Was her love hope? No, not
hope either . . . Her love, hers, was only life, had
hitherto been only life: the lives which another
woman lives from her eighteenth year onwards she
had as It were hastened to live now, late as It was.
Oh, to live right on from those first young girlish
dreams which had danced along radiant paths to-
wards the high clouds above her . . . while all the
time her incredulous little laugh had tempered their
eager joy! . . . But now, since she had spoken to
Van der Welcke, now, suddenly, since she had
awakened from her sleep or her swoon after that
breath of pure ether, that perfect sincerity, now she
felt that her love was not only just existence, just
life — the real existence, the real life — but that the
most human emotions were suddenly passing
through her soul; that she herself regretted what
might have been; that she herself hoped — O
Heaven I — for what might yet be. It was sud-
denly as though all her past had fallen from her
and as though she saw a number of new paths wind-
ing towards new years, towards the wide fields of the
future, nothing but the future. It was as though
282 THE LATER LIFE
this new Inner life of thinking and feeling, this new
life of her soul, were also about to begin a new
actual life, a life of fresh seasons, which lay spread
before her broad and generous as summer and to-
wards which she would fly in joyous haste, because
it was already so late . . . but not yet too late, not
yet too late . . .
She thought of herself, for the first time that day;
and a violent emotion throbbed within her, almost
taking away her breath. Henri would be back pres-
ently: would he tell her that that was best, that
they would separate, with still something of affection
and gratitude for each other, heedless of people and
of everything that made up their world, because they
were at last entitled to their own happiness, to the
happiness of their own souls and to the happiness
of those who loved them really? They would shake
from them all that had been falsehood during all
those long, long years ; and they would now be true,
honest with themselves and with every one; and
they would be happy ... It was as if these dreams
were already lifting her up out of the ring of false-
hood, the ring of small people, small souls. Sitting
there in her chair, she hid her face in her hands,
compressed her closed eyes until, in their blindness,
they saw all the colours of the rainbow flashing be-
fore them ... so as not to see her room, so as to
see nothing but her dreams. . . .
" Mamma ! . . ."
THE LATER LIFE 283
She started: It was Addle come home. And the
start which she gave was a violent one, for she had
forgotten him; and a quick compunction shot through
those last flashes. She had forgotten him; and yet
time after time she had said to herself that she must
speak to him as if he were a man.
She now called to him to come in, for he always
looked in on her when he returned from school in
the afternoon. And, when she saw him, she felt
as if she were waking from a dream. Still the vio-
lent emotion continued to throb in her; and she felt
that she could not be silent. She began, at once:
" Addie, I have been talking to Papa."
It was impossible for her to go on. Not until
he sat down beside her, took her hand in his, did
she continue, with difficulty:
" Addie, would it make you very unhappy . . .
if . . ."
*' If what. Mamma?"
" If we. Papa and I . . . quite quietly, Addie
. . . without any bitterness . . . were to sepa-
rate?"
He started inwardly, but remained outwardly calm.
He knew the struggle that was going on in both of
them. Had he not constantly heard his father's
name mixed up with Marianne's? Did he not know
and had not he — he alone, within himself, without
even letting his mother notice it — had he not
guessed the real reason why Mamma had had a dif-
284 THE LATER LIFE
ferent expression, a different voice, a different step
during the last few months? Did he not feel what
prompted her to go for long, long walks — some-
times with him, sometimes alone — over the dunes,
towards the sea ? . . . Though he did not know her
new life, he had guessed her love . . .
There was a buzzing in his ears as she talked, as
she explained to him how it would be better like that,
for Papa, and how they both loved him, their child.
She mentioned no names, neither Marianne's nor
Brauws'. He remained quiet; and she did not see
what was passing within him, not even when he said:
" If you think ... if Papa is of opinion . . .
that It will be better so. Mamma . . ."
She went on speaking, while her heart throbbed
violently with the force of her emotion. She spoke
of honesty and sincerity ... of happiness for
Papa . . . perhaps. A curious shyness made her
shrink from speaking of herself. He hardly heard
her words. But he understood her: he understood
what she actually wanted, the future which she
wished to bring about and compel. But a passion
of melancholy overwhelmed him and his heart was
weighed down with grief. He heard her speak of
her life — his father's and hers — as a chain, a
yoke, a lie. He felt dimly that she perhaps was
right; and the light of those glowing dreams of hers
made something shine vaguely before his childish
eyes. But he found In It only sadness; and his
THE LATER LIFE 285
heart was still heavy with grief. He was their
child; and it seemed as though something in his soul
would be rent asunder if they separated, even though
their life together was a lie, a chain, a yoke. He
tried to weigh those words, to sound their depths,
to feel them. But it was only his sadness that he
measured, only the depth of his own sorrow. If they
were to separate, his parents whom he loved so well,
both of them, each of them, whom he had learnt
to love so well just perhaps because they did not
love each other, then his love, so it suddenly ap-
peared to him, was something which they could both
do without, something of no value, to either of them.
That was how he felt it, though he could not have
put it into words; and he felt it even more pro-
foundly than any words could have expressed . . .
But she noticed nothing in him. It was not the
first time that he had felt the cruelty of life, even
towards a child, a boy; and it was not his nature to
show weakness. That other time, after his childish
soul had suffered so grievously, when he had doubted
whether he was his father's son, he had resolved
to triumph over life's cruelties and not to show any-
thing and to be strong. Now the moment seemed to
have come. He remembered his first great trouble,
he remembered his resolve : the resolve to be always
strong after that first childish weakness; and he was
able to repeat, calmly:
" If you think . . . that it will be better for both
286 THE LATER LIFE
of you, Mamma . . . then It Is not for me to ob-
ject . . ."
She thought him almost cold; but he kissed her,
said that he, whatever happened, would remain the
child and the son of both of them, that he would
love them both, equally . . .
But, because of that coldness, the shadow of a
doubt suddenly crossed her mind; and It seemed as
though her dreams grew dark and cloudy . . .
" Addle," she asked again, " tell me frankly, tell
me honestly that I am right, that It will be a good
thing . . . for Papa
"And for you? .
" And for me," she echoed; and he saw her blush.
" Or . . . or. Addle, my boy, my darling. Is . . .
is It all too late? Is it too late . . . for Papa's
happiness?"
"And for yours too, you mean . . . Too late?
Why should It be too late? "
She looked at him, thought him hard, but guessed
that he was suffering more than he was willing to
admit . . .
" I thought first ... of Papa's happiness. Ad-
die," she said, softly. " Because Papa has never
been happy with me . . . with me who took every-
thing from him and gave him nothing In return, I
thought first of all . . . of Papa's happiness and
afterwards . . . afterwards . . ."
"Afterwards ... ?"
THE LATER LIFE 287
"Yes, Addle, then I thought ... of my own!
But perhaps It is not all as I picture it, Addie . . .
and perhaps it is all too late . . ."
Then he took her in his arms; and she felt his
young, sturdy, boyish body against hers, felt it all at
once, as a pillar of strength.
"Too late? Why should it be. Mamma? Let
us first hear what Papa thinks. Too late? No,
Mamma. If you see it in this light for the first time
now, why . . . why should it be too late? "
She threw her arms round his neck and laid her
head on his shoulder:
" I don't know, dear. I thought ... I thought
that it would be a good thing . . . for everybody
. . . for all of us . . . Perhaps I am wrong. I
can't tell ... I am tired, dear. Leave me here by
myself. Have your dinner with Papa : I don't want
any dinner, I am tired, I sha'n't come down . . .
Hark, there's Papa coming in. Go and tell him that
I am tired. Go now, go at once. ... I can't say:
perhaps it is not as I thought, Addie, and perhaps
. . . perhaps it is all . . . too late ! "
She saw his eyes grow softer, full of pity; he
pressed her to him.
" Addie ! " she suddenly implored. " Whatever
I may lose, never, never let me lose you ! For
all the rest is perhaps illusion . . . and all too
late, too late . . . But you . . . you are real,
you exist ! "
288 THE LATER LIFE
She held him, clung to his strong shoulders; and
he saw her very pale, anxious-eyed:
"Mamma . . ."
" No, leave me now, my boy . . . leave me alone
:. . . and go to Papa . . ."
He kissed her once more and went away.
She stayed behind, looked at herself in the glass.
She saw herself, after all this emotion, saw her pale
face, her grey hair:
" I don't know," she murmured. " Oh, to live
really, I must not ... I must not think of myself!
. . . For me ... it Is all too late! If it has to
be so, if we separate, it must be only . . . only for
him, for Henri . . . and for . . . and for Mari-
anne ! "
She sank into her chair, covered her face, kept
her eyes tightly closed; but their blindness no longer
saw the rainbow-colours flashing before them . . .
CHAPTER XXVIII
Addie, downstairs, helped his father with the
bicycle, took it for him to the little room by the
kitchen, promised Papa to see to it for him in the
morning.
*' Am I late for dinner? " asked Van der Welcke.
He was tired and hot; his clothes were sticking
to him.
" Mamma has a head-ache," said Addie. " Go
and change your things first: dinner can wait."
Van der Welcke dragged himself upstairs. He
had bicycled so hard that day — both morning and
afternoon — with his eyes fixed in front of him, his
thoughts fixed in front of him, that his body was
tingling with weariness, his eyes blind with that fixed
staring, as if they had been full of dust and sand.
*' Come and help me," he said to Addie.
And, going to the bathroom, he flung off all his
clothes and took a shower-bath, while Addie brought
him fresh things.
He was ready in ten minutes, doing everything in
a feverish, tired hurr^^:
*' Now we can have dinner. Isn't Mamma com-
ing down? "
" No."
They sat down opposite each other, but Van der
289
290 THE LATER LIFE
Welcke was not hungry, did not eat. The servant
took something up to Constance. Dinner was over
in a quarter of an hour.
" I am tired! " Van der Welcke confessed.
The maid had soon cleared the table. And
they remained in the dining-room, which was now
growing dark.
The French windows were open and the sultry
evening filled the room. Van der Welcke, who had
thrown himself into a chair, got up restlessly, strode
into the garden, came back again. When he saw
Addie sitting quietly on the sofa, he flung himself
beside him, laid his head on the boy's knees. Then,
with a deep sigh, he fell asleep, almost immediately.
Addie sat without moving, let his father sleep
there, with his head on his son's knees.
From another villa, a stream of yellow light
flowed across the garden and cast dim shadows in the
dark dining-room. And in the kitchen the maid
went on drearily humming the same tune as in the
afternoon, as though she were humming uncon-
sciously.
The boy sat still, with set lips, looking down at
his father, whose chest rose and fell peacefully, with
the deep breathing which Addie felt against his
hand . . .
That afternoon, those two, his father and mother,
had spoken to each other, for the first time, seriously,
in truth and sincerity, as his mother had told him.
THE LATER LIFE 291
And now the thought was whirling in both their
minds that, after years and years of wretchedness
and disunion, they were going to separate after all !
For Papa's happiness, Mamma had said; and Addie
believed that that was how she meant it.
Apart from this, there had been no names men-
tioned; but Addie knew that both Mamma and Papa,
that afternoon, had thought — as he was thinking
now — had thought, behind their spoken words, of
Marianne. And now jealousy — that heritage from
both his parents — sprang up in the boy's breast,
jealousy no longer vague and formless. He felt it
with a keener pang because Papa, at this moment,
cared more for Marianne than for him. He felt
too, for the first time, that, though he did not mean
to, he loved his father better than his mother: his
father who was like a child, who was himself a boy,
a brother, a friend to him, something more than a
father almost. In their brotherly comradeship, they
had seemed gradually to lose sight of the difference
in age, of fihal respect; and in Addie's love for his
father there was an element — not yet fully devel-
oped, but slowly gathering strength — of protection
almost, a feeling that he was perhaps not yet the
stronger, but that he would become so when he was
a little older. It was a strange feeling, but it had
always come natural to him, that way of looking
upon his father as a younger brother to be loved
and protected.
292 THE LATER LIFE
It was perhaps all for nothing, useless, he thought,
and worthless. It was Marianne that Papa cared
for now. And he remembered how he had some-
times thought that Papa was so young that one could
imagine him with a very young wife, a young girl
like Addie's cousins, a girl like . . . Marianne.
So it was to happen . . . Papa and Mamma
. . . would separate . . . and . . .
He felt the sadness of it all . . . and his heart
was very heavy . . . and his lips became still more
compressed because he did not want to cry. He
wanted to stand firm against the cruelties of life; and,
if Papa could do without him, if Mamma also
thought it better so, if perhaps it was also better for
Mamma and would make her happier, why, then it
was all right and he could bear it with strength and
fortitude. He was a child, a boy; but he felt
vaguely that soon the world would open before him.
He must forget everything therefore : everything
about his parents, their Ill-assorted lives, in which
he had been the only comfort and consolation. No,
it would all be different in future; and, if nothing
else could be done, well then, It must be like that.
When Papa, later on, was tired or in the blues or any-
thing, he would not lay his head on Addle's knees,
just like a little brother, and go to sleep: Marianne
would comfort him instead.
Addle tried to suppress that feeling of jealousy,
but it kept on shooting through him, like a painful,
THE LATER LIFE 293
smarting sting . . . But suddenly, In the dark
room, in the silent house — the servant was no
longer singing — Van der Welcke woke, drew him-
self up, rubbed his neck, which was stiff with lying
down.
" Well, you've had a good long nap ! " said Addle,
making his voice sound rough.
There was nothing in that voice and in the boyish
phrase to suggest the jealousy, the melancholy and
the great sorrow that was weighing down his childish
souL
Van der Welcke seemed to be waking up to life and
reality after his vain attempt to lose himself In that
mad devouring of distance. He remembered his
conversation with his wife. In which she had been so
unusually gentle, so indulgent, showing such self-
effacement and self-sacrifice ... so much Indeed
that he had had to kiss her In spite of himself.
" I have been speaking to Mamma," said he.
But he was silent again, could get no further.
" So have I," said Addle, to make it easier for
him.
But he also did not know what to say; and they
remained sitting side by side in the dark dining-room,
both staring at the shaft of yellow light that streamed
across the garden from the villa at the back. Each
now knew, however, that the other knew; and Addle
threw his arm over his father's shoulder, almost pro-
tectingly.
294 THE LATER LIFE
" It is an idea of Mamma's, Addie . . . that it
would be better . . ."
" For both of you."
" For me, Mamma thought."
" And for her too."
" And you, my boy, what would you think ... if
it did come to that . . . at last? . . ."
" If you both consider . . . calmly and dispas-
sionately . . . that it would be a good thing . . ."
" And you, you would spend a part of the year
with Mamma and a part with me . . ."
" Yes, of course."
" You're taking it very coolly, Addie."
"Dad, what else is there to do? If it's better
like that . . . for the two of you . . . I'm bound
to think it all right."
" If you can talk like that, it's because you're not
so fond of us . . ."
" No, I'm just as fond of you: of Mamma, Dad,
and of you. But, if it's got to be, it's got to
be . . ."
" It's strange, Addie, how e\^erything suddenly,
one fine day, seems likely to become different . . ."
" Mamma saw it like that . . ."
" Yes. Mamma has changed lately, don't you
think?"
" Mamma has become rather gentler, not so quick-
tempered."
THE LATER LIFE 295
" Yes, not so quick-tempered."
" That's all . . ."
" Yes, that's all. Tell me, Addie, tell me hon-
estly : do people, as far as you know, still . . . talk
about us ... as much as they did?"
" I don't know. Dad. I don't bother about
* people.' I just go to school, you see. But I
think ..."
" Do they talk about Mamma?"
"No."
"Not at all?"
" I never hear anything."
"About me?"
" Yes."
" They talk about me? "
" Yes, they talk about you, Dad."
"What do they say? "
" They talk of you, Dad, and . . ."
"Well?"
" Marianne."
" She is going to Baarn . . . and then we sha'n't
see each other any more. People are always ready
to jabber . . . because I've gone cycling and mo-
toring . . . with Marianne."
It was as though he were confessing and denying
in the same breath.
" Addie," he continued, " I cycled a great way to-
day."
296 THE LATER LIFE
" Yes, Dad."
" I can always think best when I'm cycling like
mad."
" Yes, Dad, I know."
" When I'm scorching along the roads, like a luna-
tic, I can think. At any other time, I can't."
" Yes."
" And I thought a great deal to-day, Addie. As
a rule, I never think about anything. It tired me
to-day even more than the cycling itself. I'm tre-
mendously tired."
" Well, Dad, go to bed."
" No, I want to talk to you. I want to sit with
you like this. You're my friend, aren't you, your
father's friend? Or aren't you that any longer?"
" Of course I am."
" You're so cold, Addie, you don't care a bit."
" Yes, Dad, I do care."
And he pulled Van der Welcke to him and pressed
his father's head against his chest:
" Lie like that now and talk away. I do care."
" I thought a great deal, Addie, cycling. This
morning, I was angry, furious, desperate. I could
have done something violent, broken something,
murdered somebody."
" Come, come! . . ."
" Yes, murdered ... I don't know whom . . .
I felt, Addie, that I could have become very happy
if . . ."
THE LATER LIFE 297
" Yes, Dad, I know . . ."
"You know?"
" Yes."
" You understand? "
*' Yes, I understand."
" When I came home, I was tired and mad with
misery. Mamma came upstairs and talked to me.
She told me that Van Vreeswijck . . . had asked
her to go to the Bezuidenhout and speak to Aunt
Bertha . . . and to Marianne, because Van Vrees-
wijck . . . do you understand? "
" Yes, Dad."
" Mamma went. I was furious when I heard that
she had been. But she said that Marianne re-
fused . . ."
" Marianne refused him? "
" Yes. Then . . . then Mamma said . . . then
she asked ... if it wouldn't be better that we —
she and I — do you understand? "
Yes, Dad."
She said it In a very nice way. She said it
gently, not at all angrily. It was nice of her to
think of it, you know, Addie."
" Yes, Dad, she is nice."
*' Well, old chap, then . . . then I gave her a kiss
. . . because she was so nice about it and said it so
kindly. And then . . . then I went cycling again."
" Yes."
" I can think best when I'm cycling. I rode and
298 THE LATER LIFE
rode. Meanwhile, I was thinking, would it be a
good thing? . . . My boy, you are more than my
son, aren't you: you're my friend? "
" Yes."
" All the time, I was thinking ... of Marianne.
I am fond of her, Addle."
" Yes, Father."
" I tried to imagine it ... I know . . . that
she is fond of me, Addle."
" Yes."
" I tried to picture It . . . And then. Addle . . .
then I thought myself old. Tell me, I am old, don't
you think? "
" You are not old. Father."
" No, perhaps not . . . Still, Addle, I don't
know, I really don't know . . . Then, Addle, I
thought . . ."
"Of what. Dad, of whom?"
" I went on riding, like a madman. That's how
I think best. Then I thought of . . . you."
"Of me?"
" Yes, of you. . . . Tell me, my boy, if we did
that ... if everything was changed . . . wouldn't
you be unhappy? "
" If it was for the happiness of both of you, no.
Then I should not be unhappy."
" Yes, so you say. But you would have to be un-
happy . . . inside. If you still love us both. I
thought it all out till I was dog-tired. For I never
THE LATER LIFE 299
think as a rule. Thinking bores me. This time, I
had to . . . because Mamma had spoken as she
did. Yes, you are bound to be unhappy ... if
you still care . . . for both of us."
" I tell you again. Dad . . ."
" Yes, I know. But I, Addie, / should be un-
happy . . . afterwards, when it had once happened
. . . I should be unhappy . . . because of you."
" Because of me? "
*' Because of you. You would no longer have a
home."
" I should have two homes."
" No, no, you would have none. You would go
.wandering to and fro between your parents. True,
you will soon be a man. You will soon be leaving
your parents. But I do feel now that you would
have no home and that you would have a father
and a mother . . . but no parents. Do you fol-
low me? No parents. Even though they quar-
rel, you have parents now. Perhaps, in a few
years, you won't care about them . . . and about
their home. But just now, Addie, just for the
present, you would be losing a great deal . . . You
see, old chap, your father has thought it all out . . .
and I frankly confess, it's made me dog-tired. I'm
resting now, while I tell it you like this, leaning up
against you."
" Yes, Dad."
" My boy, my own boy I . . . Well, you see, when
300 THE LATER LIFE
your father had got so far . . . then he felt . . ."
"What?"
" That he cared more for you . . . than for
Marianne, poor darling. Differently, you know,
but more. Much more. Poor darling! "
A passion of joy swept through the lad; his chest,
on which his father's head lay, heaved. But he felt
that it was wicked to have that joy:
" Dad, once more, If It means your happi-
ness . . ."
" No, old chap ... for there would be some-
thing severed In me, something broken: I don't know
how to put It. I should miss you all the time that
you were not with me. I couldn't do It, Addle.
It's an Impossibility, Addle . . . You know, old
chap, I oughtn't to talk like this to a son of fifteen.
Fifteen? No, you're only fourteen. Well, you
look sixteen. But that's nothing to do with It. I
oughtn't to talk like this. I'm a queer father, eh.
Addle? I don't give you a proper upbringing: I
just let you go your own way. Lord, old chap, I
can't do It, I can't give you a proper upbringing!
I shouldn't know how. You'll bring yourself up,
won't you? You 're sure to be good and clever and
honourable and all the rest of it. I don't know how,
you see: I just let you run wild, like a colt In a
meadow. Well, you promise me to turn out all
right, don't you? To do nothing mean and so on?
You know. If Grandpapa were to hear all this, were
THE LATER LIFE 301
to hear me talking like this, he would think it very
odd. And it is odd. It's not right. But your
father, Addie, is like that: he's hopeless, quite hope-
less. So now you know all about it. I couldn't do
it . . . Poor Marianne, poor darling! But she's
young still; she'll have her happiness one day, a dif-
ferent happiness. . . . Well, Addie, tell Mamma
to-morrow. Tell her I would rather, if Mamma
agrees, leave everything as it is, old chap, even
though it's not always a paradise, that I'd rather
leave everything as it is, old chap, for your sake . . .
and also for my own : I could never do without you
for six months. You may be going away quite
soon: Leiden . . . and then your service . . . but,
for the present . . . for the present . . . Will you
tell Mamma to-morrow? Those serious conversa-
tions make me feel so tired ... in my head. I
would rather cycle for a week on end without stop-
ping than spend one day thinking as I have done
to-day . . . And now I'm going to bed, old chap,
for I'm dead tired . . ."
He caught his son in his arms, held him closely,
kissed him and went away abruptly. The boy re-
mained alone in the dark room. The yellow shaft
of light from the other villa died away. The house
was quite silent; the servants had gone to bed. And
the boy stayed on, knowing all the time that his par-
ents upstairs, in their own rooms, were still sepa-
rated, in spite of so much that might have united
302 THE LATER LIFE
them; he sat there, still and silent, staring out into
the hot summer night, through which the trees
loomed like ghostly giants, sombre and oppres-
sive . . .
Yet his soul was flooded with a great joy: his
father loved him best!
CHAPTER XXIX
Constance remained alone the' whole evening.
She had opened both her bedroom-windows wide;
and she looked out over the road into the sultry
night. She had undressed and put on a white wrap-
per; and she remained sitting, in the dark room, at
the open window.
For a moment, she thought that Van der Welcke
would come to her, to tell her his decision; but he
did not come . . . He seemed to be staying with
Addie in the dining-room . . , Then she heard him
go to his own room. . . .
In the silence, in the still, sultry darkness, which
seemed to enter the room almost heavily, her rest-
lessness, the doubt which she had felt rising in her-
self, during those few words with Addie, melted
away. Sitting at the open window, she let herself
be borne along by the silent, insidious magic of the
late summer hour, as though something stronger
than herself were overpowering her and compelling
her to surrender herself, without further thinking
or doubting, to a host of almost disquieting raptures,
which came crowding in upon her . . .
Above the darkling masses of the Woods hung the
sullen menace of heavy rain; and, just once or twice,
there was a gleam of lightning yonder, in the direc-
303
304 THE LATER LIFE
tion of the sea, which she divined in the distance
flashing with sudden illuminations, with noiseless re-
flections, and then vanishing in the low-hanging
clouds of the night.
She lay back in her chair, at first oppressed by
her doubt and by the heat, but gradually, gradually
— her eyes fixed on the electric gleams far in the dis-
tance — all her doubts melted away, the enchant-
ment penetrated yet deeper and the storm-charged
sultriness seemed a languorous ecstasy in which her
breast heaved gently, her lips opened and her eyes
closed, only to open again, wider than before, and
stare at the Hghtning that flashed and vanished,
flashed and vanished, with intervals full of mys-
tery . . .
No, she doubted no longer: all would be well, all
would be well . . . She could not make a mistake
in this new life, this later life, this mature life, which
she had lived, so to speak, in a few months, giving
herself up entirely to sincerity and honesty and to the
crowning love, the only really true and lofty love.
Her love, that late love, had been her life, right
from those girlish dreams of a few months past
down to the moment of inward avowal; and what In
another woman would have lasted years, in the slow
falling of the days, which, like beads on a long
string, fell one by one through the fingers of silent
fate, the unrelenting teller of the beads, she had
lived In a few months: after her dreaming had come
THE LATER LIFE 305
her thinking; after her thinking, her wish to know;
after her wish to know, her plunge into books and
nature, until dreaming, thinking, knowledge and,
above all, love supreme and triumphant had mingled
to form a new existence and she had been reborn as
it were out of herself.
She had dreamed and thought and questioned It
all hastily and feverishly, as though afraid of being
late, of feeling her senses numbed, her soul withered
by the grey years, before she had lived . . . before
she had lived. Hastily, but in all sincerity; and her
late awakening had been deep and intense, a mystery
to herself and an impenetrable secret to all, for no
one knew that she dreamed and thought and ques-
tioned knowledge and nature; no one knew that now-
adays she looked on a tree, a cloud, a book, a picture
with different eyes than In the past, when she had
neither eyes nor understanding for tree or cloud, for
book or picture, nor found beauty in any; no one saw
that something cosmic and eternal flashed before her
in that one swift glance of tardy recognition and
knowledge ; no one knew that she, the aristocrat, felt
that keen pity for her day and generation, had learnt
to feel it from him, through him. All of It, all of
It, all her later life: no one knew it save herself
alone . . . And gradually, too, in those intimate
conversations, they had come to know something of
each other, had learnt — guessing first and then
knowing — that they had found each other, late in
3o6 THE LATER LIFE
life — she him, he her — as though at last, at last,
after that vague instinctive seeking and trying to find
each other in their childhood days, Heaven had been
merciful 1 How vague it had been, that shadowy in-
tuition, hardly to be uttered and vanishing as soon
as uttered: on his side, that distant veil of mist, that
cloud, on the horizon of the moors; on hers, that
perpetual longing to go farther, to flit from boulder
to boulder down the hurrying stream, as it rushed
past under the dense canopy of those tropical trees :
a pair of children knowing nothing of each other
and all unconscious until years later that they were
both seeking . . . both seeking! Oh, that strange
dream-quest, that nameless desire, which, when one
breathed it, vanished, was no longer a quest! At a
touch, it became Intangible; as soon as one grasped
it, it slipped away, became something different, some-
thing different . . . But, unbreathed, untouched, un-
grasped, just dreamed and dimly felt in those far-off
childhood days, it was that: the mystic, wonderful
reality, which was the only reality . . . To both of
them, in those days, it had been too gossamer-frail,
too intangible and too Incomprehensible to last be-
yond their childhood, that seed of reality working
in the womb of time: vanity and frivolity had
claimed her for their own, study and reflection had
claimed him; and each had wandered farther and
farther from that half-divined other, no longer even
seeking the other . . .
THE LATER LIFE 307
The years had heaped themselves up between
them, between her at the Hague, in Rome, In Brus-
sels, and him in America, when she was an elegant
young society-woman, he the workmen's friend and
brother, their comrade who yearned to know and
understand them. While she had danced and flirted
in the ball-rooms of Rome, he had laboured in the
docks, gone down the black shafts of the coal-mines.
And all this which had really happened seemed un-
real to her, a dream, a remote nightmare, by the
side of that childish romance, those fairy visions of
yesterday! And yet it had all happened, it had all
happened. They had never been allowed to meet
each other, not even when they had been brought
near each other — on the Riviera, in Brussels — as
by an unconscious power! They had not been al-
lowed to meet until now, late, very late, too late
. . . Oh, is it ever given too late, that blessed boon,
to live at last, to find at last?
And they had both made mistakes. She had
made her mistakes: her brief passion for Henri, the
sudden kindling of the senses of a frivolous, bored
and idle woman; then the marriage: mistake upon
mistake, nothing but waste, waste, waste of her pre-
cious life. And he had made mistakes too: he had
dreamed of being the brother of those men, a fellow-
worker and comrade, and he had not become their
brother. Oh, if they had once been allowed to
know and find each other, in the years when they
3o8 THE LATER LIFE
were both young, what a harmony their life to-
gether might have been: no jarring note in them-
selves or in each other, but perfect harmony in all
things, attuned to the note of their day and genera-
tion; he by her side to understand and love her and
support her when the sadness of it all oppressed
her ! Oh, to have lived, when still young, with him,
in his heart, in his arms; and then to have loved, to
have understood, to have done, with him and for
his sake, all that can still be done for one's day and
generation by those who themselves are strong and
radiant in love and happiness and harmony ! . . .
And it had not been so; the precious years, far
from each other, had been wasted ... by him: he
had told her so; by her: oh, her vain, wasted
years! . . .
No, fate had not willed it. And yet, now that at
last, at last, the honest, simple, true life had kindled
into flame, now that, after first thinking of others —
of Henri, of Marianne — she had also thought of
herself, also thought of him, could not an outward
physical life also be kindled after that Inward, spirit-
ual life, far from everything and everybody around
them, in another country and another world, a life in
which she would be beside him, a life of harmony
which might be tinged with the melancholy of that
late awakening but would still be perfect harmony
and perfect happiness? . . .
THE LATER LIFE 309
She lay back in her chair, her hands hanging
limply beside her, as if she lacked the energy now
to grasp the tempting Illusion, afraid of losing it and
afraid of seizing it and then recognizing it as an il-
lusion . . .
And the sultry air seemed to be pressing upon her
softly and languorously until she panted and her lips
parted and her eyes closed only to open again, wider
than before; and in that atmosphere of ecstasy it ap-
peared to her that the distant lightning-streaks yon-
der, the noiseless flashes over the wide sea which she
divined yonder, yonder, far away, were themselves
the swift effulgence of her thoughts and illusions and
regrets: a gleam and gone, a gleam and gone.
When it gleamed, came the smiling hope that things
could become and remain as she thought; when the
light faded, came doubt ... yet not so deep but
that the night tempted and lured her:
" Hope again . . . think once more . . . dream
again ... It may be ... it is not impossible
... It is reality, pure, simple reality; it will mean
the happiness of those two poor children, Henri and
Marianne; it will be the happiness of you two, him
and you, the woman whose life blossomed late . . .
It is possible: hope it again, think, dream it again;
for what is impossibility, when truth once stands
revealed, however late? See, the truth stands re-
vealed; the lightning flashes; sometimes the whole
310 THE LATER LIFE
sky is illumined at once; the low clouds drift along;
behind them . . . behind them lies the infinity of
eternity, of everything that may happen 1 "
The room was quite dark; she herself alone re-
mained a white blur in the window-frame; and the
night, the air, the lights were there outside, wide
and eternal. And, in the sweet languor of the late
summer hour, of the sultiy night, of her uncontrol-
lable illusion and hopes, she felt as though she were
uplifted by a flood of radiant ecstasy, by a winged
joy that carried her with it towards the sea yonder,
towards the bright rifts of the lightning-flashes, to-
wards the distance of futurity, eternity and every-
thing that might happen . . . And she let herself
be borne along; and in that moment a certainty
came over her, penetrated deep down in her, like a
divinely-implanted conviction, that it would be as she
had dreamed and hoped and wished, that so it would
happen, at long last, because life's chiefest grace
was at length descending upon her . . .
Yes, it would happen like that: she knew it, she
saw it in the future. She saw herself living by his
side, in his heart, in his arms; living for herself and
him; living for each other in all things; she saw it
shine out radiantly with each lightning-flash in the
radiant shining of those future years. She saw
them, those children of the past, with the dew upon
them, smiling to each other as though they who, as
THE LATER LIFE 311
boy and girl, had unconsciously sought each other
had grown into a young man and a maiden who had
found each other . . . after the mystery of the
cloud-veil and of the distant river under the spread-
ing leaves; and they now went on together: their
paths ran up towards the glittering cities of the
future, which reared their crystal domes under the
revealing skies, while from out their riot of towers
sunbeams flashed and struck a thousand colours
from the crystal domes . . .
A wind rose, as though waking in the very bed
of the slumbering night, and leapt to the sky. A
cool breath drifted straight out of the sultry, lour-
ing clouds; a few drops pattered upon the leaves.
And the wind carried the storm farther, carried the
revelation with it; the lightning flashed twice, thrice
more . . . vanished . . . paled away . . . Not
until it had travelled far, very far, would the wind
let loose the clouds, would the night-rain fall . . .
so Constance thought, vaguely . . .
And she sighed deeply, as though waking out of
her languor of ecstasy, now that the night, after
that rising wind, was no longer so sultry and oppres-
sive. She stood up, wearily, closed the window,
saw a morning pallor already dawning through the
trees . . .
And she lay down and fell asleep: yes, that was
what would happen, it would be like that; she felt
312 THE LATER LIFE
certain of It: that future would come; the paths ran
to the crystal-domed city; she was going to it with
him . . . with him ! . . .
Yes, it would come, it would come, to-morrow,
yes, to-morrow . . .
And, while that hope still continued to transfigure
her face, pale on the pillow in the dawning day, her
eyes, blind from long gazing at the light, closed
heavily; and she fell asleep, convinced . . . con-
vinced . . .
.CHAPTER XXX
Conviction had conquered doubt and reigned tri-
umphant. When Constance awoke early that morn-
ing, she was full of proud, calm confidence, as
though she knew the future positively. She hesi-
tated to go to her husband in his room; and he
seemed to avoid her too, for as early as seven o'clock
she saw him, from her window, riding off on his
bicycle. Since their conversation, she had not seen
him, did not know what he thought; and it struck
her that he was not dashing away, as he had done
so often lately, like a madman, but that he pedalled
along quietly, with a certain melancholy resignation
in his face, which she just saw flickering past under
his bicycling-cap.
She listened to hear if Addie was awake, but he
seemed to be still asleep; also it was holiday-time.
And she began to think of Van Vreeswijck and made
up her mind to write to him, just a line, to ask him
to come, a single line which however would at once
allow him to read, between the letters, that Marianne
could not love him . . . And, while thinking, with
a tender pity for him amid her own calm certainty,
she bit her pen, looked out of the window . . .
The August morning was already sunny at that
hour: there was a blue sky with white, fleecy clouds,
313
314 THE LATER LIFE
which passed like flocks of snowy sheep through a
blue meadow; the wind urged the sheep before it, like
an impetuous drover. And, while she searched for
those difficult words, her mind recalled the night be-
fore and the lightning yonder, above the sea, which
she divined in the distance ... It was strange, but
now, in that morning light, with that placid sky at
which she gazed, thinking of Van Vreeswijck and
how to tell him in a single, merciful word — with
that summer blue full of fleecy white, at which she
was gazing so fixedly after the ecstasy and winged
bhss that had uplifted her the night before — it
was as if her calm, proud confidence in her know-
ledge of the future was wavering . . . She did not
know why, for after all she thought that Henri
would consent to their divorcing . . .
They would be divorced . . .
And Marianne would ...
Suddenly, she began to write. She wrote more
than she intended to write : she now wrote the truth
straight away, in an impulse of honesty, and at the
end of her letter she asked Van Vreeswijck to call
on her that evening.
She had just finished, when Addie came in. He
kissed her and waited until she had signed her let-
ter.
"Why aren't you bicychng with Papa?" she
asked.
THE LATER LIFE 315
He said that his father had asked him to speak
to her . . .
And now, sitting beside her, with her hand in
his, he told her, without once mentioning Mari-
anne's name, what Papa had said. His calm, al-
most cold, business-like words sobered her com-
pletely, while she continued pensively to look at the
sky, which seemed now to be wearing a blue smile
of ignorance and indifference . . . Suddenly it
seemed to her as if she had been dreaming . . .
Not that her thoughts took any definite form, for
first the ideal vision whose realization had seemed
so certain, then the morning doubts and now the
disenchantment of the sober facts had all followed
too swiftly upon one another; and she could not take
it all in; she did not know what she thought. It
only seemed to her as if she had been dreaming.
Automatically, she said:
" Perhaps it is better so."
She had not expected it !
She had never thought that Henri's answer would
be the one which she now heard from the mouth of
their son!
Did one ever know another person, though one
lived with that person for years? Did she know her
son, did she know herself?
But the boy held her hand affectionately.
And he read the stupefaction In her eyes:
3i6 THE LATER LIFE
" Tell me, honestly, Mamma. Are you disap-
pointed? "
She was silent, gazed at the placid sky.
" Would you rather have started a fresh life . . .
away from Papa?"
She bowed her head, let It rest upon his shoulder:
" Addle," she said.
She made an attempt to pick her words, but her
honesty was once more too strong for her:
" Yes," she said, simply.
" Then you would rather have had it so . . . for
your own sake? "
" I would rather have had it so, yes."
They were silent.
" I had even pictured It . . . like that," she
said, presently.
" Shall I speak to Papa again then, Mamma? If
I tell him that you had already been thinking of
it . . ."
" You believe ... ? "
" He will agree."
" Do you think so?"
" If It means the happiness of both of you . . ."
" Tell me what Papa said."
" I can't remember exactly . . . Only Papa
thought . . . that not to see me for six months at a
time would be more than he could bear."
" Is that all that Papa said? "
" Yes."
THE LATER LIFE 317
But he gave just a smile of melancholy resigna-
tion; and his look told that that was not all. She
understood. She understood that they had spoken
of Marianne.
" So Papa . . ." she repeated.
" Would rather stay with us, Mamma."
" With us," she repeated. " We three to-
gether? "
'' Yes."
" It means going on living ... a lie," she said.
In a blank voice.
" Then I will speak to Papa again."
" No, Addie."
"Why not? . . ."
" No, don't do that. Don't ask Papa ... to
think it over again. It is perhaps too late, after all;
and besides . . . Papa is right. About you."
"About me?"
" He could not go six months without you. And
" And you. Mamma .
" I couldn't either."
" Yes, you could."
" No, I couldn't either."
She suddenly passed her hands along his face,
along his shoulders, his knees, as though she wished
to feel him, to feel the reality . . . the reality of
her life. He ... he was the real thing, the truth;
but all the rest between her husband and her was
3i8 THE LATER LIFE
falsehood, remained falsehood . . . because of peo-
ple. Could they not even for Addie's sake purge
that falsehood into truth? No, no, not even for
him. Would falsehood then always cleave to
them? . . .
" We are too small," she thought and murmured
her thought aloud.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing . . . Very well, Addie . . . Tell Papa
that it shall be as he says, that I am quite content
. . . that I could not do without you either . . .
for six months 1 "
She looked at him, looked into his serious blue
eyes, as though she had forgotten him and were now
remembering him for the first time. Six months
... six months without him! The new life, the
new paths, the new cities, on those far-off, new hori-
zons . . . and six months ... six months without
Addie ! . . .
Had she then been dreaming? Had she just
been dazzled by that glittering vision? Was it just
intoxication, ecstasy? Was it just glamour and en-
chantment? . . .
He left her. She dressed and went downstairs.
She felt as if she were back from a long journey
and seeing her house again after an absence of
months. Her movements were almost like those of
a sleep-walker; the house seemed something remote
and impersonal, though she had always loved it,
THE LATER LIFE 319
looked after It, made it her beautiful home by a
thousand intimate touches. She now went through
the house mechanically performing her usual little
housewifely duties, still half dreaming, in a condi-
tion of semi-consciousness. It was as If her
thoughts were standing still, as if she no longer
knew, nor for that matter thought, remembering
only the night before, that lonely evening of inward
conviction . . . The morning had dawned, placid,
with Its cloudless sky; Addle had come: she now
knew what Henri thought. It surprised her just a
little that Henri thought hke that . . . and then she
reahzed that, after all, he did not love Marianne
very much . . . that he must love her less than Ad-
die. Poor Marianne, she thought; and she re-
flected that women love more absolutely than men
. . . She spoke to the servant, gave her orders, did
all the actual, everyday things. In between her
thoughts. And suddenly she looked deep down Into
herself, once more saw so completely into her own
clear depths that she was startled at herself and
shuddered. She saw that, if Henri had made the
same proposal to her that she had made to him, she
would have accepted it In her desire for happiness,
for happiness with the man whom she loved and
who — she felt it ! — loved her. She saw that she
would have accepted and that she would not have
hesitated because of her son I . . . Her son! He
was certain to be leaving them soon in any case . . .
320 THE LATER LIFE
to seek his own life! . . . Her son! To pro-
vide him for a few years more with the paternal
house, that wretched fabric of lies, which he, the
boy, alone kept together ... for his sake and for
the sake of that joint falsehood, she would have to
reject the new life of truth! ... It was as if she
were standing In a maze; but she was certain that
she would not have hesitated in that maze, if the de-
cision had been left to her . . . that she would have
known how to take the path of simple honesty . . .
that she would have elected to separate, in spite of
Addie . . . that she loved her new life — and the
stranger — more than her child I
She had learnt to know herself in that new atmo-
sphere of pure truth; and now . . . now she saw so
far into those translucent depths that she was fright-
ened and shuddered as in the presence of something
monstrous; for It seemed monstrous to her to place
anything above her child, above the dear solace of
so many years . . .
Just then Van der Welcke came home ; she heard
him put away his bicycle, go up the stairs . . . and
then turn back, as If reflecting that he could no
longer avoid his wife. He entered, abruptly. She,
trembling, had sat down, because she felt on the
verge of falling . . .
" Has Addie told you? " he asked.
" Yes," she said, in a low voice.
"And . . . you think It is the best thing? . . .'*
THE LATER LIFE 321
" Yes ... I do . . ."
" So everything remains . . ." he said, hesitat-
ingly.
"As It was," she replied, almost inaudibly; and
her voice hesitated also.
" He told you . . . the reason? " he went on.
" Yes."
" I could not do without him ... all the time
that he would be with you, Constance. And you
couldn't do without the boy either, could you, while
he was with me? "
" No," she said, automatically; and, as her voice
failed her, she repeated, more firmly, " No, I should
not be able to do without him."
At that moment, she did not know if she was
speaking the truth or not. Only she had a vague
sensation ... as though that fair, unsullied truth
were retreating a little farther from her . . . like a
glittering cloud . . .
" Then we might try to be more patient with
each other," he said. " But still I should like to
tell you, Constance, that I appreciate your thought
. . . your Intention . . ,"
" Yes," she said, vaguely.
" Your thought for me . . ."
" Yes."
But she now found it impossible to let that retreat-
ing truth slip still farther from her; and she said:
" I was thinking of myself also, Henri . . . but
322 THE LATER LIFE
it was not clear to me what I thought ... I don't
quite know . . . Henri, it is better like this, for
everything to remain ... as it was."
" And we both of us love our boy."
" Yes, both of us . . ."
He saw her turn very pale as she leant back in
her chair, her arms hanging limply beside her. He
had a sudden impulse to say something kind, to give
her a kiss; but at the same time he was conscious
that neither his words nor his caress would reach
her. And he thought, what was the good of it?
They had no love for each other. They would re-
main strangers, in spite of all that they had felt for
each other during these days : she suggesting for his
happiness something dead against convention; he
thrilling with genuine gratitude . . .
" Well, that is settled then," was all that he said
in conclusion, quietly; and he went out, gently closing
the door behind him.
She did not move, but sat there, gazing dully
into space. Yes, she had counted her son a lesser
thing than her new life ! That was the simple truth,
just as much as the new life itself . . . And now
. . . now, as though her mind were wandering, she
saw that new life like a crystal city around her,
threatening to crack, to rend asunder, to be shat-
tered in one mighty spasm of despair. Her eyes
began to burn from staring into those distant, cruel
thoughts. In her breast she felt a physical pain.
THE LATER LIFE 323
The house, the room stifled her. She felt impelled
to fly from that house, from the narrow circles,
which whirled giddily around her, to fly from her-
self. She was so much perplexed in her own being,
no longer knowing what was right, what was honest,
what true . . . that she yearned for space and air.
Her breast was wrung with grief and that gasping
for breath. Still, she controlled herself, took up a
hat, pinned It on and found the strength to say to
the servant:
" Truitje, I am going out . . ."
She was outside now. In the road. She had be-
come afraid of the loneliness of her room and of
herself, a loneliness which in other ways had be-
come so dear to her. Now she was seeking some-
thing more than spaciousness of air and forest; but
the road, In which a few people were walking, made
her keep herself under control. She turned down a
side-path, went through the Woods. Here again
there were people taking their morning stroll. . . .
Suddenly, she gave a violent start: she saw Brauws,
sitting on a bench. She felt as if she would faint;
and, without knowing what she was doing, she
turned round and walked back ... By this time,
she had lost all her self-command. He had seen
her, however, and his hand had already gone up to
his hat. Suddenly, she heard his step behind her;
he came up with her:
" Is this how you run away from your friends? "
324 THE LATER LIFE
he said, making an attempt to joke, but In obvious
astonishment.
She looked at him; and he was struck with her
confusion.
" Don't be angry," she said, frankly, " but I was
startled at seeing you."
" I was not welcome," he said, roughly. " For-
give me, mevrouw. I ought not to have come after
you. But I'm a tactless beggar In these matters.
I am not one of your society-men."
" Don't be angry," she repeated, almost entreat-
Ingly. "Society Indeed! I certainly showed my-
self no society-woman . . . to . . . unexpectedly
to . . ."
She did not know what she wanted to say.
" To turn your back on me," he said, completing
the sentence.
" To turn my back on you," she repeated.
" Well, now that I have said good-morning . . ."
He lifted his hat, moved as though to go back.
" Stay ! " she entreated. " Walk a little way with
me. Now that I happen to have met you . . ."
" I came back yesterday ... I meant to call on
you to-day or to-morrow . . ."
" Walk with me," she said, almost entreatlngly.
" I want to speak to you . . ."
"What about?"
" I suggested to Henri ..."
She drew a deep breath; there were people pass-
THE LATER LIFE 325
ing. They were near the Ponds. She ceased
speaking; and they walked on silently . . .
" I suggested to Henri," she repeated, at last,
" that we should . . ."
The word died away on her lips, but he under-
stood. They were both silent, both walked on
without speaking. He led the way; and it seemed
to her that they were making for a goal, she knew
not where, which he would know . . .
At last, she said:
'' I wanted ... as you are our friend ... to
tell you ..."
He was determined to make her say the word:
" You suggested what? "
" That we should be divorced . . ."
They walked on for some minutes. Suddenly,
round about her, she saw the dunes, the distant sea,
the sea which she had divined the night before, over
which the pale gleams, the lightning-flashes had re-
vealed themselves. Now, the sky ov^erhead was
revealed, a vague opal, with white clouds curling
like steam . . .
" I suggested that we should be divorced," she
repeated.
He drew a breath, in the salt breath of the sea,
even as he had breathed in the Alps, when contem-
plating those ice-bound horizons. And he remem-
bered . . . that vision . . . and the yearning . . .
for the one soul ... the meeting with which would
326 THE LATER LIFE
have been a consolation amid the constant disap-
pointment encountered with the many souls, the
thousands . . . And a swift, keen hope seemed to
flash before him . . . not only of having found at
last ... in silence . . . but of venturing to utter
it . . . once; and so keen, so dazzling was the hope
that at first he did not hear her say:
" But Henri . . . thinks it is better . . .
not . . ."
"What?" he asked, as though deaf, as though
blind.
She repeated:
" Henri thinks it is better not. . . . Because of
our boy ... of Addie . . ."
The keen hope had flashed for only a second,
swiftly, with its dizzying rays . . .
Uttered it would never be . . . To have found in
silence : alas, that was all illusion ... a dream
. . . when one Is very young . . .
" He is right," he said, in a low voice.
"Is he right?" she asked, sadly. And, more
firmly, she repeated, " Yes, he is right . . ."
" I should have been sorry . . . for Addie's
sake," he said.
" Yes," she repeated, as though in a trance. " I
should have been sorry for Addie's sake. But I had
thought that I should be able to live at last — my
God, at last ! — in absolute truth and sincerity . . .
THE LATER LIFE 327
and not In a narrow ring of convention, not in terror
of people and what they may think absurd and can-
not understand . . . and . . . and . . ."
" And ... ? " he asked.
" And ... in that thought, in that hope . . .
I had forgotten my boy. And yet he is the reaHty ! "
" And yet he ... is the reaHty."
" And now I am sacrificing . . . the dream . . .
the illusion ... to him."
" Yes . . . the dream . . . the illusion," he
said, with a smile that was full of pain.
"It hurts me!" she confessed, with a sob.
" Yesterday — oh, only yesterday, last night ! — I
thought that the dream, the illusion . . . was truth
. . . But what for young people can be a dream, an
illusion . . . which comes true . . ."
*' Is at our age . . ."
"Absurd?" she asked, still wavering.
" Not absurd perhaps . . . but impossible. We
go bent under too heavy a burden of the past to per-
mit ourselves youthful dreams and illusions. We
no longer have any right . . . even to mem-
ories . . ."
" I have some . . . from my childhood," she
stammered, vaguely.
" There are no memories left for us," he said,
gently, with his smile that was full of pain.
" No, there are none left for us," she repeated.
328 THE LATER LIFE
And she confessed, " I have dreamed . . . and
thought . . . too late. I ... I have begun to
live too late . . ."
" I," he said, " I thought . . . that I had lived;
but I have done nothing . . . but seek . . ."
"You never found?"
" Perhaps . . . almost. But, when I had found
... I was not allowed to put out my hand . . ."
" Because ... of the past? " she asked, softly.
" And of the present. Because of what is and
has younger, fresher rights than mine . . . which
are no rights . . . but the forbidden Illusions of an
old man . . ."
" Not old . . ."
" Older every day. He alone Is in the prime of
life . . . who has found ... or thinks that he has
found . . ."
" Yes, that Is so," she said; and her voice sounded
like a wail. " I have begun to llv6 too late. I
could have lived . . . even now . . . perhaps; but
It Is all too late. I once told you . . . that I was
abdicating my youth .
" Once, months ago
" Since then, I have thought, dreamt, lived too
much . . . not to feel young . . . for a few mo-
ments . . . But It was all an Illusion . . . and It is
all too late . . ."
They looked at each other. He bowed his head.
THE LATER LIFE 329
in gentle acquiescence, with his smile that was full
of pain:
"Yes, it is so," he said; and it was almost as
if he were joking. " Come, let us be strong. I
shall go on seeking . . . and you . . ."
"Oh, I have my boy!" she murmured. "He
has always comforted me."
They walked back slowly and took leave of each
other at the door, a friends' leave-taking.
" Will you come again soon? " she asked.
" I don't know," he said. " You know, you no
sooner see me than I am gone ... I may go to
England in the autumn, to lecture on Peace. The
world is full of mighty problems; and we . . . we
are pigmies ... in the tiny worlds of our own
selves . . ."
" Yes ... we are nothing . . ."
He left her; she was conscious of a sort of fare-
well in the pressure of his hand. She went in, with
her head swimming; and her son was there. And
she embraced him, as though asking his forgiveness.
" Addie," she said, softly, " Papa was right. Papa
was right ... I believe that I now know for cer-
tain, dear, that I know for certain that Papa was
right . . . Oh, Addie, whatever I may lose . . .
you will not let me lose you? . . ."
CHAPTER XXXI
Had it all been an illusion then? Was it all for
nothing?
The days passed slowly, one after the other. She
saw Van Vreeswijck and felt for him, their friend,
in his silent grief; she bade good-bye to Bertha and
her children. She knew that Van der Welcke had
seen Marianne once more before her departure; and
her heart was full of pity for them both.
Had it all been an illusion then, this world of
feeling, this little world of her own self? Oh, he
was going to England, to lecture on Peace; for him
there were always those mighty problems which con-
soled him for the smallness of that little world of
self! But she, had she lost everything, now that
the illusion no longer shone before her, now that the
magic cities had fallen to pieces, now that everything
had become very dreary in the disenchantment and
self-reproach of realizing that she had not loved her
son enough, that she had not loved him as well as
his father loved him, not as well as she had loved
the stranger, the friend who had taught her to
live? . . .
Had she lost everything then? Now, ah now,
she was really old, grey-haired; now her eye was no
longer bright, her step no longer brisk; now it was
330
THE LATER LIFE 331
really all over and It was over forever . . . But
had she lost everything then? This was what she
often asked herself In the days that followed, those
days of sadness, sadness for herself, for him, for her
son, for her husband, for the girl whom she loved
too . . . for all those people, for all her life . . .
And what of the great questions, the mighty pro-
blems of life? Ah, they no longer stood out before
her, now that he who had called her attention to
them had gone straight towards those mighty pro-
blems as to the towers of the greater life I To her
they seemed Infinitely remote, shadowy cities on a
far horizon behind her own shattered cities of fair
translucent hopes . . . Had she then lost her Inter-
est In all those things? And, having lost that Inter-
est, did she no longer care for her own development,
for books, nature, art? Was the life that she had
been living all Illusion, a dream-life of love, lived
under his Influence, lived under his compelling eyes?
Yes, that was how It had been, that was how she
would have to acknowledge It to herself! . . . That
was how It was ! . . . That was how It was ! . . .
Only with his eyes upon her had she felt herself born
again . . . born again from her childhood onwards
. . . until she had once more conjured up the falry-
vlslon of the little girl with the red flowers on her
temples who ran over the boulders In the river under
the spreading tropical leaves, beckoning the wonder-
ing little brothers . . . And she, a middle-aged
332 JHE LATER LIFE
woman, had grown Into a girl who dreamed the
shimmering dreams that were wafted along rainbow
paths towards the distant clouds high In the heavens
... In her maturity, she had developed herself hur-
riedly, as though afraid of being too late. Into a
thinking, feeling, loving woman . . . She had been
sincere In that new, hurried life; but It had been
nothing more than Illusion and Illusion alone, the Il-
lusion of a woman who felt herself growing old
without ever, ever having lived . . .
But, though It had all been Illusion, was illusion
nothing then? ... Or was Illusion indeed some-
thing, something of no great account? And, even
though she had lived only Illusion, Illusion under the
compelling eyes of the man whom she loved, feeling
love for the first and only time, under the brooding,
anguished eyes of that thinker and seeker, had she
not lived then, had she not lived then?
Yes, she had : she had Hved, in the way in which
a woman hke herself — a woman who had never
felt simply and sincerely except as a child in those
far-off childish days, a woman whose life had been
nothing but artificiality and failure — could live
again, only later still, older still, old almost and
finished; she had lived In Illusions, In a fleeting il-
lusion, which just for one moment she had tried to
grasp, that day, now a few months ago . . .
She shook her head, her grey head; she was no
THE LATER LIFE 333
longer blinded; she saw: she saw that It could never
have been ...
Yet she felt that they had — both of them —
lived the illusion — both of them — for a little
while . . .
And was nothing left of it?
Now that the long dreary days of sadness were
drawing on, she saw: she saw that there was indeed
something left, that a ray of light remained in her
small soul, which had only been able to live like that,
very late ; for she saw that, in spite of all her repin-
ing, there was still gratitude . . .
Yes, she was grateful, for she had lived, even
though everything had been illusion, the late blos-
soming of ephemeral dream-flowers . . .
And now — when she felt that strange question
rise In her soul: is this life, this futile, endless round,
or Is there ... is there anything else ? When she
felt that bewildering, passionate doubt — then she
was conscious, deep down in her heart, with a throb
of gratitude, that there was something else . . .
Illusion, yes, only illusion, without which there is
no life. . . .
THE END
I
A LIST OF
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comedy in the author's sketches of the Prussian mobiliza-
tion and transport of troops." — Athenceum,
21 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.G.
MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S NEW FICTION
THE COST OF WINGS
by RICHARD DEHAN 6/-
'* Richard Delian has collected in this volume twenty-six
clever short stories. They are all well designed, brightly
— now and then, perhaps, over brightly written, and the
authoress has a very clear conception of the value of the
climax ; she can keep her secret, if necessary, to the
last line of her tale." — ^-vening S^ews.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
THE HEADQUARTER REGRUFF
6/-
" There is real truth and pathos in the ' Fourth Volume,'
originality in ' The Tribute of Ofla,' and pith in nearly all
of them."— r/mes.
"There is not one of the tales which will fail to excite,
amuse, entertain, or in some way delight the reader."
— Liverpool Daily Post.
BETWEEN TWO THIEVES
(New Edition) 2/" net
"The book is really an amazing piece of work. Its abound-
ing energy, its grip on our attention, its biting humour, its
strong, if sometimes lurid word painting have an effect of
richness and fullness of teeming life, that sweeps one with
it. What an ample chance for praise and whole-hearted
enjoyment. The thing unrols v/ith a vividness that never
fails." — Daily ^etos and Leader.
CHE DOP DOGTOR
{Now in its 18th Edition). 2/- net
" Pulsatingly real — gloomy, tragic, humorous, dignified,
real. The cruelty of battle, the depth of disgusting
villainy, the struggles of great souls, the irony of coinci-
dence, are all in its pages. . . . Who touches this book
touches a man. 1 am grateful for the w^onderful thrills
'The Dop Doctor' has given me. It is a novel among a
thousand." — The Daily fixpress.
21 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.G.
MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S NEW FICTION
THE FREELANDS
by JOHN GALSWORTHY 6/-
"A sincere, powerful, and humane study of the modern
English Countryside." Daily News.
Author of
A MAN OF PROPERTY COUNTRY HOUSE
THE ISLAND PHARISEES FRATERNITY
THE PATRICIAN THE INN OF TRANQUILLITY
A MOTLEY MOODS, SONGS & DOGGERELS
THE DARK FLOWER
OF HUMAN BONDAGE
by W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM 61-
"The only novel of the year in which we can take cover
from the sad. swift thoughts which sigh and whine about
our heads in war time." — Morning Post.
" We have never read a cleverer book." — Outlook-
A LADY OF RUSSIA
by ROBERT BOWMAN 6/-
" Those who are interested in Russian life — and who is
not? — should read the book for themselves. The author
knows his subject and writes graphically about it, and his
contrasts are powerful." — Pall Mall Gazette.
21 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.C.
MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S NEW FICTION
THE PERFECT WIFE
by JOSEPH KEATING 6/-
"It is all written in the gayest, happiest spirit of light
comedy . . . the whole thing is cleverly and entertain-
ingly done . . . the story holds you interested and
amused throughout." — The ^ookman.
" It is a pure comedy ... it makes excellent and ex-
citing and humorous reading. There is plenty of good
character-drawing to boot, and the writing is simple and
effective and often witty. . . . Mr. Keating has written
a very entertaining story, and we are grateful to him."
— Dcf/p Chronicle.
THE MILKY WAY
by F. TENNYSON JESSE 6/-
" A light-hearted medley, the spirit and picturesqueness
of which the author cleverly keeps alive to the last act."
— Times Literary Supplement.
" A book of youth and high spirits! That is the definition
of this altogether delightful 'Milky Way' . . . this
wholly enchanting * Viv,' her entourage . . . as gay and
irresponsible as herself. . . . Miss Tennyson Jesse has
great gifts ; skill and insight, candour, enthusiasm, and a
pleasant way of taking her readers into her confidence
. . . the final impression is that she enjoyed writing her
book just as much as this reviewer has enjoyed reading it."
—Daily Mail.
THE REWARD OF VIRTUE
by AMBER REEVES 6h
" There is cleverness enough and to spare, but it is . . .
a spontaneous cleverness, innate, not laboriously acquired.
. . . The dialogue ... is so natural, so unaffected,
that it is quite possible to read it without noticing the
high artistic quality of it. . . . For a first novel Miss
Reeves's is a remarkable achievement ; it would be a
distinct achievement even were it not a first novel."
— Daily Chronicle.
21 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.G.
MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S NEW FICTION
THE BUSINESS OF
A GENTLEMAN
by H. N. DIGKiNSOiN 6/-
Author of "Keddy," "Sir Guy and Lady Rannard," etc.
"His tale is undoubtedly refreshing. He is obviously
sincere. . . . His whole book is a plea for the personal
responsibility of all landowners and employers of labour.
Distinctly this is a novel to be read, for it is the work
of one who has the courage of conviction, and who
thinks for himself." — Standard
"Mr. H. N. Dickinson's new novel is one of the most
humorous books we have met with for a long time.
' The Business of A Gentleman ' is a satire on that grand-
motherly legislation which seeks to regulate the lives
of the poor — their amusements, their m.orals, their
family and the upbringing of their children. . . . Wittily
written with an atmosphere of laughter, touched with
pungent satire, we cordially recommend this clever novel."
— ^oer^man.
BRUNEL'S TOWER
by EDEN PHILLPOTTS 6/-
"Time and again Mr. Phillpotts has given us proof of his
wonderful keenness and observation and of the loving
care with which he gives expression to it. But there has
never been a finer instance of it than in the exquisite
descriptions in this story of the potter in all the stages of
his work. One could read ' Brunei's Tower ' for that
alone, even if there v/ere no other interests in it. It is
a beautifully told story and there is something austere in
the style, though exquisitely sensitive. It is the master
potter at work."— Pa// !V!all Qazetle.
21 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.G.
MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S NEW FICTION
THE MERCY OF THE LORD
by FLORA ANNIE STEEL 6/-
Mrs. Steel's ever-delightful pen is here employed in
giving us pictures as it were from her experience — stories
of India, stories of the Highlands, quick impressions of
modern life — each a rounded, well-defined tale, written
with so sane a touch, with so pleasant a mind behind them
that she makes the strongest appeal to her public.
Author of
A PRINCE OF DREAMERS MISS STUART'S LEGACY
THE FLOWER OF FORGIVE- ON THE FACE OF THE
NESS WATERS
FROM THE FIVE RIVERS THE POTTER'S THUMB
THE HOSTS OF THE LORD RED ROWANS
IN THE GUARDIANSHIP OF A SOVEREIGN REMEDY
GOD VOICES IN THE NIGHT
IN THE PERMANENT WAY and other stories.
KING ERRANT
THE STEPPE
AND OTHER STORIES
by ANTON TCHEKOV 6/-
On account of his simplicity, his tender humour, and his
power of delineating character, Tchekov holds a very
high place in Russian literature. In this volume, which
contains longer and more important stories than any
which have hitherto appeared in English, he portrays
with peculiar fidelity the resignation and patient idealism
which is so characteristic of the Russian spirit.
" These tales have not only the simplicity of genius, but
give a most remarkable insight into the Russian
character . "—G/o/!)e.
21 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.C.
MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S NEW FICTION
THE HOUSE IN
DEMETRIUS ROAD
by J. D. BERESFORD 6/-
This story is the study of a mysterious 'man, a man of
undoubted mental force, subtly and skilfully written. The
three chief characters, Greg, the mystery, Mary, his
sister-in-law, and Martin Bond, are real and living ; the
medley of something like genius, cunning, weakness of
will and force of personality in Greg being extraordinarily
well depicted.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
GOSLINGS 6/-
"Many of the scenes of his book will live long in the
imagination. The book is packed with such striking
episodes, which purge the intellect, if not always the soul,
with pity and terror and wonder. Mr. Beresford has, in
fact, proved once again that, even if he may appear some-
what unsympathetic on the emotional side, he has an
intellectual grasp as strong and as sure as that of any
living novelist."— Morn/ng Post.
JOHN CHRISTOPHER:
I. Dawn and Morning. II. Storm and Stress.
III. John Christopher in Paris
IV. The Journey's End
by ROMAIN ROLLAND each 6/-
Translated by GILBERT CANN AN. Author of "Little Brother," etc.
" A noble piece of work, which must, without any doubt
whatever, ultimately receive the praise and attention
which it so undoubtedly merits. . . . There is hardly a
single book more illustrative, more informing and n^r»e
inspiring . . . than M. Romain Holland's creative
work, 'John Christopher.'"— The Dail]) Telegraph.
21 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.C.
8
MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S NEW FICTION
VEILED LIFE
by Mrs. GOLDIE 6/-
This charming story, which is remarkable for its clear-
ness of conception, simplicity of writing, and restraint,
opens in life below stairs; but soon, not without shadow
and not without sunshine, broadens into the larger life of
the world, with its ups and downs, its cruel passions and
its saving pleasures.
"It is of the liveliest interest ... a very able study." —
Boo/^man.
" The story has real and unusual merit." —
Publishers' Circular.
THE LIFE MASK 61-
by the Author of He Who Passed."
•' A highly remarkable novel, with a plot both striking
and original, and written in a style quite distinctive and
charming."
'* Seldom, if ever, has a tale given me so genuine a
surprise or such an unexpectedly creepy sensation."
Punch.
HE WHO PASSED
To M. L. G. 6/-
"As a story, it is one of the most enthralling I have read
for a long time. . . . Six— seven o'clock struck — half-
past-seven — and yet this extraordinary narrative of a
woman's life held me absolutely enthralled. ... I forgot
the weather; I forgot my own grievances ; I forgot every-
thing, in fact, under the spell of this wonderful book.
. . . In fact the whole book bears the stamp of reality
from cover to cover. There is hardly a false or strained
note in it. It is the ruthless study of a woman's life. . . .
If it is not the novel of the season, the season is not likely
to give us anything much better." — The Taller.
ALSO POPULAR EDITION, 2/- NET.
21 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.C.
MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S NEW FICTION
STORIES OF INDIA
by ROSE REINHARDT ANTHON 6/-
"In her ' Stories of India ' Miss Rose Reinhardt Anthon
has given us a remarkable book . . . wonderfully stimu-
lating to the imagination. The stories are told with a
quaint compelling charm, and their directness and sim-
plicity are infinitely refreshing to the jaded mind of the
reviewer, tired by the trivialities of much modern fiction."
— Everyman,
"The stories will be appreciated for their novelty and
freshness, and for the insight they afford into the Indian
mind." — jJcaJemy.
"The stories are always picturesque and pointed. They
interest apart from their elusive and charming suggestions
of deep and hidden truth . . . and the book has a
fine flavour of mythology." — Scotsman.
THE ISLAND
by ELEANOR MORDAUNT 6/-
Author of "The Cost of It," "The Garden of Contentment," etc.
This charming volume of stories shows the whole range
of this author's talents. It is a book that will be bought
and read by all admirers of the "Garden of Contentment,"
and they should not be disappointed, for it is full of the
spirit which has made this author so popular.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
LU OF THE RANGES 6/-
"Miss Eleanor Mordaunt has the art, not only of visual-
izing scenes with such imminent force that the reader
feels the shock of reality, but of sensating the emotions
she describes. A finely written book, full of strong
situations." — Everyman.
21 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.C.
10
MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S NEW FICTION
YES
by MARY AGNES HAMILTON 6/-
" There is a poignancy of human and artistic feeling in the
book which gives distinction to the style and easily leads
us captive."— Pa// Mall Gazette.
"To the solid merits of a story worth the telling the
author adds the advantage of sound feeling and a genuine
gift of humour. Our verdict on * Yes ' is complete
concurrence." — Bookman.
The GARDEN WITHOUT WALLS
by CONINGSBY DAWSON 6/-
"... work of such genuine ability that Its perusal
is a delight and its recommendation to others a duty. . . .
It is a strong book, strong in every way, and it is con-
ceived and executed on a large scale. But ioiig as it is,
there is nothing superfluous in it ; its march is as orderly
and stately as the pageant of life itself . . . and it is a
book, too, that grows on you as you read it . . . and
compels admiration of the talent and skill that have gone
to its writing and the observation and reflection that have
evolved its philosophy of life." — Qlasgow Herald.
A COUNTRY FIOUSE COMEDY
by DUNCAN SWANN 6/-
" A vivid picture of society in some of its phases, a picture
evidently drawn from close observation and actual
experience, and pervaded throughout with a delicate
humour, keen satire, and racy cynicisms which make the
whole book exceptionally well worth reading." —
Bookseller-
UNTILLED FIELD
by GEORGE MOORE 6/-
"A thing of quite exquisite art. . . . Each of the
fourteen stories in the book will be read with enjoyment
by every lover of good literature and every student of
national types . . . admirable volume."' — Observer.
21 BEDFORD STREET. LONDON, W.G.
II
MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S NEW FICTION
THE SHUTTLE
by Mrs. HODGSON BURNETT
Author of " The Secret Garden," etc. (New Edition) 2/" HCt
"Now and then, but only now and then, a novel is given
to English literature that takes its place at once and
without dispute among the greater permanent works of
fiction. Such a novel is ' The Shuttle.' Breadth and
sanity of outlook, absolute mastery of human character
and life, bigness of story interest place Mrs. Hodgson
Burnett's new book alongside the best work of George
Eliot, and make one keenly aware that we are in danger
of forgetting the old standards and paying too much homage
to petty work. The dignity and strength of a great novel
such as this put to the blush all but a very few English
storytellers."— Pa// Mall Gazette.
THE WEAKER VESSEL
by E. F. BENSON 6/-
"Among the writers of the present day who can make
fiction the reflection of reality, one of the foremost is Mr.
E. F. Benson. From the very beginning the interest is
enchained."— Dar7y Telegraph.
JUGGERNAUT *THE LUCK OF THE VAILS
'ACCOUNT RENDERED *MAMMON & CO.
AN ACT IN A BACKWATER *PAUL
*THE ANGEL. OF PAIN THE PRINCESS SOPHIA
*THE BOOK OF MONTHS *A REAPING
*THE CHALLONERS THE RELENTLESS CITY
*THE CLIMBER *SCARLET AND HYSSOP
THE HOUSE OF DEFENCE *SHEAVES
*THE IMAGE IN THE SAND
Each Crn. 8vo. Price 6/-.
Those Volumes marked * can also be obtained in the Two Shilling
net Edition, and also the following volumes
THE OSBORNES THE VINTAGE DODO
*,* "The Book of Months "and "A Reaping" form one volume
in this Edition.
21 BEDFORD STREET. LONDON, W.C.
12
MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S NEW FICTION
THE WOMAN THOU
GAYEST ME
by HALL CAINE 6/-
" The filling in of the story is marked by all Mr. Hall
Gaine's accustomed skill. There is a wealth of varied
characterisation, even the people who make but brief and
occasional appearances standing out as real individuals,
and not as mere names. ... In description, too, the
novelist shows that his hand has lost nothing of its
cunning. . . . Deeply interesting as a story — perhaps
one of the best stories that Mr. Hall Caine has given us —
the book will make a further appeal to all thoughtful
readers for its frank and fearless discussion of some of the
problems and aspects of modern social and religious life."
— Daily Telegraph.
"Hall Caine's voice reaches far; in this way 'The
Woman Thou Gavest Me ' strikes a great blow for
righteousness. There is probably no other European
novelist who could have made so poignant a tale of such
simple materials. In that light Mr. Hall Caine's new
novel is his greatest achievement." — Dail^ Chronicle.
Other NOVELS of HALL CAINE
(of which over 3 million copies have been sold).
" These volumes are in everyway a pleasure to read. Of
living authors, Mr. Hall Caine must certainly sway as
multitudinous a following as any living man. A novel from
his pen has become indeed for England and America
something of an international event." — Times.
Author ot
THE BONDMAN 6/-, 2/-, 7d. net. THE ETERNAL CITY 6/-, 2/-
CAPT'N DAVEYS HONEY- THE MANXMAN 6/-, 2/-
MOON 21- THE PRODIGAL SON 6/-
MY STORY 61; 2/- net. THE SCAPEGOAT 6/-, 7d. net.
THE WHITE PROPHET 6/- THE CHRISTIAN 6/-, 2/-
21 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.C.
13
MR. WILLIAM IIEINEMANN'S NEW FICTION
KATYA
by FRANZ DE JESSEN (2nd impression) 6/-
" To a certain number of readers in this country the writ-
ings of M. de lessen are known as those of a brilHant war
correspondent and traveller, a man who has kept tryst
with danger and adventure in many lands. This is the
first time that he has appeared in England, at any rate, as
a v/riter of fiction. His novel, ' Katya,' possesses a three-
fold value : in the first place he has woven into it. in very
intimate fashion, some of the tragic and exciting happen-
ings that took place in Russian and Balkan lands some
dozen and less years ago ; secondly, the story itself is one
of intense human interest ; and lastly, it gives as brilliant
and true a picture of modern Russian life as any that one
can remember in a recent work of fiction."
— Morning Post.
WHAT A WOMAN WANTS
by Mrs. HENRY DUDENEY 6/-
** High as has always been our opinion of Mrs. Dudeney's
work, she has certainly never written anything to compare
in interest with ' What a Woman Wants.' The narrative
and description are vivid, the thought is impressive, and
the character of Christmas Hamlyn has been drawn with
great power and with all the author's peculiar skill. . . .
Her work is admirably well done." — Standard.
SMALL SOULS
by LOUIS GOUPERUS 6/-
Traaslated by ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTEOS.
"We most cordially hope the reception will justify the
translation of all four, for the taste of the first makes us
hunger for the others. ... A master of biting comedy,
a psychologist of rare depth and finesse, and a supreme
painter of manners." — Pall Mall Qazetie.
21 BEDFORD STREET. LONDON, W.C.
U
MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S NEW FICTION
^EW Af01/£LS FOR 1915.
THE IMMORTAL GYMNAST
By MARIE CHER
CARFRAE'S COMEDY
By GLADYS PARRISH
OLD DELABOLE
By EDEN PHILLPOTTS
THE PUSH ON THE
S.S. " GLORY " By FREDERICK NIVEN
Illustrated by FRED HOLMES
THE BOTTLE FILLERS
By EDWARD NOBLE
MUSLIN By GEORGE MOORE
THE LITTLE ILIAD
By MAURICE HEWLETT
Illustrated by Sir PHILIP BURNEJONES
BEGGARS ON HORSEBACK
By F. TENNYSON JESSE
LATER LIVES
By LOUIS COUPERUS
21 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.C.
15
MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S NEW FICTION
THE hiOVELS OF DOSTOEVSKY
Translated by CONSTANCE GARNETT
Gr. 8vo, 8/6 net each
"By the genius of Dostoevsky you are always in the
presence of living, passionate characters. They are not
puppets, they are not acting to keep the plot in motion.
They are men and women — I should say you can hear
them breathe — irresistibly moving to their appointed
ends." — Evening U^ews.
I. THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV
II. THE IDIOT
III. THE POSSESSED
IV. GRIME AND PUNISHMENT
V. THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD
VI. INSULTED AND INJURED
Other volumes to follow
THE NOVELS OF LEO TGLSTOV
Translated by CONSTANCE GARNETT
ANNA KARENIN 3/6 net
WAR AND PEAGE 8/6 net
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYVITGH
8/6'net
" Mrs. Garnett's translations from the Russian are always
distinguished by most careful accuracy and a fine literary
flavour." — The Bookman.
"Mrs. Garnett's translation has all the ease and vigour
which Matthew Arnold found in French versions ot
Russian novels and missed in English. She is indeed
so successful that, but for the names, one might easily
forget he was reading a foreign author."
— The Contemporarij Review.
21 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.G.
i5
389i
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