«I gu. win itf I The Twilight of the Souls THE BOOKS OF THE SMALL SOULS By LOUIS COUPERUS Translated by ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA de MATTOS I. SMALL SOULS. II. THE LATER LIFE. III. THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS. IV. DR. ADRIAAN. \Later. THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS BY LOUIS COUPERUS Author of "Small Souls, " M The Later Life," etc. TRANSLATED BY ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 1917 Copyright, 1917. By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC. /in TRANSLATOR'S NOTE This is the third of the novels known as The Book of the Small Souls and is by some considered the greatest of the series. Be this as it may— and I confess that personally I like Small Souls the best— it is, beyond dispute, one of the most masterly and striking stories that this generation has produced. It can be read separately and independently, but will be enjoyed more fully by those who are familiar with Small Souls and The Later Life. The series will conclude with the next volume, which, in the English version, will be entitled Dr. Adriaan. Alexander Teixeira de Mattos Harrogate, io August, 191 7 370050 The Twilight of the Souls - — £.- CHAPTER I When Gerrit woke that morning, his head felt misty and tired, as though weighed down by a mountain landscape, by a whole stack of mist-mount- ains that bore heavily upon his brain. His eyes remained closed; and, though he was waking, his nightmare still seemed to cast an after-shadow : a nightmare that he was being crushed by great rocky avalanches, which he felt pressing deep down inside his head, though he was conscious that the red dayligh*- was already dawning through his closed eyelids. He lay there, big and burly, sprawling in his bed, beside Adeline's empty bed: he felt that her bed was empty, that there was no one in the room. The curtains had been drawn back, but the blinds were still down. And, though he was awake, his eyelids remained closed and through them he saw only the red of the daylight as through two pink shells: it seemed as if he would never be able to lift those two leaden lids from his eyes. This after-weariness flowed slowly through his great, burly body. He felt physically rotten and did not quite know why. The day before, he had merely dined with some brother-officers at the restaurant of the Scheveningen Kurhaus: a farewell 2 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS dinner to one of their number who was being trans- ferred to Venlo; and the dinner had been a long one; there was a good deal of champagne drunk afterwards; and they had gone on gaily to make a night of it. One or two of the married ones had refused, good-naturedly, but had come along all the same, so as not to spoil sport; Gerrit had come too, in his genial way. At last, he had decided that that was about enough and that the road which the others were taking was not his road : he was one of your sensible, moderate people, who never went to extremes; he was very fond of his little wife; indeed, he already felt some compunction at the idea of perhaps waking her at that time of night, when he went into the bedroom, after undressing. As a matter of fact, she did wake; but he had at once reassured her with his gruff, good-natured voice and she had gone to sleep again. He had stayed awake a long time, lying there with wide-open eyes, angry at not being able to sleep, at having forgotten how to take a glass of wine with the rest. At last, in the small hours, when it was quite light, he had slowly dozed off into a misty dreamland; and gradually the mists had turned into solid land- scapes, had become a stack of heavy mountains, which pressed heavily upon his brain until they crumbled down in rocky avalanches. Now, at last, he shook off the strange heaviness, took his bath; and, when he saw himself naked — THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 3 that expanse of clean, white skin, the great body built on heavy, sinewy lines, a good-looking, fair- haired chap still, despite his eight-and-forty years — - he wondered that he sometimes had those queer moody fits, like a lady's lap-dog. And now, as he squeezed the streaming water over himself out of the great sponge, he tried to pooh-pooh those moody fits, shrugged his shoulders at them, muttering to himself as he kept on squeezing the sponge, squeez- ing out the water until it splashed and spattered all around him. He had the sensation of washing the inertia from him; he drew a deep breath, flung out his chest, felt his strength returning and, still naked, took his dumb-bells and worked away with them, proud of a pair of biceps that were like two rolling cannon-balls. His eyes recovered their usual jovial expression, which also played around his fair moustache with a roguish sparkle, as of inward mockery; the wrinkles vanished from his forehead, which was gradually acquiring a loftier arch as the crop of fair hair on his head diminished; and the blood seemed to be flowing normally through his big body, after the bath and the five minutes' exercise, for his cheeks, now shaved, became tinged with an almost pink flush. And he simply could not make up his mind to dress: he looked at himself, at his big, strong, clean body, which he kneaded yet once more, as proud of his muscles as a woman of her graceful figure. 4 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS Then he quickly put on his uniform and went downstairs to breakfast. The children surrounded him instantly; and he at once felt himself the father, full of a father's affection, passionately fond as he was of his children. He was only just in time to see Alex and Guy go off with their satchels: the school was close by and they went by themselves, two sturdy little fellows of nine and seven; but the other children, all except the eldest, Marietje, who was also at school, were eating their bread-and- butter at the round table, while Adeline sat in front of her tea-tray. And Gerrit, in the little dining-room, at the round table, felt himself become normal again, quite normal, because of his wife and his children. The dining-room was small and very simply fur- nished, containing only what was strictly necessary. Adeline, now thirty-two, looked older : a plump little mother, with not much to say for herself, full of little cares for her little brood; and Gerrit, noisy and clamorous, filling the whole little room with the gay thunder of his drill-sergeant's voice, was full of incessant jokes and fun. There were half- a-dozen younger ones round the table: two girls, Adeletje and Gerdy; three boys: Constant, Jan and Piet; and the latest baby, a girl, Klaasje. Gerrit had given the youngest three their names, in his annoyance at the high-sounding names of the others : THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 5 Alexander, Guy, Geraldine, christened after Ade- line's family, while Marie and Constant were called after Mamma and Papa van Lowe. 11 Look here, not so many of those grand names,'* Gerrit had said, when Jan was coming. And, after Klaasje ' — a name which the whole family considered hideous — Gerrit said: " If we have another, it shall be called after me, Gerrit, 2 whether it's a boy or a girl." 41 Gertrude, surely, if it's a girl?" Adeline had suggested. 44 No," said Gerrit, 44 she shall be Gerrit all the same." Gerrit's manias were Mamma van Lowe's de- spair; but so far there had been no question of a grand-daughter Gerrit. Gerrit had no favourites. His long arms swung round as many children as he could get hold of and he drew them on his knees, between his knees, almost under his feet; and by some miraculous chance he had never broken an arm or leg of any of them, so that Adeline and the children them- selves were never afraid and only Mamma van Lowe, when she witnessed Gerrit's embraces, went through a thousand terrors. And to the children the joy of life seemed to be embodied in their father, a joy which they soon came to picture in- stinctively as a tall man, an hussar, with a loud voice 1 Nicolcttc. ' Gerard. 6 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS and any number of jokes, a pair of high riding- boots and a clanking sword. Gerdy was a tiny child of seven, who loved being petted; and, as soon as she saw Gerrit, she hung on to him, nestled on his knees, rubbed her head against the braid of his uniform, tugged at his moustache, dug her little fists into his eyes. Or else she would throw her arms round his neck and stay like that, quietly looking at the others, because she had taken possession of Papa, This time too she left her chair, crept under the table, climbed on Gerrit's knees and ate out of his plate, although Adeline tried to prevent her. Gerrit ate his breakfast, with Gerdy on his lap ; and the childish voices twittered all around him, like the voices of so many little birds. And this twitter- ing produced a brightness in his heart, so that he began to smile and then to poke fun at Klaasje, the baby in her baby-chair, sitting beside him rather stupidly. Klaasje, who did not talk much yet, was still a little backward and just fretted and whim- pered. Latterly, he had felt a strange pitying tenderness when he looked at his children, as though surprised at all this dainty, flaxen life which he had created, he who had always said: "Children are what you want; without children you have no life; without children nothing remains of you; children carry you on." THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 7 He had married, fairly late, a very young wife; and that had been the reason of his marriage, the root-idea: to beget children, as many children as possible, because it seemed to him a dismal thought that nothing of him should survive. And now, when he looked around him, now that Marietje, Adeletje and Alex were twelve and ten and nine, he sometimes had, deep down in his heart, a strange feeling of wonder and pity, even of sad- ness, as though the thought had suddenly come to him: 44 Where do they all come from and why are they all round me? 1 ' A strange, wondering astonishment, as though at the riddle of childbirth, the secret of human life, which suddenly became impenetrable to him, the father and husband. Then he would give a furtive glance to see if he could discover that same won- dering astonishment in Adeline; but no, she quietly went her way, the gentle, fair-haired little mother, the domesticated little wife, very simple in soul and limited in mind, who had quietly, as a duty, borne her husband her fair-haired children and was bringing them up as she thought was right. No, he noticed nothing in her and he was the more sur- prised, because, after all, she was the mother and therefore ought really to have felt that strange thrill of wonder even more than he did. " And all these are my children," he thought. 8 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS And, while he boisterously tickled Gerdy and pretended to eat up Klaasje's bread-and-butter, like the great tease that he was, he thought: " Now these are all my children and Adeline's children." And he was filled with wonder as he saw them around him, the pretty, flaxen-haired children: the wonder of an artist at his work, wonder such as a sculptor might feel on contemplating his statue, or a writer reading his book, or a composer listening to his melodies, a simple, wondering astonishment that he should have made all that, a wondering astonishment at his own power and strength. ■ And then, in the midst of his astonishment, he suddenly grew frightened, frightened at having heedless begotten so much life simply because he had been depressed by the thought that, if he had no children, nothing of him would survive after his death. Yes, they would survive him now, his children, his flaxen-haired little tribe, his nine; life would scatter them, the little brothers and sisters who were now all there together like little birds in the nest of the parental house, sheltered by father and mother; and what would they be like, what would their life be, what their sorrow, what their joy, when he himself, their father, was old or dead? He was afraid; a terror shot through him strangely enough at that breakfast-table where he sat eating THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 9 with Gerdy out of one plate and teasing little Jan with his jokes, which made the boy crow aloud. And the strangest thing to him was that no one should suspect what he was thinking, that it was hidden from them all, from Adeline, from his mother, his brothers and sisters, because in appear- ance he was a great robust fellow, a sort of Goth, a civilized barbarian, with his flaxen head and his white, sinewy body, devoted to sport and racing, revelling in his work as an officer; outwardly almost commonplace, with his solid, healthy normality; loud of voice, a little vulgar in his jests, even exag- gerating his noisiness and vulgarity out of a sort of bravado, an instinctive desire to hide his real self. Yes, that was it: he hid himself, he was invisible; nobody saw him, nobody knew him: not his wife, nor his family, nor his friends; nobody knew him in those strange fits of giddiness and faintness which suddenly seemed to empty his brain, as though all the blood were flowing out of it; nobody knew the secret of his temperateness, the hidden weakness that would not even allow him to take two glasses of champagne without that hor- rible congestion at his temples which made him feel as if his head were bursting; nobody, not even the wife at his side, knew of that heavy, oppressive nightmare which came to him when, after lying awake for hours, he dozed off, that nightmare of piled-up mountains and rocky avalanches weighing io THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS upon his brain; nobody knew of his fears and anxieties about his children, while outwardly he was the gay, jovial father, " a healthy brute," as some of his brother-officers had called him. Sometimes, he had silently thought of the desig- nation and smiled at it, because he knew himself to be neither a brute nor healthy. Gradually, al- most mechanically, he had gone on showing that unreal side, posing successfully as the strong man, with cast-iron muscles and a simple, cast-iron con- ception of life : to be a good husband, a good father and a good officer; while inwardly he was gnawed by a queer monster that devoured his marrow: he sometimes pictured it as a worm with legs. A great, fat worm, you know; a beastly crawling thing, which rooted with its legs in his carcase, which lived in his back and slowly ate him up, year by year, the damned rotten thing! Of course, it wasn't a worm: he knew that, he knew it wasn't a worm, a worm with legs; but it was just like it, you know, just like a worm, a centipede, rooting away in his back. Then he felt himself all over, proud not- withstanding of his sound limbs, his well-trained, supple muscles, his youthful appearance, though he was no longer so very young; and then it seemed to him incomprehensible that it could be as it was, that that confounded centipede could keep worrying through those limbs, at those muscles, right into the marrow of his strong body. Nothing on earth THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS n would ever have induced him to see a doctor about it: he took walking-exercise, horse-exercise, rode at the head of his squadron; and the brazen blare of the trumpets, the dull thud of the horses* hoofs, the sight of his hussars — his lads — would make him really happy, would make him forget the con- founded centipede for a morning. As he sat his horse, with head erect, twisting his fair moustache above his curved lip, a burly, straight-backed figure, he would say to himself: M Come, get rid of all those tom-fool ideas and be a man — d'ye hear? — not a nervy, hypochondriacal girl. You and your centipede! Rot! I just had a peg yesterday; and that, damn it, is what I mustn't do: no peg at all, not one! . . . Perhaps not even any wine at all . . . and then not more than one cigar after dinner. . . . But, you see, giving up drinking, giving up smoking: that's the difficulty. ..." Gerrit had just finished his breakfast and was putting little Gerdy down, when there was a violent ring at the front-door bell. Adeline gave a start; the children shouted and laughed: 44 Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling! " cried little Piet, mimicking the sound with his mug against his plate. 44 Hush ! " said Adeline, turning pale. She had seen Dorine through the window, walking up and down outside the door excitedly, waiting for it to 12 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS be opened. " Hush, it's Auntie Dorine. ... I do hope there's nothing wrong at Grand- mamma's! . .. •" But now the maid had opened the door and Dorine rushed into the room excitedly, perspiring under her straw hat, with a face as red as fire. She was in a furious temper; and it was impossible at first to make out what she said: "Just think . . . just think ..'..;■'." She could not get her words out; the passion of rage seething inside her made her incapable of speaking; moreover, she was out of breath, because she had been walking very fast. Her hair, which was beginning early to turn grey, stuck out in rat- tails from under her sailor-hat, which bobbed up and down on her head; her clothes looked even more carelessly flung on than usual; and her eyes blinked with a look of angry malevolence, a look of spite and discontent gleaming through tears of annoyance. "Just think . . . just think ..." " Come, Sissy, calm yourself and tell us what's the matter ! " said Gerrit, admonishing her in a good-natured, paternal, jovial fashion. "Well then — just think — that horrible creature came to Mamma first thing this morning . . . and made a scene . . ." "What horrible creature?" "Why, are you all deaf? Via telling you, I THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 13 began by telling you: Miss Velders, the creature who keeps the rooms where Ernst lives . . . came and made a frightful scene . . . and upset Mamma awfully . . . and Mamma sent for me. Why me? Why always me? What can I do? I'm not a man! Why not Karel? Why not you? . . . Oh dear no: Mamma of course sent for me! . . . Off I went to Mamma's, found Mamma quite ill, that horrible creature there. . . . Then I went off with Miss Velders . . . first to Karel's . . . but Karel was absolutely indifferent ... a selfish pig, a selfish pig: that's what Karel is. . . . Miss Velders had to go home. . . . Then I went off to Ernst . . . and, when I had seen him, I came on to you. . . . Gerrit, you're a man . . . you know about things, you know what to do; I'm a woman . . . and I do not know what's to be done!" Her voice was now a wail and she burst into tears. 44 But, Sissy, I don't yet know what's happened ! " said Gerrit, quietly. 44 Why, Ernst, I'm telling you . . . Ernst, I'm telling you ..." 44 What about him?" 44 He's mad!" "He's mad?" 44 Yes, he's mad ! . . . He wanted to go out into the street last night: he's mad! ..." i 4 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS Adeline had rung for the nurse, who took the children away. "He's mad?" Gerrit repeated, passing his hand over his forehead. " He's mad," Dorine repeated. "He's mad. He's mad." " Oh, well," said Gerrit, in a vague, conciliatory tone, w Ernst is always queer ! " " But now he's mad, I tell you ! " Dorine screamed, in a shrill voice. " If you don't believe me, go and see him. Don't you see, something's got to be done ! I, I don't know what. I'm a woman, do you hear, and I'm utterly unnerved myself. Why didn't Mamma send for you at once? Why me? Why me? And Karel . . . Karel is a nincompoop. Karel at once said that he had a cold, that he couldn't go out. Karel? Karel's a nincompoop. ... A cold, indeed! A cold, when your brother's gone mad all of a sud- den! ..." " But, when you say mad ... is he really mad?" asked Gerrit, doubtfully. " Well, go and see him for yourself," said Dorine, fixing her irritated gaze full on Gerrit. "You go and see him for yourself; and, when you've seen him as I've seen him . . . then you won't ask me if he's mad. ..." " All right," said Gerrit. " I'll go at once. I must look in at barracks first and then ..." THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 15 u Oh, you must look in at barracks first," said Dorine, angrily. M Of course you must look in at barracks first. And then, if you have a moment to spare ..." 11 I can go from here," said Gerrit, dejectedly. 11 Are you coming? " 44 1 ? " screamed Dorine. " Do you think Vm going back with you? No, thank you. I've told Mamma, I've told you and now I'm going home to bed. For, if I'm not careful and go trotting about wherever you send me, I shall go off my head myself. ... I? I'm going to bed. ..." She rose, walked round the table, sat down again; and suddenly her voice changed, tears of pity came into her eyes and she wailed: "Poor Mamma! She's quite ill. . . . What an idea of that horrible creature's, to go running straight to Mamma. Why frighten her like that? Why not first have told one of us? . . . I'll just go round to Constance . . . and to Adolphine: then they can console Mamma a bit. . . . You call in at Paul's on your way: he may be able to help you, if there's anything to be done. . . . But, after that, I'm going home to bed." 14 Yes," said Gerrit, " I'll go now." And then at once he began to hesitate: ought he not to go to barracks first? Should he go first to Paul ... or straight to Ernst? He went into 1 6 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS the passage, strapped on his sword, put on his cap. Dorine followed him out: "So you're going to him? Well, when youVe seen him . ... . you won't ask me again if he's mad." And she made a rush for the front-door. "Dorine ..." " No, thank you," she said, excitedly. " I'm going to Constance; to Adolphine . . . and then . . . then I shall go home to bed." She had opened the door and, in another mo- ment, she was gone. Gerrit saw Adeline weeping, wringing her hands in terror: 44 Oh, Gerrit!" 44 Come, come, I don't expect it's so very bad. Ernst has always been queer." 44 1 shall go to Mamma, Gerrit." 44 Yes, darling, but don't make her nervous. Tell her that I'm on my way to Ernst and that I don't believe he's so bad as all that. Dorine always exaggerates and she hasn't told us what Ernst is like. . . . There, good-bye, darling, and don't cry. Ernst has always been queer." He flung his great-coat over his shoulders, for the weather was like November, cold and wet. Outside, the pelting rain beat against his face; and he saw Dorine ahead of him, wobbling down the street under her umbrella, with that angry, strad- dling walk of hers. She turned out of the THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 17 Bankastraat on the left, into the Kerkhoflaan, on her way to Constance. He took the tram and, in spite of the rain, stood on the platform, with his military great-coat flapping round his burly figure, because he was stifling, as with a painful congestion, and felt his veins, surfeited with blood, hammering at his temples: 41 That confounded champagne last night !" he thought. " I don't feel clear in my head. . . . I'd better go to Paul first. . . . Yes, I'd better go to Paul first. ... Or ... or shall I go straight to Ernst? ..." He did not know what to decide and yet he had to make up his mind while his tram was going along the Dennenweg, for Ernst lived in the Nieuwe Uitleg. But, because he did not know, he remained on the tram, on the platform, with his back bent under the pelting rain; and it was not until he reached the Houtstraat that he jumped down, his sword clanking between his legs. Paul lived in rooms above a hosier's shop. Gerrit found his brother still in bed: 44 Ernst is mad," he said, at once. 44 He's always been that," replied Paul, yawning. 44 Yes, but ... it appears that he's absolutely mad now," said Gerrit. He felt so seedy and heavy-witted that he could hardly speak: his swollen tongue lolled between his teeth. However, he told Paul about Dorine's visit: 1 8 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS " We must go on to Ernst, Paul, and see how much there is in it." Paul was listening now: " Ye-es," he drawled. " But I must dress myself first. You see, the curious thing about this world is that, whatever happens, we have first to dress ourselves . . ."• " I was dressed," laughed Gerrit. 44 Oh, really! " said Paul, amiably. "Well, that was lucky." There was a note of sarcasm in his tone which escaped Gerrit, in his dull condition. Paul, stretching himself, decided to get up. And for a moment he remained standing in front of Gerrit, in his pink pyjamas: " Do you think Ernst is really mad? " he asked. " Perhaps it's not so bad as that," Gerrit ven- tured. " Everybody is a little mad," said Paul. " Oh, I say!" said Gerrit, in an offended voice. " No, not you," said Paul, genially. " Not you or I. But everybody else has a tile loose. I'm going to have my bath." 11 Don't be long." " All right." Paul disappeared in his little bathroom; and Gerrit, who was suffocating, flung open the windows, so that the bedroom suddenly became filled with THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 19 the patter of the summer rain. And Gerrit looked around him. He had hardly ever been here, at Paul's; and he was now struck by the exquisite tidi- ness of the rooms. Paul had a bedroom, a sitting- room and a dressing-room in which he had installed his tub. k What a tidy beggar he is! " thought Gerrit and looked around him. The bedroom was small and contained nothing but a brass bedstead, a walnut looking-glass wardrobe, a walnut table and two chairs. There was not a single object lying about. The pillows on the bed showed just the faintest impress of Paul's head; the bed-clothes he had thrown well back, when he got up, very neatly, as though to avoid creasing them. Gerrit heard the ripple of water in the dressing- room. It was as if Paul were squeezing out the sponge with exquisite precaution, so as not to splash a single drop outside his tub. The bath lasted a long time. Then all was silence. " Can't you hurry a bit?" cried Gerrit, impa- tiently. " All right," Paul called back, in placid tones. "What are you up to? I don't hear you moving." M I'm doing my feet." " My dear fellow, can't you get on a bit faster? Or shall I go on?" 2o THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS " No, no, I wouldn't miss going with you. But I must get dressed first, mustn't I? " " But can't you make haste about it?" 14 Very well, I'll hurry." There came a few sharp, ticking sounds as of scissors and nail-files that were being put down on the ringing marble. Gerrit breathed again. But, when everything became silent once more, Gerrit, after an interval, cried: "Paul!" "Yes?" "Will you soon be ready now?" " Yes, yes, but don't be impatient. I'm shaving. You wouldn't have me cut myself? " " No, of course not. But we must look sharp : you don't know what sort of state Ernst may be in." Paul did not answer; and Gerrit heard nothing more, except the swish of the rain. He heaved a deep sigh, moved about restlessly, stretching out his long legs. After some minutes, which seemed hours to Gerrit, Paul opened the door, but closed it again at once: "Gerrit, will you please shut the window!" he cried, angrily. Gerrit fastened the window; the rain no longer pattered into the room. Paul now came in: he was in a sleeveless flannel vest and knitted-silk drawers; a pair of striped socks clung tightly to his ankles; his feet were in slippers. THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 21 11 Good Lord, my dear chap, have you only got as far as that?" asked Gerrit, irritably. Paul looked at him, a little superciliously: " No doubt you fling yourself into your uniform in three minutes; but I can't do that. Since one has to dress one's self and can't just shake one's feathers like a bird, I at least want to dress myself with care . . . for otherwise I feel disgusting." 44 But do remember ... if Ernst ..." 11 Ernst won't go any madder than he is because I dress myself properly and keep you waiting a quarter of an hour longer. I can't dress any quicker." 44 Because you don't choose to!" " Because I don't choose to?" retorted Paul, pale with indignation. " Because I don't choose to? Because I can't. I can't do it. Do you want me to go as I am? In my drawers? Very well; then send for a cab. I'll go like this, just as I am. But, if you want me to dress myself, you must have a little patience." 44 Oh, all right! " Gerrit sighed, wearily. 44 Oof! Get on with your dressing." Paul opened a door of his wardrobe. Gerrit saw his shirts lying very neatly arranged, coloured shirts and white shirts. Paul stood hesitating for a moment, looked out of the window at the rain and at last selected from the coloured stack a shirt 22 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS with black stripes. He put the stack straight and hunted for his studs in his jewel-case. " How much longer will you be? " asked Gerrit. " Ten minutes," said Paul, lying angrily, though he was inwardly delighted to make Gerrit lose his temper. He found a set of niello studs and links that went well with the black-striped shirt and de- liberately and neatly put them into the front and cuffs. Gerrit rose impatiently and walked up and down the room. Through the open partition-door, he saw the bathroom and was surprised to find every- thing tidied up, with not a drop of water anywhere. "Do you do your wash-hand-stand yourself?" asked Gerrit, in amazement. " Of course," said Paul, who was now getting into his shirt. " Did you think I left that to the servant? Never! She has nothing to do but empty my slop-pail. I do my tub, my basin, my soap- trays, everything myself. I have separate cloths for everything: there they are, hanging on a rail. The world is dirty enough as it is, however tidy one may be." " In that case," said Gerrit, astounded, " you haven't been so long after all ! " " It's method," replied Paul, airily, though se- cretly flattered by Gerrit's remark. "When you have method, nothing takes long." THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 23 And, basking in Gerrit's praise, he rang, while pulling on his trousers, and told the maid to bring his breakfast: 11 I'll only take a hurried bite," he said, amiably, just bending the points of his stand-up collar at the tips. Then he picked out a tie, in a large Japanese box. u By Jove, what a number of ties you have ! M 11 Yes, I have a lot of them/' said Paul, proudly. " They're my only luxury." And in fact, when the maid pushed back the folding-doors, revealing the sitting-room, which Paul, loathing other people's furniture, had fur- nished himself, in addition to his other two rooms, Gerrit was struck with the plainness of it: com- fortable, but exceedingly simple. 11 I adore pretty things," said Paul, " just as much as our mad Ernst. But I can't afford them: I haven't the money." 11 Why, you have the same income that he has." 44 Yes, but he doesn't dress. To dress yourself well is expensive." Paul's dressing was now finished; and he had turned up the bottoms of his trousers very high, showing nearly the whole of his well-cut button- boots. He merely drank a cup of tea, ate a piece of dry bread. 24 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS " Butter's so greasy," he said, " when youVe just brushed your teeth." And he went back to his bathroom to rinse his mouth once more. He was ready now, took his umbrella and fol- lowed Gerrit down the stairs. Gerrit opened the door. " What beastly weather ! " growled Paul, furi- ously, in the passage. He drew his umbrella carefully out of its case, while Gerrit was already outside, with his blue military coat flapping round his shoulders, because he had not put his arms through the sleeves. "What a filthy mess!" raved Paul. "This damned, rotten mud! " he cursed, pale with rage. He had folded up the umbrella-case and slipped it into his pocket and was now opening his um- brella : he seemed to fear that it would get wet. " Come on ! " he said, seething with inward rage. And, taking a desperate resolve, he stepped aside, fiercely slammed the front-door and carefully placed his feet upon the pavement: " We'll wait for the tram," he said. He glared at the rain from under his umbrella: "What a dirty sky! " he grumbled, while Gerrit paced up and down, only half-listening to what Paul said. "What a damned dirty sky! Dirty rain, filthy streets, mud, nothing but mud. The whole world is mud. Properly speaking, everything THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 25 is mud. Heavens, will the world ever be clean and the people in it clean: towns with clean streets, people with clean bodies? At present, they're mud, nothing but mud: their streets, their bodies and their filthy souls! . . .." The tram came and they had to get in ; and Paul, in his heart of hearts, regretted this for, as long as he had stood muttering under his umbrella, he could still yield to his desire to go on raving, even though Gerrit was not listening. They got out in the Dennenweg; but by this time he had lost the thread of his argument and moreover he had to be careful not to step in the puddles: 44 Don't walk so fast ! " he said, crossly, to Gerrit. 44 And mind where you walk: it's all splashing around me.' 1 They were now in the Nieuwe Uitleg. That ancient quarter was quite dark, soaked in the ever- lasting rain that fell perpendicularly between the trees, like curtains of violet beads, and clattered into the canal. 44 Do you think he's really mad? " asked Gerrit, nervously, as he rang the bell. Paul shrugged his shoulders and looked down at his trousers and boots. He was satisfied with himself; he had walked very carefully: he had hardly a single splash. A fat landlady opened the door: 44 Ah ! . . . I'm glad you've come, gentlemen. 26 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS . . . Meneer is quite calm now. . . . And have you been to a doctor?" "A doctor?" said Gerrit, startled. "A doctor," thought Paul. " Just so: we've been practical, as usual." But he didn't say it. They went upstairs. They found Ernst in his dressing-gown; his black hair, which he wore long, lay in tangled masses over his forehead. He did not get up; he gazed at his two brothers with a look of intense melancholy. He was now a man of forty-three, but seemed older, his hair turning grey, his appearance neglected, as though his shoulders had sunk in, as though something were broken in his spinal system. He did not appear very much surprised at seeing the two of them; only his sad eyes wandered from one to the other, scrutinizing them suspiciously. And all at once the two brothers did not know what to say. Gerrit filled the room with his restless movements and nearly knocked down a couple of Delft jars with the skirts of his wet great-coat. Paul was the first to speak: "Aren't you well, Ernst?" " I'm quite well." "Then what is it?" "What do you mean?" "What was the matter with you last night?" " Nothing. I was suffocating." THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 27 "Are you better now?" "Yes." He seemed to be speaking mechanically, under the influence of the last glimmer of intelligence, for his voice sounded uncertain and unreal, as though he were not quite conscious of what he was saying. 11 Come, old chap," said Gerrit, with good- natured bluntness, laying his hand on Ernst's shoulder. As he did so, Ernst's expression changed; his eyes lost their look of intense melancholy and became hard, staring hard and black from their sockets, like two black marbles. He had turned his head in a stiff quarter-circle towards Gerrit; and the hard gleam of those black marbles bored into Gerrit's blue Norse eyes with such strange fierceness that Gerrit started. And, under his brother's big hand, which still lay on his shoulder, Ernst's limp body seemed to be turned to stone, to become rigid, hard as a rock. He stiffened his lips, his arms, his legs and feet and remained like that, motionless, evidently suffering physical and moral torture, shrinking under the pressure of Gerrit's hand, without knowing how to get rid of that pressure. He remained motionless, stark; every muscle was tense, every nerve quivered; Ernst seemed to shrink and harden under Gerrit's touch just as a caterpillar shrinks and becomes hard when 28 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS it feels itself touched. As soon as Gerrit removed his hand, the tension relaxed and Ernst's body hud- dled together again, as though something had given way in the spinal system. u Ernst," said Paul, " wouldn't you do well to get some sleep? " " No," he said, " I won't go to bed again. There are three of them under the bed." "Three what?" " Three. They're chained up." " Chained up ? Who's chained up ? " " Three. Three souls." "Three souls?" " Yes. The room's full of them. They are all fastened to my soul. They are all riveted to my soul. With chains. Sometimes they break loose. But I was dragging two of them with me for ever so long yesterday, in the street, over the cobble- stones. They were in pain, they were crying. I can hear them now in my ears, crying, crying. ... There are three under the bed. They're asleep. When I go to bed, they wake up and rattle their chains. Let them sleep. They are tired, they are unhappy. As long as they're asleep, they don't know about it. ... I ... I can't sleep. I haven't slept for weeks. They only sleep when I'm awake. They're fastened to me. . . . Don't you hear them? The room is full of them. They belong to every age and period. I've gathered them THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 29 around me, collected them from every age and period. They were hiding in the jars, in the old books, in the old charts. I have some belonging to the fourteenth century. They used to hide in the family-papers. The first moment I saw them, they rose up, the poor souls . . . with all their sins upon them, all their past. They are suffering . . . they are in purgatory. They chained themselves on to me, because they know that I shall be kind to them . . . and now they refuse to leave me. I drag them with me wherever I go, wherever I stand, wherever I sit. Their chains pull at my body. They hurt me sometimes, but they can't help it. . . . Last night . . . last night, the room was so full of souls that there was a cloud of them all round me; and I was suffocating. I wanted to go out, but the landlady and her brother prevented me. They are a miserable pair: they would have let me die of suffocation. They are a pair of brutes too: they tread on the poor souls. Do you hear . . . on the stairs? Do you hear their feet? They are treading on the souls. . . ." Paul's face was white; and he said, nervously trying to change the subject : 44 Have you seen Dorine this morning, Ernst?" Ernst looked at his brother suspiciously: 44 No," he said, 4 ' I have not seen her." 44 She was here, wasn't she?" 14 No, I haven't seen her," he said, suspiciously; 3 o THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS and his eyes wandered round, as though he were looking for something in the room. The two brothers followed his gaze mechanically. Everything about the large, comfortable sitting- room suggested the man of taste and culture, of quiet and introspective temperament, but acutely sensitive to line and form. The sombreness of the ceiling, wall-paper and carpet stood out against the yet greater sombreness of old oak and old books; and a very strange note of blue and other colours was struck in the midst of it all by the pottery, which was not all old, but included some examples of more recent art. The modern harmonies of line and the very latest discoveries in earthenware sud- denly appeared with their weird flourishes in vases, jars, pots, like enamelled flowers, from modern con- servatories, that had sprung up in the shadows of some old, dark forest. On the book-shelves too, the brown leather bindings of the ancient folios were relieved by the direct contact of the yellow wrappers of the latest French literature or the art-nouveau covers of the most modern Dutch novels. This lonely, silent man, who walked shyly through the streets, gliding along the walls of the houses; who had no friends, no acquaintances; who only on Sunday evenings — because he dared not stay away, from a last remnant of respect for ma- ternal authority — consented to suffer martyrdom among the assembled members of his family, even THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 31 to the extent of taking a hand at bridge: this man seemed, hidden from every one of them, to lead a rich, abundant life, a secret, inner life, a life not of one age but of many. Because he never spoke, they looked upon him as a crank; but he had lived his years abundantly. Had he filled his silent, uncom- panioned loneliness too full with the ghosts of literature, history and art? Had the ghosts loomed up and come to life around him, in that dark and gloomy room, where the old and modern porcelain and earthenware glowed and rioted around him with the haunting brilliancy of their colours and glazes, of their tortured, gorgeous curves and outlines? The two brothers, who had come because they thought their brother mad, looked round the room; and to both of them the room also seemed mad. To the captain of hussars, whose earlier depression had passed off, who suddenly felt himself becoming healthy and normal again as he listened to his eccentric brother's ravings, the room became a de- mented room, because it lacked a trophy of arms, riding-whips, prints of horses and dogs and the oleograph of a naked woman, bending backwards and laughing. To the other brother the room also seemed demented because here the vase was no longer an ornament, because the vase had become a morbid thing, like a many-coloured weed, grow- ing in rank profusion among the dark shadows of 32 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS the curtains and oak book-cases. To Paul the room seemed demented because there was dust on the books and because the basket full of torn paper had not been emptied. But to both of them the man Ernst himself seemed more demented than the room: the man Ernst, their brother, an eccentric fellow whom for years they had been compelled to think " queer " because he was different from any of them. When he confessed to them that his room was full of souls, souls that hovered round him like a cloud until he was on the point of suffocating, souls that chained themselves to him and rattled their chains, they thought that he was raving, that he was stammering insane words. It was the view of both of them, the view of normal, healthy men, outwardly sane in their senses, in their gestures, expression and language, because their gestures, expression and language did not clash with those of the people about them, whatever they might some- times feel deep down in themselves. But to the man himself, to Ernst, his own view was the normal, the very ordinary view; and he thought his two brothers Gerrit and Paul queer and eccentric be- cause he was able, in his furtive way, to see that neither of them noticed anything of the innumerable souls, though these writhed so pitifully and thronged so closely around him, as though he were in purgatory. To him there was nothing mad or insane in his room, in his words, or in any part of THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 33 him. He looked upon them as mad, he looked upon himself as sensible. When, last night, he tried to go out in his nightshirt, because the souls pressed upon him until he felt as if he were suffocating in the throng, he had simply wanted air, nothing but air, had wanted to breathe without the discomfort of clothes, coat or waistcoat, upon his chest; and he had thought it quite, natural that he should go down- stairs with a candle and try to open the door with his key. Then the fat landlady and her lout of a brother had heard him and had come upon him, making a great to-do with their silly hands and their loud voices; and the two, the fat landlady and her lout of a brother, had stood there shouting and gesticulating like a pair of lunatics while he had already loosened the chain from the front- door and felt the draught doing him so much good, because it blew upon his bare flesh under his flap- ping shirt. Then Ernst had become angry, because the fat landlady and her .lout of a brother did not listen to what he said: he had a soft voice, which could not cope with the rough, loud, vulgar voices of people without feeling, of people without soul, knowledge or understanding. He had become angry, because the brother, the coarse brute, had locked the door again, dragged him away, hauled him up the stairs; and he had struck the brother. But the brother, who was stronger than he was, had hit him, hit him on the chest, which had been 34 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS bursting before and at that had become still worse, because all the souls had thronged against him in terror, beseeching him to protect them. And, roughly, rudely, like the unfeeling brutes that they were, the fat landlady and her lout of a brother had dragged him upstairs between them; and, as they dragged him, they had trodden not only on his bare feet but also on the poor souls ! Their vulgar slippers, their clumsy, caddish feet had trodden on the poor, poor tender souls, trodden on them in the passage and along the stairs; and he heard them panting and sobbing, so loudly, so loudly, in their mortal anguish, that he could not understand why the whole town had not / come running up in sheer alarm, to see the poor souls and help them. Oh, how they had moaned and gnashed their teeth, oh, how they had sobbed and lamented, most terribly! And nobody had come. Nobody would hear. They had refused to hear, those townsfolk; no rescue had arrived; and the two brutes, that fat land- lady and that wretched cad of a fellow, her brother, had hauled him along, up the stairs, into his room, had flung him in, locked the door behind him and barricaded the door on the outside. And in the passage, caught in the front-door, on the landing, caught in the door of his room, lay the poor panting, sobbing souls; they lay trodden and trampled, as if a rough crowd had danced on those tender gossamer beings, on their frail bodies; and he had THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 35 spent the whole night sitting on a chair in a corner of his room, shivering in his nightshirt, in the dark, listening to the lamentations of the souls, hearing them wring their hands, hearing them pray for his pity, for his commiseration, for they knew that he loved them, that he would not hurt them, the poor souls. . . . He understood, yes, he understood that those two brutes, the woman and her brother, thought that he was mad. But he had only wanted to breathe the cool night-air, to feel the cool night- air blowing over his hot limbs, which were all aglow because, in bed, the souls pressed so close upon him, though he tried to push them softly from him. It wasn't mad, surely, to want a breath of fresh air, to want to feel the cool air blowing over one's self. That was all he wanted. . . . And, in the morning . . . yes, he had seen her at the door, opening it very carefully. He had seen the face of his sister Dorine that morning, seen her grimacing and laughing and cackling, with a devilish grin, glad, she too, at the sight of the frail bodies of the poor souls lying trampled on the stairs and in the passage; but he had been clever: he had remained sitting in his shirt, in the corner of his room, and pretended not to see her and taken no notice of her devilish grin, so as not to satisfy her evil pleasure. . . . Then at last the poor souls that still lived had settled down: he had lulled their fears with gentle words of consolation. Then they 3 6. THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS had fallen asleep around him; and he had been able to get up softly, without rattling their chains, and wash his face, put on his trousers, his socks, his dressing-gown. . . . What were his brothers doing now? He knew, he knew: no doubt they were also thinking, like the landlady and her beast of a brother, that he was mad, mad, bereft of his senses. But it was they who had lost their senses: they had no eyes, not to see the slumbering souls that filled the house; they had no ears, not to hear the plaint of the souls last night ringing through the universe. They, they were mad: they knew nothing and felt nothing; they lived like brute beasts; and he hated them both: that big, burly officer and the other, that fine gentleman, with his smooth face and his moustache like a cat's whiskers, which he couldn't stand, which he simply could not stand. Somehow, he had had to tell them about the poor souls; but, now that he saw that they were mad, he would never mention the souls to them again: otherwise they would be sure to want to beat him too and pull him about and tread on the poor souls, as those two horrible brutes had done. So he remained sitting quietly, waiting for them to go and leave him to himself, in the peaceful solitude to which he was accustomed. For he was tired now; and, sitting straight up in his chair, he closed his eyes, partly to shut out the sight of his brothers' faces. Around him lay the souls, count- THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 37 less numbers of them, but they were still and silent, slumbering around him like children, though their faces were wrung with all the grief and pain that they had been made to suffer the night before. Gerrit and Paul had stood up, were pretending to look at the vases, talking in whispers : 11 He is pretty calm," said Gerrit. 44 Yes, but what he said was utter nonsense. " " We must go to a doctor." M Yes, we must go to Dr. van der Ouwe first. Perhaps to Dr. Reeuws afterwards, or any other nerve-specialist whom Van der Ouwe recommends." "What do you think of him? Is he absolutely mad?" 44 Yes, mad. He never used to talk in that in- coherent way. Up to now, he was only queer, dreamy, eccentric. Now he is absolutely ..." 44 Mad," Gerrit completed, in a low voice. 44 Look, he's shut his eyes ..." 44 He seems calm." 44 Yes, he's calm enough." 44 Shall we go?" 41 Yes, let's go." They went up to Ernst: 44 Ernst ..." 44 Ernst!" He slowly raised his heavy eyelids. 44 We're off, Ernst, old chap," said Gerrit. Ernst nodded his head. 38 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS " We shall be back soon." But Ernst closed his eyes again, yearning for them to go, driving them out of the room with his longing. . . . They went. He heard them shut the door softly, carefully. Then he nodded his head with satis- faction: they were not so bad, they had not waked the souls. . . . He heard them whispering on the landing, with those two beasts, the landlady and her brother. He got up, crept to the door, tried to listen. But he could not make out what they said. Then he laughed contemptuously, because he thought them stupid, devoid of eyes, ears, heart or feeling: " Wretched brutes, infernal brutes ! " he mut- tered fiercely, clenching his fists. A mortal weariness stole over him. He went to his bedroom, let down the blinds and got into bed, feeling that he would sleep. All around him lay the souls: the whole room was full of them. CHAPTER II Old Mrs. van Lowe's neighbours thought it a funny thing that, after dinner that evening, the whole family arrived, one after the other, rang the bell and went in, though it was not Sunday. Except on those " family-group " Sundays, there was never much of a run on Mrs. van Lowe's door. And they wondered what could be the matter; and, as it was very warm, an August day, they opened all the windows, kept looking across the street and even sent their maids to enquire of Mrs. van Lowe's maids. But the maids did not know anything: they only thought it must be something to do with the young mevrouw, the one in Paris — Mrs. Emilie, as they called her — who had gone off with her brother. 44 It's very queer about the Van Lowes," said the neighbours, looking out of window at the old lady's front-door, at which somebody was ringing again for the hundredth time. 44 There come the Van Saetzemas." 44 And here are those fat Ruyvenaers." 44 What's up?" 44 Yes, what can be up? " 44 The servants say it's something to do with Emilie." 39 4 o THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 44 A nice thing for the Van Ravens! " 44 They say that Bertha has become quite childish, don't they?" 44 1 don't know about that: she just sits staring in front of her. They never come now : they're living at Baarn." 44 Here are the Van der Welckes." 44 Like aunt, like niece." 44 Now they're all there." 44 All?" 44 Yes, I've seen them all. Captain van Lowe and his wife, Paul, Dorine and Karel." 44 And Ernst?" 44 He hasn't come yet," 44 But then he doesn't always come." 44 1 wonder what's up." 44 Yes, I wonder." 44 There must be some scandal with Emilie." 44 And, when you think of what the Van Naghels used to be. . . . Such big people ! " 44 And now ..." 44 Absolute nobodies. ..." 44 Oh, I think they're rather nice people! . . ." 44 Yes, but they're all a bit touched, you know." 44 Well, suppose we go to Scheveningen ? . . ." 44 Yes, let's go to Scheveningen. We may hear there what's happened ..." 44 Yes . . . about Emilie, you know. . .. . " And Mrs. van Lowe's neighbours went off to THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 41 Scheveningen, with the express object of hearing what had happened about Emilie. . . . Old Mrs. van Lowe was sitting in the con- servatory, with the windows open, and crying gently, like one who was too old to cry violently, whatever the sorrow might be. Uncle Herman, Aunt Lot, all the children had come in gradually, their faces blank with utter dismay; and they were moving like ghosts about the large, dark rooms, where no one had thought of having the gas lit. " Herman ! " the old lady cried, plaintively. Uncle Ruyvenaer and Aunt Lot approached. Have you seen him, Herman?" asked the old lady, wringing her old, knotted hands. " \o-o, Marie. But I ... I shall go to him to-morrow . . . with Dr. van der Ouwe." M And who is with him now? " " A male nurse, Mamma," said Gerrit. " We've seen to everything. He's quite calm, Mamma dear, he's quite calm. It won't be very bad. It's only temporary: it'll pass, the doctor said." Cateau's bosom suddenly loomed through the open doorway of the conservatory: " Oh, Mam-ma," she said, " how sad . . . about Ernst ! Who would ever have im-a-gined . . . that Ernst would become . . . like this!" And she bent over her mother-in-law and gave her a formal kiss, like the kiss of a stranger paying a visit of condolence. 42 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS "And how are you, Mamma?" asked Karel, as though there were nothing the matter. " I hope you're not suffering from the heat." The old woman nodded dully, pressed his hand. " All that I ask," said Adolphine, addressing her husband, Paul, Dorine and Adeline, " is that you will not talk about it. Don't talk about it to out- siders. The less it's talked about, the better pleased I shall be. . . . We have that Indian lack of reserve in our family, that habit of at once going and telling everybody everything. ... If people ask, we can say that Ernst has had a nervous break- down; yes, that's it: let's arrange to say that Ernst has had a nervous break-down. ..." She asked them to give her their word; and they promised, in order to keep her quiet. " You'll see," she said, " this business with Ernst will mean that Van Saetzema will once more fail to get elected to the town council." Paul looked at her in stupefaction, failing to grasp the logic of her remark. Then he said, calmly: 1 Yes, you see funny things happen sometimes." 4 Yes," said Adolphine, nodding her head to show how much she appreciated the fact that Paul under- stood her. "It's horrid for me: you'll see, Van Saetzema won't get in. ..." " I believe that Ernst ... is the sanest of the lot of us ! " thought Paul. And, as he moved to a seat, he first looked to THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 43 make sure that there were no bits of fluff on the chair. But Constance had come in; and, when the old lady saw her, she half-rose, threw herself into her daughter's arms and began to sob more violently than she had done. It was strange how she had gradually come to look upon Constance once more as the nearest to her of her children, this daughter whom she had not seen for years and years, until at last Constance had returned to Holland and the family. As a mother, she had never had a favourite; yet she would often, for months at a time, feel drawn now more towards the one, then again towards the other. She was growing old, she was getting the broken look which a mother's face begins to wear as she sees sorrow coming into her children's lives: a sorrow which, in her case, arrived so late that by degrees the illusion had come to her that there would never be any sorrow. The sudden break-up of Bertha's house — that house which she was so fond of visiting, because she found in it the continuation of her own life, the reflection of her own past grandeur — had fallen on her as a painful blow: Van Naghel's sudden death; the sort of apathy into which Bertha had sunk; the divorce between Van Raven and Emilie after Emilie had refused to come back from abroad, preferring to stay in Paris with her brother Henri, who had been sent down from Leiden: a divorce obtained in the 44 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS face of all the persuasion which Uncle van Naghel, the Queen's Commissary in Overijssel, had brought to bear upon them; Louise living with Otto and Frances, in order to help Frances, who was always ailing, with the children, so that Bertha was living alone with Marianne in her little villa at Baarn, now that Frans had taken his degree and gone to India, while Karel and Marietje were at boarding- school. The big household had broken up, in a few months, in a few days almost; and the old grandmother, whose dearest illusion it had always been to keep everything and everybody close to- gether, had been seized with an innocent wonder that things could happen, so, that things had hap- pened so. . . . She no longer went about, finding a difficulty in walking; and, because Bertha had become so apathetic and had also ceased to go about, she had as it were lost Bertha and all who belonged to her. It had produced a void around her which nothing was able to fill, even though she saw Constance every day. A void, because with none of her other children did the old lady find, the same atmosphere of rank and position which she had loved in the Van Naghels' ministerial household. She would often complain now, a thing which she never used to do: she would complain that Karel and Cateau were so selfish, so stiff and Dutch, that they were getting worse every year; she would com- plain that at Gerrit's the children were always THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 45 so noisy, that Adeline was unable to manage them, that both Gerrit and Adeline were much too weak to bring up so many children — nine of them — with proper strictness; she would complain that Adolphine was growing more and more envious and discontented, because her husband did not make his way, because Carolientje was not mar- ried, because the three boys were so troublesome; she would complain of Dorine and Paul and had all sorts of little grievances against both of them. Then, on the Sunday evenings, when the children and grandchildren came to her, she felt the void which Van Naghel and Bertha had left behind them, missed the sound of a few aristocratic names, missed any reference to the Russian minister in her children's conversation; and, with a little half- bitter laugh, she would say to the Ruyvenaers that amily was no longer what it had been, called it a grandeur dcchue and took a melancholy pleasure in the phrase, which she would repeat again and again, as though finding consolation in its gentle irony. And Constance had become the child towards whom she felt most drawn in these dreary days, be- cause Constance devoted herself regularly to her old mother and also because she, Mamma, in her secret heart, loved to talk with Constance about Rome, about De Staffelaer even, about the Pallavicinis, the Odescalchis, whom Constance had known in the old days; because Constance, whatever might be said 46 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS against her, was connected with the best Dutch families; because Constance had a title; because Addie was the only one of her grandchildren who bore a title, good family though the Van Naghels were. Oh, those grandchildren, whom she now saw so seldom! And, now that the terrible thing had befallen Ernst, the terrible thing which the children had at first wished to conceal from her, but which she had guessed nevertheless, because she had so long feared it, feared it indeed from the time when Ernst was a tiny child — oh, what frightful convulsions he used to have as a child! — now that the terrible thing had befallen Ernst, it was Con- stance in whose arms she was first able to sob out her grief, in whose arms she first felt how sorely she had been stricken in her declining days: " Connie," she cried, her voice broken with sobs, " Connie darling, it's true ! . . . Ernst . . . Ernst is madl )} And the word which no one had yet uttered to her, though she had guessed what they meant, rang shrill through the fast-darkening room, in which every whisper was suddenly hushed in terror at the shrill sound of the old woman's high-pitched voice. Silence fell upon everything; and the word sent a shudder through the room. The children looked at one another, because Mamma had uttered the word which none of them had spoken, though they had thought it silently. The word which Mamma THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 47 uttered so shrilly, almost screaming it at Constance, in the intolerable pain of her sorrow, struck them all with a sudden dismay, because, coming from Mamma's lips, it sounded like an open acknowledg- ment of what they all knew but did not wish to acknowledge except among one another, in great secrecy. They would merely say that Ernst was suffering from a nervous break-down, nothing more. A nervous break-down was such a comprehensive term! Anybody could go to a home for nervous patients for a rest-cure. But the word uttered by Mamma to Constance in shrill acknowledgment of the truth had cut through the dim room, where no one had even thought of lighting the gas. Adolphine, Cateau, Karel, Uncle Ruyvenaer, Floortje and Dijkerhof exchanged sudden glances, terrified, struck with dismay, because they would never have been willing to utter the word aloud, in open acknowledgment of the truth. Aunt Lot's loud " Ah, kassianl " ' now came from a corner of the dark room; and Toetie was so much upset that she suddenly burst into sobs. That was your Indian lack of self-restraint again, thought the Van Saetzemas and Cateau; and it did not seem to them decent to let yourself go like that, it made them feel that the business was a hopeless one. But the door opened and the two doctors entered, groping their way in the darkness: the old 1 Malay: "Poor dear!" 48 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS family-doctor, a retired army-surgeon, Van der Ouwe; and Reeuws, a young nerve-specialist. At their entrance, Toetie, abashed, ceased her sobbing. The doctors had come from the Nieuwe Uitleg, where they had left Ernst reading peacefully, with the male nurse, a stolid, powerful fellow, in an adjoining room. And, when the brothers and sisters crowded round the two doctors, the older began, quietly : " Our poor Ernst can't stay where he is, all by himself. We must see and get him to Nunspeet, at Dr. van der Heuvel's: that will do him good . . . the country, change of environment, nice, quiet people, who will look after him. ..." "Nunspeet?" asked Adolphine. "That's not . ?" " No," said the old doctor, decisively, under- standing what she meant. " It's not." And he did not speak the word, left it to be implied, the word that must not be uttered, the terrible word that denoted the house of shame, the family-disgrace. " It's a nice, pleasant villa, where Dr. van der Heuvel minds a few nervous patients," he said, calmly and kindly, casting a glance round at the brothers and sisters; and his grey head nodded reassuringly to all of them. They admired his tact ; and they the more readily condemned Mamma's shrill word, which had cut THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 49 through the darkness and made them shudder, they the more readily condemned Aunt Lot's exclamation and Toetie's outbreak of sobbing. And, breathing again, they lit the gas, suddenly noticing that the room was pitch-dark now that the two doctors had gone to Mamma and were telling her quietly that it would be all right and that Ernst was just a little overstrained from being too much alone and poring too long over his dusty books. CHAPTER III Constance went to the Nieuwe Uitleg next morn- ing; the landlady, shaking her head, let her in; Dr. van der Ouwe met her in the passage : M I thank you for coming, mevrouw. It won't do for Ernst to remain here any longer; I should like to take him down to Nunspeet, with one of you, as soon as possible, to-morrow. But it won't be an easy matter . . . poor fellow ! " 44 I'll do my best," said Constance, doubtfully. 44 Then I'll leave you alone with him. You won't be nervous? No, you're not nervous. He's quite quiet, poor fellow. Don't be afraid: I shall be near." Constance went upstairs, with her heart thumping in her breast. She tapped softly at the door and received no answer : 44 Ernst! " she called; and her voice was not very steady. 44 Ernst ..." But there was no reply. She slowly opened the door. The door-handle grated into her very soul; and before entering she asked once more : 44 Ernst. . . . May I come in?" He still did not answer and she walked into the 50 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 51 room. She had made up her mind to smile at once, to come up to him with a smile, so that the ex- pression of her face might put her poor brother at his ease. And so she smiled as she entered, looking for him with kindly eyes, as though there were nothing at all out of the common. But her smile seemed to freeze on her lips when she saw him sitting huddled in a corner of the room, in a flannel shirt and an old pair of trousers, with his long hair hanging unkempt. Nevertheless she controlled herself and said, in as natural a tone as she could command : 11 Good-morning, Ernst. I've come to see how you are. n He looked at her suspiciously from his corner and asked: "Why?" 44 Because I heard that you were not well. So I thought I would see how you were getting on. 11 I'm not ill," he said, in a low voice. "Why are you sitting in that corner, Ernst? Are you comfortable there?" 44 Ssh! " he said. 44 They're asleep. Don't speak too loud." 44 No. But I may talk quietly, mayn't I, Ernst? . . . Can't you get up from your chair? For there's no room there to sit beside you. Come, dear, won't you get up? " 52 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS And she smiled and held out both her hands to him. He smiled back and said : "Ssh! Don't wake them." " No, no. But do get up." He gave way at last and, grasping her hands warily, allowed her to pull him up, out of his corner, and once more said, earnestly: 14 You must promise me not to wake them. All my visitors wake them, the brutes! The doctor woke them too." " No, Ernst, we'll let them sleep. There, it's nice of you to have got up. Shall we sit down here?" "Yes. Why have you come? You never come to see me. ..." There was in his words an unconscious reproach that startled her. It was quite true : she never came to see him. Since that first time, eighteen months ago, when he had asked her to his rooms on her return to Holland, the day when she had lunched here with him, when he had toasted her with two fingers of champagne out of a quaint old glass, she had never once been back. She reproached herself for it now: she, who did feel all that affection for her family, why had she left that brother to himself, as all the others did, just because he was queer? If she had overcome that vague feeling of distaste, almost of repugnance; if she had felt for him THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 53 always as she suddenly felt for him now, perhaps he would not have been so self-centred, perhaps he would have retained his sanity. 44 No, Ernst," she confessed, " I never came to see you. It wasn't nice of me, was it? " 44 No, it wasn't nice of you," he said. 44 For I'm very fond of you, Constance." Her heart began to fail her. Her breath came in gasps; her eyes filled with tears. She put her arm over his shoulder and, without restraining her emotion, she cried : " Did we all leave you so much alone, Ernst? " 44 No," he said, quietly, 44 1 am never alone. They are all of them around me, always. There are some of every century. Sometimes they are magnificently dressed and sing with exquisite voices. But latterly," mournfully shaking his head, 44 lat- terly they have not been like that. They are all grey, like ghosts; they no longer sing their beautiful tunes; they weep and wail and gnash their teeth. They used to come out into the middle of the room . . . and laugh and sing and glitter. But now, oh, Constance, I don't know what they suffer, but they suffer something terrible ... a purgatory ! They crowd round me, they suffocate me, till I can't draw my breath. . . . Hush, there they are, waking again ! . . . " 44 No, Ernst, no, Ernst, they're asleep ! " He turned to her with a knowing laugh: 54 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 11 Yes," he whispered, " you are kind, you love them, you are sorry for them . . . you let them sleep . . . you don't wake them. ..,..>" And they sat quietly together for a moment, without speaking, she with her arm round his shoulder. " What a lot of pretty things you have, Ernst! " she said, looking round the room. "Yes," he said, "I collected them . . . gradu- ally, very gradually. There was one in every piece." " Ernst," she said, gently, " perhaps it would be a good thing if you went to the country this summer." At once he seemed to stiffen and shrink under her touch, as though all his limbs were becoming tense and stark : " I won't leave here," he said. " Ernst, it would be so good for you. Do you know Nunspeet? " She felt him go rigid; and he looked at her angrily and harshly: The doctor wants to get me to Nunspeet," he answered, craftily. He laughed scornfully: " I know all about it. You people think I'm mad. But I'm not mad," he went on, haughtily. " You people are stupid: stupid and mad is what you are. You see nothing and hear nothing, you with your dull brute senses; and then you just think, because some one THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 55 else sees and hears and feels, that he's mad . . . whereas it's you yourselves who are mad. I shall stay here; I won't go to Nunspeet." But suddenly he grew alarmed and asked: 44 I say, Constance, you won't force me, surely? You won't beat me? That beastly cad down below, that fellow, that cad: he hit me . . . and woke them . . . and trod on them! He stood treading on them, the great fool, the blockhead! . . . Tell me, Constance, you will leave me here, won't you?" 44 No, Ernst, no one wants to force you. But it would be a good thing if you went to Nunspeet." 44 But why? I'm all right here." 44 You would be among kind people . . . who will be fond of you." 44 No one has ever been fond of me," he said. 44 Ernst! " she cried, with a sob. 44 No one has ever been fond of me," he repeated, bluntly. 4i Not Mamma . . . nor any of you . . . not one. If I had not had all of them ... oh, if I had not had all of them! My darlings, my darlings! Oh, what can be the matter with them? Now they're waking up ! Now they're awake ! Oh, listen to them moaning! Oh dear, listen to them screaming! They're screaming, they're yelling! ... Is it purgatory? Oh, dear, how they're crowding round me! They're stifling me, they're 5 6 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS stifling me! . . . Oh dear, it's more than I can bear!" He rushed to the open window; and she was afraid that he wanted to throw himself out, so that she caught him round the body with both her arms. The old doctor came in. He shut the window. " I can do nothing/' she murmured to the old man, in despair. " Yes, you can," said the doctor, calmly. " Yes, you can, mevrouw." "'•You' are all of you my enemies," said Ernst. u My enemies and theirs." And he went and sat in his corner, huddled up, with his arms round his knees. " Go away," he said, addressing both of them. " I'm going, Ernst," said the old doctor. u But Constance may as well stay." He sometimes called her by her Christian name, the old doctor who had brought them into the world in India; and to Constance it was touching, to hear that name from under his grey moustache; it called up those old, old days. " Constance can stay? " " Very well," said Ernst. The doctor left them alone: the nurse would be on his guard. " Ernst," said Constance, " suppose we went to- gether . . . to Nunspeet?" "Why? Why? " he asked, vehemently. "I'm THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 57 all right here. . . . And we can't take them with us there," he whispered, more gently. " Ssh ! You're waking them." 44 It will be quieter for them, perhaps, if you leave them here, dear," she said, kneeling on the floor beside him, feeling for his hand, with her eyes full of tears. 44 No, no . . . that woman's brother down there . . . that cad ..." 44 But, Ernst," she said, more firmly, with her eyes on his, 44 dear Ernst, do let me tell you : they don't exist. They exist only in your imagination. You must really get rid of the idea: then you will be well again, quite well. . . . Ernst, dear Ernst, they don't exist. Do look round you: there's no- thing to see but the room, your furniture, your books, your vases. There's nothing else, except our two selves. . . . Oh, Ernst, do try to see it: there's nothing. . . . That you feel as if you were suf- focating comes from always being so much alone, never going out, never walking. At Nunspeet, we will walk ... on the heath, over the dunes . . . and then you will get quite well again, Ernst. . . . For, honestly, you are ill. . . . There's nothing here, nothing. Look for yourself: there's only you and I . . . and your furniture and books. ..." He quietly let her talk; an ironical smile curled round his lips; and at last he gave her a glance of pitying contempt, gave a little shrug of his shoulders. 58 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS Then he softly stroked her hand, patted it gently, in a fatherly manner : " You are kind and nice, Constance, but," shaking his head, " you have no sense ! I believe you mean what you say, but that's just it: you're narrow, you're limited. You don't see, you don't hear," putting his hand to his eyes and ears, " what I see, what I hear with my eyes and my ears. ..." " But, Ernst, you must surely understand that those are all illusions. The doctor says that they are hallucinations." He continued to smile, looked at her with his con- temptuous pity, looked hard out of his black Van Lowe eyes. " They are hallucinations, Ernst." " And you?" " No, I'm not." "And the room, the books, the vases? . . ." " No, they are not. They are all around you, they exist." "Well . . . and why not all of them, the souls?" "They don't exist, Ernst. They are hallucina- tions." He just closed his eyelids, smiled, shrugged his shoulders, to convey that he was utterly at a loss to understand such exceedingly limited perceptions. Then he said, gently and kindly: "No, Constance dear, you're not clever . .. .if THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 59 you mean all you say. I believe you do mean it, but that's just it: you live like a blind person; you don't see, you don't hear. That's the way you all of you live and exist, in a dream, with closed eyes and deaf ears. You none of you see, hear or under- stand anything. You know nothing. You are as unfeeling as stones. You can't help it, Constance, but it's a pity, for you are so nice. There might have been something to be made of you, if you had learnt to see and hear and feel. It's too late now, Constance. You are stupid now, like all the rest; but I'm sorry, for you are very nice. Your hand is soft, your voice is soft; and you did your best not to tread on my poor darlings . . . and not to drag them away on their chains, which are riveted so fast to my heart that they hurt me sometimes, here!" He put his hand to his heart. A weariness came over her brain, as though she were exhausting her- self in the effort to speak and to give understanding to an intelligence and a soul which remained very far away, miles away, and which her words could only reach through a dense cloud of darkness. And suddenly that sense of weariness and impotence be- came crueller and harder within her: it was as though she were talking to a stone, to a wall; she felt her own words beating back against her fore- head like tennis-balls striking the wall. 44 But, Ernst," she tried once more, 44 won't you 60 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS come to Nunspeet with me ... to please me, to walk on the heath with me? You would be giving me such immense pleasure. It would be good for me. . . ." " And all of them, here, around me? . . . " He pointed round the room, cautiously. " We will leave them to sleep here." "And that cad, downstairs? . . ." 14 He sha'n't interfere with them, I promise you. . . . We'll lock up the room, Ernst, and they shall sleep peacefully." She humoured him, not knowing if she was doing right, but feeling too tired to convince him. "You promise ?" he asked, suddenly. "You promise that they shall sleep peacefully? " " Yes." " That the cad downstairs won't wake them and tread on them? " " Yes, yes." " You promise that? " " Yes." "We'll lock up the room very quietly?" " Yes." " And nobody at all will come in? " " No." " You promise that? " " Yes." "Will you swear it?" 44 Yes, Ernst." THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 61 44 All right, then." "Will you come?" she cried, rejoicing and unable to believe her ears. 11 Yes. Because you would so much like to go for walks ... on the heath. You're nice. ..." He spoke gently, pityingly; and his contempt was not as great as it had been, for he looked upon her as a nice but stupid child that needed his help and his protection. She smiled at him in return, stood up where she had been kneeling beside him, put out her hands to him, inviting him to get up from his corner also. He let her pull him up; he was a heavy weight: she drew him out of his corner like a lump of lead. 44 Then we start to-morrow, Ernst? " He nodded yes, good-naturedly: she was very nice . . . and she was longing for those walks . . . and she was so weak, so stupid, she knew nothing, saw, heard and felt nothing, absolutely nothing. He must help her and guide her and support her. 44 And shall we pack a trunk now, while I am here?" He did not understand that a trunk was necessary : he looked at her blankly; but he wanted to please her and said: 44 All right. But don't make a noise." The doctor returned. 44 He's coming," she whispered. 44 We're going to pack his trunk." 62 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS The doctor pressed her hand. Ernst looked down upon them both, smiling, as upon poor, un- fortunate people who cannot help being so stupid ... so slow of understanding ... so limited in their knowledge ... so dull of perception. . . . And, while Constance and the doctor opened the clothes-press in his bedroom, he warned them, quietly, but with dignity: " Ssh ! Be careful, you know. Don't let the door of the wardrobe creak. Don't wake them ! . . : " CHAPTER IV It was a sultry summer morning and old Mrs. van Lowe sat at the conservatory-window, crying very quietly. She had been crying incessantly now for two long days. After her first sob in Constance' arms, she had sobbed no more; but since then her tears had flowed continually, salt, stinging tears that burned her wrinkled cheeks. She sat with her hands folded in her lap; and from time to time she nodded her head up and down, while she stared at the leafy garden, over which the stormy sky hung dark and heavy as lead. Now and then she cleared her throat, now and then heaved a deep sigh; and her handkerchief was soaked with the tears that kept on flowing, quietly, out of her smarting eyes. Con- stant fretting had drawn down the corners of her mouth into two long, sad wrinkles. Oh yes, it was very hard ! Trouble . . . always trouble . . . her life had been full of trouble: trouble when Louis and Gertrude had died at Buitenzorg, poor children; what had they not suffered from fever and cholera ? Money troubles : an expensive household to be kept up on limited means. Trouble again, terrible trouble with dear Constance; and the heavy trouble of her husband's illness and death: he had never 63 6 4 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS recovered from Constance* disgrace; more trouble over Van Naghel's death, the great change in Bertha and the break-up of the whole household; and now there was this last sore trouble with her son, her poor son, who had gone mad! Oh, if it had only happened a little earlier, when she was younger, she could have borne it, as she had borne the rest, could have accepted it as her natural share, a mother's share of trouble. But she was so old now; and it seemed to her that the supreme trouble was drawing near, a trouble which was coming very late in her life, too late for her to bear it with strength and patience, now that she was growing older and feebler daily; and her only wish had been to see her big family happy together, that great family of children, grandchildren and great-grand- children, amongst which she had always rejoiced to live, thankful as she had been for that great bless- ing. It was as though a presentiment were coming to her from very far, from very far out of those heavy, lowering skies, a presentiment which her nerves, sharpened by age, suddenly not only felt but saw coming like a menace, as old people will sud- denly see the truth very clearly, the future : a waning lamp which suddenly flickers up brightly, before dying out in darkness; a bright flicker which sud- denly reveals the shadows in the room and in which the portraits grin, with faces that seem to speak ... . . before the lamp dies out, before everything THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 65 is swallowed up in the black darkness! Oh, the awful presentiment which suddenly approached like a spectre out of the leaden clouds, that filled the whole vista before her eyes with grey terrors; the presentiment that this trouble, the greatest of all, was going to strike her most, now, in her old, old age, when she no longer had the strength to endure it, when she would sink under the weight of it ! . . . O God, why should it now, why now, fall with such pitiless, crushing weight? Why now? Was it not enough that one of her children . . . had gone mad, surely the most terrible thing that can happen? Was not that enough? What more could be threatening, looming before her, now that she was growing so feeble? See, did not her old hands tremble at the mere thought, was not her whole helpless body shaking, were not the tears flowing until they smarted in the furrows of her wrinkles and until her handkerchief was just a wet rag? What more could there be coming? " O God, no more, no more! " she prayed, auto- matically, believing, in her feeble despair, in the great, infinite Omnipotence which is so very, very far removed from us . . . and which she had always worshipped decently, once a week, in church . . . formerly . . . when she still went out. " O God, no more, no more ! " It was greater, the infinite Omnipotence, than what they worshipped in church; it filled everything 66 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS far and wide, to the utmost limits of her thought; and it terrified and dismayed her: she saw it threatening from afar; and why, why now? Oh, why had it not all come earlier, when she would have had more fortitude, when she would have borne everything as her natural share, a mother's share, of trouble? . . . She would have been so glad just now to grow old peacefully, amongst her wide circle of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. But, alas, there was so much to bear and . . . per- haps there was still more coming! "O God, no more, no more!" she implored: was it not enough that one of her children . . . had gone mad, surely the most terrible thing that can happen? She moaned in spirit, then felt a little eased as the rain began to patter heavily on the expectant leaves and the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled and the sky was rent asunder. But the tears kept flowing in spite of her relief that the rain had come at last; and, because of the thunder which filled her fast-aging ears, she did not hear the door open softly, did not hear some one come through the drawing-room and approach the conservatory, did not at once see the slender little figure that stood quietly before her, solicitous not to intrude upon the grief of the weeping old woman. " Granny," the younger woman said, gently. The old woman looked up in surprise, blinked her THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 67 eyes, tried to see through the flowing tears, did not recognize the one who called her granny: 11 Eh? " she said, plaintively. V Who is it? " And the girl did not answer at once, because it had given her a shock to see those silent tears flowing down the cheeks of that lonely old woman. She remained standing quietly, a pretty, almost fragile little figure, like a Dresden-china doll, but a very up-to-date doll, like a sketch by one of the ultra-modern French draughtsmen, with the pointed little face below the elaborately-waved hair under the very large hat, a hat which, in the shape of its crown and the sweep of its feathers represented the very latest extreme of fashion and consequently attracted immediate attention in Holland, in these dignified rooms, while the light tailor-made costume looked too dressy for a summer morning at the Hague and a touch in every accessory — the sun- shade, the tulle boa — proclaimed that the young woman was no longer of the Hague and of Holland, short though the time was since she had run away. The old woman, still sensitive in all social matters, remained looking at Emilie a little suspiciously, failing to recognize her and at once noticing, just by those touches — the large hat, the tulle boa — the exaggeration that displeased her. " But who is it?" she repeated, wiping her eyes to see better. 6S THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS And now the pretty little doll knelt down beside her and said: " Don't you know me, Granny? It's I . . . Emilie." u Oh, my child ! " cried the old woman, brighten- ing up, glad, delighted. " Is it you, Emilietje? And Granny who didn't know you again ! . . . But then you've got such a big hat on, child. And Eduard: how is he and where is he? " "But, Granny! ..." Under the arm which she had at once put round Emilie, the old woman felt a shudder pass through the dainty little doll, who had knelt down beside her so impulsively and affectionately; but she did not understand: "Well, where is Eduard?" " Why, Granny," cried Emilie, " you know that we're divorced! " The old woman now shuddered in her turn and closed her eyes and sat rigid. What was this? Was she becoming old, like her old sisters Christine and Dorine, who always muddled up all the children, who never knew anything correctly about their big family? What was this? Was she getting con- fused? And was this the first time that she had utterly forgotten things ... or had it happened before, that she had doted like an old, old woman? She opened her eyes sadly and the tears ran down her cheeks: THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 69 " Ah, Emilietje, my child, my child . . . don't be cross with Granny! She's growing old, dear. She had forgotten it for a moment. Yes, yes, she had forgotten all about it. . . . Of course, child, you got a divorce. Oh, it's very sad! You oughtn't to have done it so soon, you should have gone on being patient. You see, child, a divorce in a family is always a very sad thing. You know, there was Aunt Constance. . . . Well, she had had a lot of trouble. You had plenty of trouble too. He used to strike you: yes, Granny knows. But you ought not to have let the world know about it. You were quite right not to let him strike you. But you should have shown him, by remaining gentle and dignified, that he was doing wrong. . . . No man strikes a woman, my child, if she preserves her dignity. But you used to lose your temper, child, and stamp your foot and call him names and invite scenes. Yes, yes, Granny knows all about it, Granny remembers everything. Mamma used to say it was all right, but Granny knew, Granny saw that it was far from right. ... If you had not lost your dig- nity, child, he would never have dared to strike you. And who knows: you might gradually have made him gentler, have made him respect you . . . and you might still have had a very tolerable life. You see, dear, there's always something, in marriage. It's not as young girls imagine, when they are in love. There are always difficulties : you have to get 7 o THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS used to each other, to fall into each other's ways. Do you think that Grandmamma never had any differences with Grandpapa? Oh, there were ever so many . . . and later on even, after years of marriage! How often didn't Grandmamma and Grandpapa differ about poor Aunt Constance ! . . . And Mamma and Papa: do you think they always agreed? . . . Temper, Emilie, is a thing we all have in our family, but one has to keep it under. A woman must preserve her dignity towards her husband. What a pity, what a pity it was! . . . Well, child, and where are you living now? Not with Mamma at Baarn, I know." " I'm living in Paris, Granny, with Henri." "What do you say? In Paris? Are you living in Paris? With Henri? Well, you see, Henri too — yes, Granny isn't quite in her dotage yet — leaving Leiden like that! For shame! Why not have finished his college course and gone to India? . . . And what do you do there, in Paris? It's very nice, for the two of you to be together; but it's not natural, Emilietje. Yes, I remember now: they told me you were living in Paris. I had heard it before. But that's no sort of life : to go running through the bit of money which your poor father left you, in Paris! What will people say! For shame ! . . . No, Grandmamma isn't pleased with you. Instead of remaining quietly with your hus- band . . ... instead of Henri's quietly finishing his THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 71 time at the university! What does it all mean, what you and he have done? " The old woman rejected Emilie's caresses: " No, child, don't kiss me; Granny is vexed; she doesn't want to be kissed. . . . The family isn't what it was. It is a grandeur dechue, child, a regular grandeur dechue. The Van Lowes were something once. There was never much money, but we didn't care about money and we always man- aged. But the family used to count ... in India, at the Hague. Which of you will ever have a career like your Grandpapa's, like your Papa's? No, we shall never see another governor-general in the family, nor yet a cabinet-minister. It's a grandeur dechue, a grandeur dechue. . . . Ah, child, Granny has too much trouble to bear, too much trouble in her old age! Your Papa's death was a great blow to Granny; Mamma has changed so much since, changed so much. And Granny never sees Mamma now, never. Otto and Frances, once in a way, and dear Louise; but the rest of you are all scattered, you are all independent of one another. Oh, it is so nice to keep together, one big family together! Why need Mamma have gone to Baarn? There's nothing but rich tradespeople there, not our class at all. . . . And now — have you heard, dear? — poor Uncle Ernst . . . Yes, child . . . it's quite true: isn't it sad, poor fellow? And hasn't Granny really too much to bear in her 72 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS old age? . . . Dear Aunt Constance is taking him to Nunspeet to-day: ah, where should we have been without Aunt Constance? . . . Addie now is a great consolation to Granny. He is a dear, clever boy; and he works hard; and he will enter the diplomatic service : he is the hope of the family. Yes, yes, I know, Frans is doing well; but Henri, Emilietje, has done the wrong thing, going to Paris . . . with you. . . . No, child, don't kiss Granny; she's vexed. . . . And Karel isn't behaving at all well, so Uncle van Naghel says. They don't always tell Granny; but Granny hears, when they think she's deaf and whisper things to one another. Ah, child, it would be better if Granny died! She's getting too old, dear, she's getting too old. . . . She could have borne all this trouble once, but she can't do it now, Emilietje, she can't bear it now. ..." And the old woman sobbed quietly; the tears flowed without ceasing. She now let Emilietje em- brace her passionately; and she listened to all the caressing words with which her granddaughter over- whelmed her. Constance entered; and Mamma knew her at once: " Connie! Connie! Have you taken him there? Have you come back? " Constance, surprised at seeing Emilie, first kissed her and then said: THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 73 u Yes, Mamma, I've taken Ernst down, with Dr. van der Ouwe and Dr. Reeuws. He was quite quiet. We had reserved a cowp ., ■." CHAPTER XII Yes, Gerrit had quite forgotten the golden glint of those two laughing eyes which he had seemed to recognize; he had only just reflected, lightly and vaguely, that he must have been mistaken. And great was his surprise, a few days later, when, on his way to the Witte after dinner, a woman came up to him near the club, in the dusk of the evening, and, as she passed, flashed a laughing glance into his eyes and whispered very tenderly, almost in his ear: 44 Good-evening, Gerrit! " He knew the voice, even as he had known the eyes: a drowsy, deep-throated note, with a slight roll of the 44 r's." Yes, he recognized her: it was really Pauline; she was back at the Hague. After twelve years' time! . . . Well, he took no notice of her, walked on, turned the corner and reached the Witte at once. He ran up the steps, almost as though fleeing from something outside; and his face was red, his temples throbbed. He stayed talking to his friends for an hour or so, curious to learn whether they too had happened to see Pauline. But the others — younger officers than himself, he reflected — did not know her; and he did not hear her name mentioned. . . . 187 1 88 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS He went home early. The impudent wench, to dare to speak to him! He went to bed early, man of regular habits that he had become in the course of years; and, while Adeline was already asleep in the other bed, he saw the golden eyes laughing, heard his name murmured by that drowsy, provocative voice, heard it whispered almost close to his ear. . . . He fell asleep and, in his dreams, saw the golden eyes. . . . Well, he thought next morning, if he was to start dreaming of all the eyes into which he had looked, his sleep would be one great firmament of eyes! And, as he got up and took his bath, he threw the thing off him, washed those eyes out of his mind. . . . Then he breakfasted, quickly, with his pretty children, vigorous and fair-haired, around him; and then he rode to the barracks. . . . But, two days later, walking back from barracks with a couple of officers, at six or half-past, he came upon Pauline under the fading trees beside the Alexandersveld. He repressed a movement of im- patience and thought: " Is she mad? Is she pursuing me deliberately? " But he did not let the others notice anything. One of them said: "A fine girl. Who is she?" But none of them knew; and they went on. Gerrit did not look round. The thing began to get on his nerves. What did THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 189 the damned wench want to come back to Holland for and why must she look at him and speak to him, why must she go walking past the barracks? Was she mad, was she mad? . . . He felt angry and uneasy. . . . And, a day or two after, as though he had a presentiment, he hung about the barracks, so as to go away alone, quite late. He met her; and, in the dim light under the fading trees, her eyes laughed towards him through the distance like gold, with that gay, wicked glint of mockery. 44 Damn it all! " he cursed. And, resolved to take up a firm attitude, he squared his chest, put his shoulders back, appar- ently wishing to fill the whole lane with his manly determination to force his way through every ambush and snare. But she stopped right in front of him and said, in that drowsy, seductive voice : 44 Good-evening, Gerrit!" 44 Look here, clear off, will you? And be damned quick about it! " said Gerrit, angrily. 44 It's so nice, meeting you again ! " 44 Yes, but I don't think it a bit nice, see? So be off!* And he tried to walk on, broad-chested and im- posing, the strong man who would trample on every smiling and mocking temptation that blocked his way under the fading trees. u <( 190 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 11 Gerrit, I must speak to you," she implored. " Yes, but I don't want to speak to you." " Oh, but I must speak to you, Gerrit ! " mur- mured the languorous, maddening voice. " I must, I must speak to you. Not here, but just . . . just inside the Woods." " What do you want to speak to me about? " " Only for a second I can't tell you here." Well, no, d'you see?" said Gerrit, roughly. I don't want to have anything to do with you. " Yes, yes, Gerrit. . . . Please, Gerrit . . . only for a second. ..." And he walked on. She followed him: "Gerrit ..." " I say, if you don't hurry up and clear out . . . ! " " Gerrit, just let me tell you something ... let me speak to you for three minutes ... in the Woods. ..." The voice coaxed him and he saw that deep glint of mockery in the laughing eyes. " Only for three minutes . . . and then I sha'n't worry you any more ..." " Well ... go ahead then ! " said Gerrit. " You go on. . . . I'll follow you. . . . But be quick . . . I've no time. ..." THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 191 " Where are you going? " " Home." "Are you married, Gerrit?" 11 Yes. Go ahead now." II And have you any kiddies? " "Yes, I have. . . . A jo! . . ." 1 II I expect they're charming kiddies, Gerrit?" Once again the deep glint in those golden, mock- ing eyes leapt out at Gerrit . . . and then she had turned, walked away quickly, gone down the Timor- straat, disappeared in the Woods. It was quite dark there. "Well, what is it?" " I haven't seen you for twelve years, Gerrit." " Is that all you have to say to me? . . ." " No, listen," she said, swiftly, understanding that she must make the most of this precious mo- ment. " Listen. I've been twelve years in Paris, Gerrit; I've had a lot of trouble there, I can tell you. . . . But a lot of fun too. I was all the rage : my photo used to be in the shop-windows between the Tsar and the King of the Belgians and under Otero's. That shows, doesn't it? . . . But a lot of trouble too, Gerrit. Men are beasts, Gerrit: they're not alllike you, so kind, so nice. I often used to think of you. ..." " Yes, but I don't care a hang about all this. ..." 1 Malay: forward! 1 92 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS " I often thought of you, how nice you were and how kind, though you often pretended to be rough and put on such an angry voice. . . . Well, Gerrit, I had to go back to the Hague — you see, it's too long a story to tell you — and now, Gerrit, now I want to tell you, I'm very hard up ... I haven't got a penny just now. . . . Please, Gerrit, can you give me fifty guilders?" u Look here, if you think I'm well off, you're very much mistaken. I can't give you anything." " Well, Gerrit, couldn't you give me twenty-five guilders? You'd be doing me a good turn." " I haven't got it." " Oh, but, please, Gerrit, can't you give me some- thing?" Gerrit fumbled in his pocket: " Here's two rixdollars . . . and a ten-guilder piece. That's all I've got. I'm not rich and I don't go about with sheaves of notes in my pocket." He gave her the fifteen guilders. "Oh, Gerrit, thank you ever so much! Oh, Gerrit, how sweet of you ! " And, before he could stop her, she had thrown her arms round his neck and was kissing him wildly on the mouth. He almost flung her from him: 11 Look here, are you mad? " " No, Gerrit, but I love you and you're such a dear. Thank you, Gerrit, thank you ever so much." THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 193 He saw the golden eyes jeering. M And now clear out! " said Gerrit, shaking with fury, while sparks seemed to dazzle his eyes. u And never speak to me again and don't go thinking that you'll get any more money out of me, for I haven't got it. So it's finished: understand that. You look out for a young, rich fellow . . . and leave me alone. ..." " Oh, Gerrit, they're all beasts ... all but you ... all but you ..." " Well, beast or no beast," roared Gerrit, " you go this way now and I that, see? " And he released himself, panting, snorting, quivering. He walked as fast as he could; and, when he looked round, she was out of sight, must have gone up the Riouwstraat. He breathed again, managed to catch a tram, stood on the front plat- form to get the wind in his face and cool his throbbing temples. . . . And all the time he was thinking: 44 The girl's mad, to speak to me ... to go kissing me! ... I'd have done better not to give her any money. . . . Twelve years! . . . She looks older, but she's still a fine girl. . . . She's put on flesh and she was painted, which she never used to be. But she's still a fine girl. ..." Her kiss lingered on his mouth, like a burning pressure, as if she had sealed his lips with wax, the hot, melting wax of her kiss. And suddenly he had i 9 4 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS to admit to himself that, for years and years, for twelve years, no one had kissed him like that; and the admission sent his blood racing through his veins and set all sorts of memories, like swift spirals, swarming before his eyes, in curving, waving lines, between him and the wet autumn street, down which the horse-tram jogged along, toiling slowly on its rails. Memories flashed before his eyes, in glowing visions before him and inside him and around him, until it was as though he were standing there, on the platform of the tram-car, in a blaze of recol- lections which the wind fanned rather than ex- tinguished. . . . But the tram was passing his house; and he jumped down, wildly, almost stumbling over his sword, hampered by his military great-coat, which blew between his legs. He rattled with his latchkey against the door, like a drunken man, could not find the keyhole at once. . . . The door of the dining-room was open, sending forth a soft light of domesticity; the table was laid for dinner. Gerdy and Guy ran out to meet him. Ade- line, inside the room, called out: " Is that you, Gerrit? How late you are! " 44 1 missed the tram," he fibbed; and he thrust the two children away from him, a little roughly. " Wait, children : Papa must go upstairs first and wash his hands." He stormed up the stairs, again nearly stumbling. The noise shook the whole house; the door of his THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 195 bedroom slammed. He feverishly felt in his pocket for matches, couldn't find them; his trembling hands groped all round the room, knocking things over, almost breaking things; at last he found the box, lit the gas, looked at himself in the glass. He saw his face red with fierce, raging blood, which glowed under his cheeks and beat up towards his temples. His eyes started from their sockets and contracted to pin-points. He looked at his mouth, to see if the kiss was visible that still burnt on his lips like a hot seal of purple wax. His uniform felt too tight for him and he undressed himself, savagely. He washed his head in a basin full of water; he rubbed his mouth with a handkerchief till his lips glowed, went on rubbing them, as if they were dirty. He crunched the handkerchief into a ball and flung it on the ground. Then he quickly put on his indoor- jacket and then . . . then he went downstairs. . . . " How late you are ! " Adeline said again, very gently. He did not answer, made no jokes with the chil- dren. He now, deliberately, let Gerdy kiss him, with cool lips; and it was as a cool flower, pressed flat on his glowing cheek. It calmed him; and he suddenly felt safe, in that small room, under the circle of light from the hanging lamp, with in front of him the great piece of beef, which he began to carve, with great art, and advised Alex to watch how Papa carved, so that he could do it too when i 9 6 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS he was older. He now gave all his mind to the beef, carved it in clean, regular slices, while Adeline and the children looked on. He ate heartily and, after dinner, fell into a heavy sleep. CHAPTER XIII No, nobody saw it in him. He could admit that now without hesitation. Around him there appeared to be — he became more and more conscious of it — an opaque sphere, like a materialized phantasm, through which no one could see him, through which no one could penetrate and know him as he knew himself. This evening, as he sat with Constance, Constance did not see that he had met Pauline yesterday and gone back with her to her room. His wife did not notice it; Van der Welcke did not notice it. There was nothing around him but the everyday circumstances of an after-dinner chat in Constance' drawing-room, in the soft, cosy light of the lace-shaded lamps, while the wind outside blew from a great distance and howled moaning round the little house. ... In his easy-chair, with the glass of grog mixed by Constance at his side, he was just a big, burly, light-haired fellow in his mufti; and his movements were brisk, his parade- voice sounded loud. . . . His wife was sitting there, gentle and placid, the quiet, resigned little mother; the children were asleep at home. Oh, his children* how he loved them 1 . . . Certainly, all of that ex- isted, it was no phantasm, it was most certainly the 197 198 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS truth; but behind that truth lay hidden another truth; and that was why it seemed a phantasm, his outward life as an officer, a husband, a father, while the real truth was what he always kept to himself: his strange gloom; the great worm that gnawed at him; his hot, racing blood; his sentimental and melancholy soul; that wriggling horror in his marrow; that recrudescence of sensuality in his blood. . . . The quiet, kindly words fell softly round the room, like small, sweet things between a brother and a sister who still have sympathy and affection for each other amid the inevitable slow moving apart of the family-spheres; but he — though he talked, though he was lively, though he cracked jokes — he saw Pauline before him, as he had held her in his arms the day before. . . . Heavens, he couldn't help it: why was he built like that? A handsome woman, standing before his eyes, drove him crazy! Well, for years, all the years of his marriage, he had remained sober and sedate, but he had gradually begun to feel that this sedateness did not really suit him. It was no good his thinking it rotten; it was no good his telling himself that he was a husband and a father — the father of such jolly children too — and that he oughtn't to think of those things, that all that sort of thing belonged to his youth, to which he had said good-bye. It had been all very well to say it. But a thousand memo- ries had gone curling into the air before his eyes, THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 199 like swarming spirals; and, when he met Pauline again — by accident? — he had made an appoint- ment with her for the next evening, in her room, cursing himself as he did so and swearing at her, with a torrent of rough words. . . . No, nobody had kissed him like that for years! Besides, he was sentimental. Didn't he himself know, damn it, what a sentimental ass he was? Didn't he know that sometimes, when he read a book or saw a play, when Mamma told him her troubles, as she had now got into the habit of doing, when he saw Dorine and felt sorry for her: didn't he himself know, damn it, that he was a sentimental ass and that he must pull himself together and not let the tears come to his eyes. . . . And Pauline, whether she did or did not know how sentimental he was : he couldn't see as far as that — not only kissed him as no one else did and knew how to drive him crazy, but she also worked upon his sentimentality. Was she making a fool of him, or did she mean all she said? He had never been able to trust those eyes of hers: they always retained a glint of mockery; but, when she said to him, " Men . . . men are all beasts, every one of them, Gerrit . . . except you. . . .. ■You're not . . . you're so nice and gentle . . . however rough you may be," then she had him by his sentimental side and he did not know how to shake her off. . . . 11 I tell you, Gerrit, that's why I was so glad 200 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS to see you again . . . oh, I was so glad, Gerrit ! " He had cursed her, asked why she didn't go after a young, rich fellow rather than him, who was neither young nor rich; but her golden eyes had gleamed and she had merely repeated: 44 Oh, men are all beasts, Gerrit . . . beasts, beasts . . . every one of them ! " And — perhaps that was the stupidest thing of all — he had believed her, believed that he was the only one whom she did not think a beast; and, when a woman got hold of him by his crazy side and his sentimental side as well, then he did not find it easy to wrench himself away: oh, he knew himself well enough for that! Not one of them knew it, you see, while he sat talking so quietly with them, while he sipped his grog with enjoyment, his legs stretched out wide in front of him, and while he heard the raging wind outside come howling up from the distance. . . . And now Paul came in, rubbing his hands: he had driven up in a cab, declaring that he was too old to walk from the Houtstraat to the Kerkhoflaan in that weather and through such dirty streets. Why didn't he take the tram? Thank you for nothing: was there ever such a filthy conveyance as a tram, in wind and rain too? And a volley of sparkling witticisms flashed out for a moment, tirades against his dirty country, where it was al- ways, always raining; against people, against the THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 201 whole world, all dirty alike. . . . When he sat down, he looked round, with a glance that had be- come a second habit, to see that there were no bits of fluff on his chair. And he at once ceased talking, the battery of his words exhausted, sat still, not thinking it worth while to talk, because nobody ap- preciated what he said. Gerrit heard Constance chide him, in her gentle voice, in a sisterly but serious fashion, because he was growing so elderly, shutting himself up, giving way to his mania for cleanliness and for thinking everything dirty. He answered with a couple of whimsical sallies. . . . Then Constance said that she had asked Dorine also, but that Dorine did not seem to be coming; and that Aunt Ruyvenaer was too tired, because she was fixing up the new small house with the girls. And Gerrit felt — now that Mamma was getting old, very old — how Constance was trying to keep the elements of the family together in her place. Not in such a wide and comprehensive manner as Mamma used to do — and still did — but with some measure of sympathy. Ah, she wouldn't succeed, thought Gerrit! The circles were not moving closer to- gether: each was just himself; he was no different from the rest. Was he not thinking of Pauline? Had he not his silent secret? Had not each of them perhaps his silent secret, while they sat talking together with such apparent sympathy? . . . Addie came in, after finishing his school-work 202 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS upstairs; and Gerrit noticed the conciliatory smile with which he at once went up to his father, who had been sulking of late because his boy had made a choice of which he altogether disapproved. But for weeks and weeks he had seemed unable to resist the conciliatory smile; and Gerrit had noticed that it was Van der Welcke himself who suffered most from his sulking, which went on because he did not know how to manage a gradual change of attitude, while the boy's calm smile meant: " Daddie will have to give in, for what I want is only reasonable. . . ." And Gerrit enjoyed looking at Addie, hoping that his own boys would grow up like that; but Paul, as soon as he saw his nephew, flashed forth into chaff, a chaff which had a speculative interest underlying it and which the boy took quietly, looking at Paul with his serious, blue eyes, which gazed so steadily out of his fresh, boyish face. " Well, learned professor in ovo, my dear doctor in spe, how are the patients ? Are they keeping you busy just now? Has mankind increased in vitality and primordial vigour since you entered the thera- peutic arena? O great healer, on whom are you going to try your powers first, iEsculapius? On members of your family, I suppose ? Are you going to make us live for ever, Addie ? Well, you needn't trouble about me. . . . Can't you manage to make the human body work a little more cleanly in future ? THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 203 That's the thing before which we're expected to kneel in admiration: the Creator's masterpiece, the human body; and what is dirtier than the human body? A nasty house of flesh, with our poor small soul pining away inside it. . . . Addie, when you grow very clever later on, just remove all that: entrails, intestines, the whole bag of tricks; and put in its place a little silver machine which a fellow can polish at least ... if there must be a machine of some sort ! " The boy never got annoyed, but stood in front of his uncle and put his hand on Paul's shoulder and looked at him and said: 44 Why aren't you always so lively, Uncle? " "Lively? Do you think me lively? He thinks I'm lively, while I sit here cursing human filthiness! Is that your diagnosis, professor? Well, you're quite out of it, my boy! You'll never get your ten guilders for that! Lively? Heavens, boy, I'm far from that! ... As long as life remains as dirty as it is, I shall be as melancholy as melancholy can be. . . . Cure me, if you like, but first clean the Augean stable. . . . There's just one little clean spot left in our soul; but all the rest is dirty! . . . Tell me now: whom will you start on? Couldn't you cure Uncle Gerrit? Give him a better appetite? Sounder sleep? A healthier complexion? Teach him to buck up that big carcase of his a bit? . . k .. Just see how wasted he looks ! ... . .. " 2o 4 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS There was something in Paul's chaff that grated on Gerrit very unpleasantly; but he laughed, as though he thought it the best joke he had ever heard, that Paul should be wishing him a better appetite and sounder sleep. Was Paul getting at him? Did Paul see through his sham strength? And would Addie do so, later? . . . No, nobody saw through it: .the centipede rooted in him unseen by them all. . . . And he got up, to mix himself another grog; but he mixed it so that it was hardly more than hot water and lemon. CHAPTER XIV He had never quite understood her, not even in the old days. In the old days, as a young officer, he had seen in her a fine girl, a delicious girl, of whom he had been madly enamoured. He had never understood her eyes, never understood her soul; but formerly he had not thought so very much about those eyes and that soul, because in those days he didn't know much about himself either, did not know what he knew now. In those days, he only now and then had a vague glimpse of his own latent sentimentality: to-day, he knew that sentimentality to be there most positively, as a blue background to his soul. And he was so much afraid of that sentimentality, so much afraid lest he should miss the truth, the naked, mocking reality of that cour- tesan's soul, so much afraid lest he should make it out to be finer than it really was, kinder above all and gentler and more tender, that he could never speak to her without abusing her or swearing at her, his voice as rough as if he were roaring at one of his hussars. 11 I mustn't let myself be put upon by her . . . or by myself either," he constantly reflected. «>5 206 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS And he kept on his guard. Add to that a vague resentment, at not having been able to keep away from her, at having gone to see her in her room; a vague resentment at the thought of his home, of his children, of all that he went back to when he left her room. The way you got used to anything, he would reflect! Now, when he had been to her, he would put his latchkey calmly into his front-door, without feeling his heart beating with nervousness, would undress calmly, would walk into the room where Adeline lay in bed! The way you got used to everything and by degrees came to do things which at first you thought rotten! You did it because you couldn't very well help it . . . and also because your ideas about things, day by day, as you did it, slumbered away into a feeling that you weren't responsible, that it was no use resisting what had got such a hold of you. . . . Nevertheless, when he was with her, he always felt that resentment keenly: it did not slumber away. ... At Pauline's, he had a keen apprehension of being still more im- posed upon, of seeing kindness and charming ten- derness in that girl, whereas of course she was nothing but a courtesan who meant to get money out of him. And then, in her small, shabby room, he would roar at her and ask: " Look here, why can't you leave me alone? " Her golden eyes gleamed; and he read a secret mockery in them. No, mark you, he'd take jolly THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 207 good care that his sentimentality didn't make him see her as a chocolate-box picture! You only had to look at her eyes ! 44 But, Gerrit," she said, nestling at his feet, "I never ran after you! I met you by accident, really by accident, I assure you. Don't you remember? Yes, once when I was driving: that was the first time; then near the Alexander Barracks ..." II But what were you doing near the barracks, damn it? " She looked at him coaxingly, stroked him caress- ingly : 44 Oh, well ... I thought . . . ! " " There, you see! . . . You thought . . . ! " 44 Yes, you won't believe me. . . . Even towards the end . . . in Paris, Gerrit ..." "Well?" II I used to think of you sometimes." 44 Oh, rot, you're lying! . . . Do you think I be- lieve you? " 44 No, you don't believe me, but, Gerrit . . . I assure you . . . men are beasts . . . and you ..." 44 Oh, yes, you tell everybody that : do you im- agine I don't see through it?" Then she laughed merrily; and he laughed too. 44 I'm laughing," she said, 44 because you're pre- 208 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS tending to be so cynical. . . . Tell me, Gerrit, why do you pretend to be so cynical? " "I?" " Yes, you: why do you do it? You're putting it on, aren't you, on purpose ? " "Purpose be blowed! ... If you think I'm going to be taken in by all your pretty speeches! ... If you come to me with pretty speeches, it's because you want money and I've . . .. I've told you, I haven't any. ..." " But, Gerrit, I don't ask you for money . . . and I'm not getting any from you either. ..." He flushed, a deep glow overspreading his red, sunburnt face and the white neck on which the tight collar of his uniform had left a plainly-visible line. What she said was quite true: she asked for no money and he gave her no money. He had none to give her. " Now let me tell you," she said, nestling still closer against his knees. " You see, in Paris, to- wards the end, I got the blues badly. . . . You understand, Gerrit, don't you, one has enough of the life sometimes . . . and a fit like that isn't very cheerful?" "Oh, rot!" he said, gruffly. "And you, who are always laughing! " " I'm always laughing? " " Yes, you, with those eyes of yours, those eyes which are always laughing." THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 209 "That's my eyes, Gerrit: I can't help it if they laugh." 44 And you want to make me believe that you get fits of the blues? " " Well, why shouldn't I ? " 11 Very likely. But you're not the sort ..." "To what?" 44 To sit moping for long." " Well, I didn't. I came to Holland." 44 Weren't you doing well in Paris?" 44 Not quite so well, perhaps," she said, hesitating between her vanity and certain strange feelings which she did not clearly realize. 44 So that's why you came to Holland 1 " 44 I might have gone to London." 44 To London?" 44 And from there to Berlin." "Berlin?" 44 And then to St. Petersburg." 44 Look here, what are you talking about? " 44 And next to Constantinople." 44 Oh, shut up!" 44 And do you know where we finish?" 44 What do you mean, finish? " 44 At Singapore. You know that's the regular tour." 44 Oh, well . . . I've heard it; but that's non- sense." 44 So many of us go on that tour. It's not a 210 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS circular tour, Gerrit. It doesn't bring you back ... to Paris." " What a queer way you have of saying those things ! " said Gerrit, laughing uncomfortably. " You were always a strange girl. Tell me, your father . . . was a waiter, wasn't he?" " No, a gentleman. My mother was a laundress ... in Brussels." " And those twelve years of yours in Paris ..." "Made me into a Parisian, you think? . . . Gerrit, I longed for Holland! " " I'll never believe that." "Yes, Gerrit, I longed, for Holland." " You're a great liar . . . with those eyes of yours! I never believe a word you say." " Gerrit . . . and for you ! " "What's that?" " I longed for you." " Yes, of course. Tell that to the marines." " I remembered the old days ..." "Oh, drop it!" " Don't you know, when ..." " Yes, yes, I know everything. Stow all that, you and your recollections! You've taken me in enough, as it is. Why don't you look out for a young, rich chap? " " You're not old, Gerrit." "Oh, I'm not old!" THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 211 " No. I am. I've grown older, haven't I, Gerrit?" " Your eyes haven't." 11 But the rest of me?" " Yes, of course. . . . You have grown older* ii 44 Gerrit, I don't want to get old. ... I think it terrible to get old. . . . Am I still pretty and . . . ? " 44 Yes, yes, yes. ..." 44 But, very soon, I shall ..." 44 You'll what?" " I shall be plain ... and old." 44 Oh, don't sit there bothering!" 44 I'm very fond of you, Gerrit. You're so . . ." 44 Yes, I know what you're going to say. I'm off now. ..." 44 Must you go? . . .1 say, Gerrit, you have children, haven't you? I expect they're charming children." He seemed to see mockery in the gleaming eyes. 4 You drop it about my children, will you ? " 44 Mayn't I ask after them?" 44 No." 44 I saw them out walking the other day." 44 Shut up!" 44 I thought them so charming." He swore at her, roughly and hoarsely: 212 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS " Shut up, blast it, can't you? " " Very well. . . . Are you going? " " Yes." He was outside the door. " Are you cross with me ? " " No, but this talkee-talkee bores me. That's not what I come to you for. . . ." " No, I know you don't. . . . But, still, you can't mind my talking to you sometimes, Gerrit? ..." " Very likely, but not such twaddle. And I won't have you mention my children." " I won't do it again. Good-bye, Gerrit." " Good-night." He looked round, in the passage, and nodded to her. In the dim light of the room, he saw her standing, framed in the half-open doorway; she stood there, a handsome, slender, willowy figure, in a shimmer of dull gold : the light, the yellow tea- gown, the touches of gold lace round the very white neck, the strange gold hair round the powdered white face and, under the sharp line of the eye- brows, the golden eyes, with a golden gleam. Her voice, all the evening, had sounded very soft and coaxing in his ears, as though crooning a plaintive song, of youth, of memories, of the past, of longing for her native country . . . and for him: all un- natural and impossible things in her, things which he only heard in her voice because of his confounded sentimentality, a sentimentality which, however THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 213 deeply it might be hidden from everybody else, was clearly perceptible to himself. . . . And, outside, he thought: u I must be careful with that girl. . . . She is as dangerous as can be ... to me. . . ..;" CHAPTER XV Well, if he treated it like that, he thought, he could reduce the danger to a minimum. He had allowed himself to be taken in; and the only thing now was to disentangle himself, slowly, gradually; and he would certainly succeed in this, for none of them, not even Pauline, had ever held him for long. Though she had got him to come and see her, though he had gone back once or twice, he had shown her that she had no sort of power over him and that he remained his own master. His voice roared hers down, so that he did not even hear the coaxing, brooding tones; his robust cynicism was more than a match for his sentimental tendencies; and so her only hold was on his recrudescent sensuality, glow- ing with the memories that had been smouldering in his blood. But that would run its course in time ; and meanwhile, as he would never really recapture those old sensations after twelve years, the charm, the enchantment of it would wear off . . . and pretty quickly too. . . . Yes, she had grown old. She had not gone through her twelve years in Paris with impunity. All that former freshness, as of a fruit into which he used to bite, had vanished; he 214 % THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 215 could not endure the musty smell of the paint which she smeared on her face: he once roughly rubbed a towel over her cheeks till she had grown angry and locked herself in; and he had to go away and apologize next time. And he was struck above all by her timidity in revealing her body, her artfulness in retaining, even when in his arms, those laces and fripperies which were supposed to create a filmy haze all around her: a haze through which he was well able to see that she was no longer the girl of twelve years ago. . . . And, when he compared his recollections of that time with what she gave him now, he could not understand that he had allowed himself to be caught like that by her eyes, which had remained the same, though she now smeared black stuff round them; he did not understand how he had gone into the Woods with her; he did not under- stand how he had yielded to her entreaties that he should come to see her. . . . No, he would disen- tangle himself from this woman, from this faded courtesan, who was complicating his life, his life as a respectable husband and father, especially father. He would disentangle himself. It would not be difficult, now that the present gave him back so little of what had glowed in his memory. . . . But, just because of that, because it would be so easy, because the present was such dead ashes, a heavy melancholy fell around him like a curtain of twilight. . . . Great Lord, how rotten it was: that 216 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS slow decay, that getting old, that dragging on of the days and years! How rotten that you had to pay for everything that life gave you, first with your youth and then with your prime, as if your life were a bank on which you drew bills of exchange, as if your existence were a capital on which you lived, without ever saving a farthing, so that, when you died, you would have squandered every little bit of it. Lord, how rotten! Not dying, which was no- thing, after all; but just that slow decay, that con- founded spending of your later years, for which you got nothing in return; for you had had every- thing already: your youth, your strength, your good spirits; and, as the years dragged and dragged along, you just jogged on towards the cheerless end; and there was nothing to do but look on while every day you spent one more day of your capital of later days and got nothing in return, while nothing re- mained but your memory of the youth which you had also squandered. ... Lord, Lord, how dark it all grew around you, when you thought of such rotten things! . . . Oh, of course, there was one streak of light: he knew it, he saw it, saw the golden dawn, the dawn in his own house, the dawn of his children: light still shone from them; their circle was still moving within his circle, just for a time, for so long as their shining sphere touched his own sphere . . . until later it would circle away, ever farther and farther, describing wider and wider THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 217 revolutions, even as every sphere rolls away, rolls away from the centre ! . . . That was how it would be . . . when he had grown old, very old. It was not so yet: for the present, the bright-haired little tribe was still in its golden dawn. . . . Yes, for its sake too he would like to disentangle himself, to disentangle himself. The thing that had never been able to hold him, would it hold him in his old age? . . . Well, there was no question of old age yet, even though he was getting on for fifty. But still it wasn't as it used to be : nothing was as it used to be, no, not even Pauline . . . No, not even Pauline. When he went to her now, he took a malicious pleasure in telling her so, with rough words, in making her feel it . . . both in order to make himself appear rougher than he was and because of the resentment which always kept pricking him sharply. u I say, you're not a bit like those old photo- graphs of yours now ! " It gave her a shock when he said this. Nothing gave her such a blinding shock, as if the shock had plunged her into darkness and made everything go black and menacing as death. She felt that it was cruel of him to throw it in her face like this; and she couldn't understand it in him. But, because her eyes were always laughing, even now they laughed their golden laugh. . . . 44 Ah, you don't believe it ! . . . You just think 2i 8 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS you're exactly as you were, the same young and pretty girl. . . . Well, my beauty, you never made a greater mistake in your life ! . . . But I see you don't believe me, you grin when I tell you, you think your charms are going to live for ever. . . . Everything wears, child. . . . However, you won't believe it: I can see your eyes mocking me now. ..." Indeed, her eyes were laughing and the smoulder- ing spark of mockery seemed to leap into flame. And, because he spoke like that, she laughed, a loud laugh with a shrill note which annoyed him, in which he heard mockery . . . because, after all, though she no longer resembled her old photographs, she had caught him badly. " Just come here," he said, roughly. "Why?" " Just come here." She went up to him, trembling. He took hold of her, a little more roughly than he intended, took her between his knees, looked her in the face: " What do you make up for? " he asked. 11 1 don't make up." " Oh, you don't, don't you? Do you think I can't see it?" " No, I don't make up." "Then what's that?" He pointed to her cheek. THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 219 " That's only powder, which stays on because I use a face-cream first." 44 Oh, really! And isn't that making up? " " No." "And what's that?" He pointed to her eyes. She shrugged her shoulders : II That's done with a pencil, just a touch. It's nothing. That's not a make-up. Make-up ... is something quite different." " Oh, really! Well, I don't like all that messing. What do you do it for?" She looked at him in dismay; and again the blinding shock bored an endless, dead-black per- spective before her ... of death. But he saw only the laugh of her golden eyes. u What do you do it for? " he repeated. " You usedn't to." "No." "Then why do it now?" She made an effort, so as not to cry. She laughed, shrilly; and it sounded like a jeer, as though she were saying, jeeringly: II I make up my face, but I've got you all the same." 11 Give me a towel," he said, roughly. M No," she said, struggling and releasing herself from his grip. M Give me a towel." 220 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS " No, Gerrit, I won't, do you hear? " Her eyes just flashed an angry look of dark re- proach. But they laughed and mocked immediately afterwards. He snatched a towel from the wash-hand-stand: 11 Come here," he said. Her first impulse was a storm of seething rage, a rage as on the last occasion, when she locked herself in and he had to go away. . . . But there was something so cruel and vindictive in his voice, in his glance, in the abrupt movements of his great body that she grew frightened and came: " Gerrit," she implored, softly, timidly. 11 Come here. I don't like all that muck. ..." He had wetted the towel. He now washed her face; and he became a little gentler in his move- ments, glance and voice . . . because she was frightened and meek. He washed her face all over : " There," he said. " Now at least you're na- tural." Something like hatred gripped at her heart, but she could not yield to it: her nerves had become too slack for hatred. Besides, she had always, always been very fond of him, just because he was such a strange mixture of roughness and gentleness. She remained standing anxiously in front of him, with her hands in his. Like that, like that, at any rate, she no longer looked like the picture on a chocolate-box. He was THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 221 safe now against his sentimentality. But, Lord, how old she looked! Her skin was wrinkled, covered with freckles and blotches. Was it possible that a drop of wet stuff out of a bottle and a touch of powder could cover all that? And the golden eyes of mockery, how ghastly they looked, without the shadows about the brows and lashes ! . . . And yet she kept on mocking him. . . . But then, suddenly, he felt pity, was sick at having been rough, at pre- tending to be rougher than he was. He was always like that, always made that pretence, putting on a blustering voice, squaring his broad shoulders, banging his fist on the table . . . for no reason, save to be rough . . . and not sentimental. And, seeking for something to say to her, he said, in a voice which she at once recognized, a voice of pity, the gentleness now tempering the roughness, that mixture which she had always loved in him: 44 Really, Pauline, you look much prettier like this. . i « But she saw the dark vista opening out before her, black as night. 44 You're much prettier now. You look a fresh and pretty woman." Her eyes were laughing. 44 You haven't the least need to smear all that stuff on your face." Her lips were laughing now. 44 Come and give me a kiss. . . . Come. . . ." 222 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS He caught her in his arms. He felt her flesh, soft and flabby, as though he were grasping wadding or lace, not as though he were grasping the woman whom he remembered in his glowing memories, a woman of warm marble. She roused herself, in her desire. She strained her muscles, embraced him with force, with all the science of passion which she had acquired during the years. They embraced each other wholly; and their embrace was full of despair for both of them, as though they were both plunging with their intense happiness into a black abyss, instead of soaring to the stars. . . . She now lay against him like a corpse. Never had he felt so full of heavy melancholy in his heavy, heavy soul. Never had his whole, whole life passed before him like that, suddenly, in a flash: his boy- hood, Buitenzorg, the river, Constance; his young years as a subaltern, his reckless period, the period of inexhaustible, gay, brutal, young life; and, after that very youthful period, still many long years of youth, with Pauline herself still young, warm marble; and then the sobering down, his marriage and oh, the golden dawn of his children ! ... He was not old, he was not old, but everything had arrived. . . . Nothing, nothing more would come but the dragging past of the monotonous years; and, with each year, the bright circles would shift farther and farther apart and the gloom would THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 223 deepen around him. . . . Never had he felt so full of heavy melancholy in his heavy, heavy soul. She, against him, lay like a corpse. He felt her like a bundle of down, of lace, soft and flabby as a pillow, still in his arms. He would have liked to fling her away from him, weary, sick of that tepid flabbiness. But he kept her in his arms, made her lie against him, suffered the tepid heap of lace and down on his chest. Her eyelids hung closed, as though she would never raise them again. Her mouth hung down, as though she would never laugh again. And yet he continued to hold her like that. It was not because of his sentimentality, for she was anything but a chocolate-box picture now, and it was not out of a sudden recrudescence of rough sensuality that he now held that flabby bundle in his arms : no, it was from a real, genuine, but heavy and melancholy feeling, a feeling of pity. He had been able to wash the make-up from her face with a towel, but he couldn't fling her from him now, before she herself should raise herself from his arms. And she remained lying, like a corpse. God, what a time it lasted ! . . . Still, he couldn't do it : he continued to suffer her there, on his heart. He looked down at her askance, without moving; and his eyes grew moist. . . . Those confounded eyes of his, which grew moist! He couldn't help it: they just grew moist. He screwed them up, wiped them with his free hand, before Pauline could see 224 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS them moist. And he remained like that, so long, so long! ... At last he gave a deep sigh and she drew breath; he could not go on: not because of her weight, but because of her softness, that soft flabbi- ness, that stuffiness, that crumpled lace against him. His chest rose high; and she awoke from her lethargy. She lifted her heavy eyelids, she pinched her lips into a smile. It was a smile of utter de- spair. . . . She released herself from his arms, stood up; and he made ready to go. 11 Gerrit," she said, faintly. "What is it, child ?" " Gerrit," she repeated, " you don't know how glad I am that I . . . that I met you again . . . here . . . that we have seen each other again. ... I used to think of you so often ... in Paris . . . because I was always ... a little fond of you . . . because you are so gentle and rough in one. . . . That's how you are . . . and that was why I was fond of you. . . . Oh, it was so nice to see you again . . . after so many, many years . . . those dirty, dirty years! ... It has made me so happy, so happy! . . . Thank you, Gerrit . . . for everything. But I wanted to say . . ." "What, child?" 11 You had better not come back again. . . . You know, you had bettter not come back. . . . We have seen each other again now: not often, perhaps THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 225 ten or twelve times, I can't remember. ... It was such heavenly, such heavenly happiness . . . that I forgot to count the number of times. . . . But you had better not come back any more. . . ..." 44 And why not, child? Are you angry ... be- cause I washed your face with that towel?" 41 No, Gerrit, it's not that, I'm not angry about that. . . . I'm not angry at all. ..." Indeed, her eyes were laughing. Then she re- peated: 44 But still . . . you had better not come back." 44 I see. So you've had enough of me? " She gave a shrill laugh: 44 Yes," she said. 11 Oh ! And have you found a young, rich chap, as I advised you? " Her laugh sounded still shriller and her golden eyes were full of mockery. 44 Yes," she said. Under his heavy melancholy, he was angry and jealous: 44 So you don't want me any more? " 44 Want you? ... I shall certainly want you, but . . . " 44 But what?" 44 It's better for every reason, better not. You mustn't came back, Gerrit." 44 Very well." 44 And don't be angry, Gerrit." 226 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS " I'm not angry. So this evening was the last time?" " Yes," she said. They both looked at each other and both read in each other's eyes the memory of their last em- brace: the stimulus of despair. " Very well," he repeated, more gently. " Good-bye, Gerrit." " Good-bye, child." She kissed him and he her. He was ready to go. Suddenly he remembered that he had never given her anything except on that first evening in the Woods, a ten-guilder piece and two rixdollars: " Pauline," he said, " I should like to give you something. I should like to send you something. What may I give you?" 11 1 don't mind having something . . . but then you mustn't refuse it me. ..." " Unless it's impossible. ..." " If it's not possible . . . then I won't have any- thing." "What is it you'd like?" " You're sure to have a photograph ... a group ... of your children. ..." " Do you want that?" he asked, in surprise. " Yes." "Why?" "I don't know; I'd like it." "A photograph of my children?" THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 227 " Yes. If you haven't one . . . or if you can't give it me . . . then I don't want anything, Gerrit. And thank you, Gerrit." 14 I'll see," he said, dully. He kissed her once more: 44 So good-bye, Pauline." 44 Good-bye, Gerrit." She kissed him hurriedly, almost drove him out of the room. It was ten o'clock in the evening. Gerrit, in the street outside, heaved a great sigh of relief. Yes, this was all right: he was rid of her now. It had not lasted very long; and the best part of it was that none of his brother-officers, of his friends or of his family had for a moment sus- pected that connection, for a moment noticed that the past, his memories, his youth had loomed up be- fore him, haunting him and mocking him in Pauline, in her body, in her golden eyes. It had remained a secret; and what might have been a great annoyance in his life as husband and father had been no more than a momentary and unsuspected effort to force back what was long over and done with. It was now over and done with for ever. Oh, it was the first time and the last: never again would he allow himself to be entrapped by the haunting recollections of former years! . . . But how sad it was to reflect that all that past was really over and done with . . . and that everything had been ! During the days and weeks that followed, he went 228 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS about with heavy, heavy melancholy in his heavy soul. Nobody noticed anything in him: at the bar- racks he blustered as usual; at home he romped with the children; he went with Adeline to take tea at Constance' and laughed at the tirades of Paul, who was daily becoming more and more of an elderly gentleman. Nobody noticed anything in him; and he himself thought it very strange that the eyes of the world never penetrated to the shud- dering soul deep down within him, as though sicken- ing in his great body, with its sham strength. Sick: was his soul sick? No, perhaps not: it was only shrinking into itself under the heavy, heavy melan- choly. Sham strength: was his body weak? No, not his muscles . . . but the worm was crawling about in his spine, the centipede was eating up his marrow. . . . And nobody in the wide world saw anything — of the centipede, of the worm, of all the horror of his life — even as nobody had seen any- thing of what had come about during the last few weeks between himself and his past: the last flare up of youth, Pauline. . . . Nobody saw anything. Life itself seemed blind. It jogged on in the old, plodding way. There were the barracks, always the same: the horses, the men, his brother-officers. There were his mother, his brothers and sisters. There were his wife and his children. ... He saw himself reflected in the blind eyes of plodding life as a rough, kindly fellow, a good officer, a big, THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 229 fair-haired man, just a little grey, a good sort to his wife, a good father to his children. . . . Lord, how good he was, reflected in the blind eyes of plodding life! . . . But there was nothing good about him and he was quite different from what he seemed. He had always been different from what he seemed. Oh, idiot people 1 Oh, blind, idiot life ! CHAPTER XVI It was a steadily grey and rainy winter. A winter without frost, but with endless, endless rains, with a firmament of everlasting clouds hanging over the small, murky town, over the flooded streets, through which the gloomy people hurried under the little roofs of their umbrellas, clouds so preternaturally big and heavy that everything seemed to cower beneath their menace, as though the end of the world were slowly approaching. Black-grey were those everlasting clouds; and it seemed as if they cast the shadow of their menace from the first hour of the day; and so short were the days that it was as though it were eternal night and as though the sun had lost itself very far away, circled from the small human world, circled very far behind the im- measurable world of the clouds and the endless firmaments. And, lashing, ever lashing, the whips of the rain beat down, wielded by the angry winds. Gloom and menace hung over the shuddering town and over the shuddering souls of the people. There were but few days of light around them. The old grandmother sat gloomily at her window, nodding her head understandingly but reproachfully, because old age had not come in the nice and 230 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 231 peaceful way which she had always, peacefully, hoped. The shadows of old age had gathered around her like a dark, dreary twilight, were al- ready gathering closer and closer because she saw that, however hard she had tried, she had not been able to keep around her all that she loved. Was the supreme sorrow not coming nearer? . . . Just as the shadows were gathering around her, so they had already gathered around Bertha, over at Baarn, far away, too far for her, an old woman, to reach her; and, in a sudden flash of clairvoyance, she saw — though no one had ever told her — Bertha sitting at a window, listlessly, with her hands in her lap, saw her sitting and staring, even as she herself stared and sat. In a flash of clairvoyance she saw Karel and Cateau and Adolphine's little tribe far, far away from her, even though they lived in the same town and came regularly on Sunday evenings. Far away from her she saw Paul and Dorine. Very far away from her she saw her poor Ernst, whom she knew to be mad; and her old head nodded in understanding but yet in protest against the cruelty of life, which brought old age to her in such a sad guise and made it gather so darkly and menacingly around her loneliness. . . . Yes, there was Constance, there was Gerrit: she felt these two to be closest to her; but, though they were closer, it grew black around her, black under the black skies, with the glimpses of light, the flashes of 232 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS clairvoyance, in the midst of them. . . . She saw — though no one had told her — a pale, thin girl, Mari- anne, pining away by Bertha's side. . . .. She saw — ' though no one knew it — Emilie and Henri toiling in Paris, struggling with life, which came towards them hideous and horrible, bringing with it poverty, which they had never known. She saw it so clearly that she almost felt like speaking of it. . . . But, because they would not have believed her, she re- mained silent, enduring all that gloomy life even as the town endured the black skies and the lashing of the rain. . . . And yonder, far away, too far for her, she saw a woman, old like herself, dying. She saw her dying and by her bedside she saw Constance and she saw Addie. She saw it so clearly, between her eyes and the rain-streaks, as though flung upon the screen of the rain, that she felt like speaking of it, like crying it out. . . . But, because they would not have believed her, she remained silent, enduring all that gloomy life even as the town endured the black skies. Then things grew dull around her and she saw nothing more; and the nodding head fell asleep upon her breast; and she sat sleeping, a black, silent figure, while the rain tapped as though with fingers — which would not tap her awake — at the panes of the conservatory-window at which she used to sit. . . .- THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 233 For hours she would sit thus alone in the shadow of her day and the shadow of her soul; and, when any of her children or friends called, they would find her in low spirits. 44 Mamma, don't you feel lonely like this?" Adolphine asked, one afternoon. " We should all like to see you take a companion." The old woman shook her head irritably: "A companion? What for? Certainly not." 44 Or have Dorine to live with you." 44 Dorine? Living with me? No, no, I won't have her in the house with me. Why should I?" 44 You're so lonely; and, though you've had the servants a long time, somebody ... to sit with you, you know ..." 44 Somebody sitting with me all day long? No, no. . . ." 44 We should like to see it, Mamma." 44 Well, you won't see it." And the old woman remained obstinate. Another afternoon, Adeline said: 44 Mamma dear, Constance asked me to tell you that she won't be able to see you for a day or two." 44 And why not? What's the matter with Con- stance?" 44 Nothing, Mamma dear, but she's been sent for to Driebergen. ..." 234 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS "To Driebergen? ..." " Yes, dear. Old Mrs. van der Welcke hasn't been quite so well lately. . . ." "Is she dead?" " No, no, Mamma. . . . She's only a little un- well. ..." The old woman nodded her head comprehend- ingly. She had already seen Constance standing yonder by the dying woman's sickbed, but she did not say so . . . because Adeline would have re- fused to believe it. . . . Another afternoon, Cateau said: " Mam-ma . . . it's ve-ry sad, but old Mrs. Frie- se-steijn. ..." " Oh, I haven't seen her ... for ever so long; and. ..." " Yes. And it's ve-ry sad, Mam-ma, because she was a friend of yours. And, Mam-ma, peo-ple are saying that she's ill and that she won't last very long." The old woman nodded knowingly : " Yes, I knew about it," she said. "Oh?" said Cateau, round-eyed. "Has some- body told you? ..." "No, but ..." The old lady had seen her, had seen her old friend dying; and she nearly committed herself, nearly betrayed herself to Cateau. "What?" asked Cateau. THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 235 " I suspected it," said the old lady. " When you are old, old people die round you. . . . " u Mam-ma, we should ve-ry much like . . ." 44 What?" 44 Adolph-ine would like it . . . and so would Ka-rel." 44 What?" "If you would take a compan-ion to live with you." 44 No, no, I don't want a companion." 44 Or Do-rine. She's ve-ry nice too. ..." 44 No, no. Not Dorine either." And the old woman remained obstinate. . . . The old people were dying around her; she was constantly hearing of contemporaries who had gone before her. Her old family-doctor was dead, the man who had brought all her children into the world, in Java; now an old friend was gone; the next to go would be Henri's old mother, who had been unkind to Constance and none the less had sent for Constance to come to her. . . . Who else was gone? She couldn't remember them all: her brain was sometimes very hazy; and then she forgot names and people, just as the old sisters always forgot and muddled things. She did not want to muddle things; but she could not help forgetting. 44 So I sha'n't see Constance for quite a long time?" she said to Cateau. 44 Con-stance?" 236 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS " Yes, you said she was going to Driebergen." " No, Mam-ma, I never men-tioned Con-stance." The old woman nodded her understanding nod. Nevertheless she no longer remembered who it was that had told her about Constance; but she pre- ferred not to ask. . . . And she thought it over, for hours. . . «• CHAPTER XVII An icy shudder swept over Constance when she arrived at Driebergen and saw the carriage waiting outside the station, with the coachman and the footman : 44 How is mevrouw?" she asked, as she stepped in. But she hardly heard the answer, although she grasped it. She shuddered, icy cold. She shivered in her fur cloak. It had rained steadily for days upon the dreary, wintry trees, out of a sky that hung low but tremendously wide and heavy, as op- pressive as a pitiless darkness. Drearily the wintry roads shot forward as the carriage rattled along them. Drearily, in their bare gardens, the houses rose, very sadly, because they were deserted summer dwellings, in the ice-cold winter rain. The day was almost black. It was three o'clock, but it was night; and the rain, grey over the road and grey over the houses and gardens, was black over the misty landscapes which could be dimly descried through the bare gardens. The dreary trees looked dead and lived only in the despairing gestures of their branches when a wind, howling up 237 238 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS from the distance, blew through them and moved them. The carriage turned into the bare front-garden, round the beds with the straw-shrouded rose-bushes. Constance had driven in like this only a few times before, with the careful coachman always describing the same accurate curve round the flower-beds: the first time, when she came back from Brussels, and two or three times since, after the old woman had been to the Hague, on one of Henri's birthdays. And suddenly a strange presentiment flashed through the black day right into her, a presentiment that she was destined very often, so many times that she could not count them, to drive with that curve round those beds. . . . She stepped out of the carriage; and the strange presentiment flashed into her that she would often, very often, stand like that, waiting for that solemn front-door of the great gloomy, solemn villa to open to her. . . . Then she walked in; and the long oak entrance-hall stretched before her like a strange indoor vista, with at the end a dark door that led to . . . she did not quite know what. . . . And she felt that she would often, very often, go through that hall and stare at that dark door, knowing full well what it led to. . . . And it was very strange indeed now, but she imagined that she had, unconsciously, had this presentiment before — really unconsciously, so vaguely that she had not THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 239 felt it yet — from the first time that she had come and waited in this hall, sitting on the oak settle, with her hand on the shoulder of her boy, the grand- child whom she had come to introduce to his grand- parents. . . . Oh, what a gloomy house it was, with that long hall and that dark door at the end of it, with those portraits and those old engravings, only brightened by the gleam of the Delft on the old oak cabinet! Oh, what a gloomy house it was and how strange was the presentiment that she would so often be coming here now, that she would have to mingle some part of herself with this gloomy Dutch domestic atmosphere! . . . Shud- dering, shivering, still in her fur cloak, she was thrilled with a very swift and fleeting home-sickness for her dear, cosy house in the Woods, at the Hague, and she did not know when she would go back to it now. . . . The old woman was ill; Henri had gone first; Addie had followed him. . . . Then she had asked for Constance; and Constance had taken the first train. . . . She had asked Piet in the hall how mevrouw was, but she had not taken in his answer either. She now went up the stairs, which wound in their ascent and were quite dark; and, because the strange presentiment also forced itself upon her on the stairs, she resisted it, put it from her. How strange everything seemed around her and within her! Was that the approach of death, skulking along with the 2 4 o THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS wind, as it were tapping at the windows on the staircase and knocking in the heavy oak presses in the hall? Was that the approach of death, of the death which she already felt around her? Or was it only because the day was black and the house gloomy? . . . And now everything seemed to make her shudder. A dark door had opened, slowly; and she started; and yet it was simply her child, her boy, coming out to meet her. " How is Grandmamma? " But again she did not take in the answer; and, as though in a shuddering dream in which she already felt the approach of death, she entered a room. There sat the old man ; and Henri sat beside him, like a child, with his hand in his father's large, bony hand. She herself did not hear what she said ... to the old man. She was only conscious that her voice sounded soft and sweet, as with a new music, in the gloomy house. She was only conscious that she kissed the old man. But she felt herself growing strange, frightened and shuddering, in the dark room, in the gloomy house, with the vast, low, heavy skies outside. The black rain rattled against the panes. The old man had taken her hand, awkwardly; he held only two of her fingers; and they trembled, pinched in his bony grip. He led her in this way to another room, dark with the curtains of the window and the bed, lighted only THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 241 by the reflected gleam of an old-fashioned looking- glass wardrobe. The black rain rattled against the panes. Oh, how she felt the approach of dread death, that great, black death before which small people shudder, even though they do not value their small lives! How she felt it rustling in the rain against the window, how she felt the ghostly flapping of its cloak in the shadows among the heavy furniture, how she felt death reflected in the reflex light of that looking-glass ! She shivered, in her fur cloak. But in the shadow of the bed-curtains two eyes smiled at her gently from out of the suffering old face. . . . The old man had gone. "Here I am, Mamma. .. . ." u Is that you?" 44 Yes." 44 1 had to send for you. ..." 44 1 thought it would be too much for you. . . -. That's why I let Henri and Addie come without me. . . . 44 Are we alone?" 44 Yes, Mamma." 44 Tell me, you didn't stay away . . . because you were angry . . . because you still bore a grudge? ..." 44 Oh, no ! I was not angry. I thought it would be too much for you." 44 Is that true?" 44 Quite true." 242 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS "The simple truth ?" " The simple truth." " Yes, I can tell : you're not angry. But you were angry. . . ." " Hush, Mamma, hush! " " No, no, let me speak. I sent for you to speak to you. . . . There was a time when you were angry. And we could not talk together. Let us talk now, for the first and last time." "Mamma ..." " There were those long, long years, dear. The years which are now all dead. . . . There was your suffering . . . but there was also our suffer- ing, Father's . . . and mine." "Yes. ..." " It was a day like to-day, gloomy and black; and it was raining. I was restless, I had such a strange presentiment: I had a presentiment . . . that Henri was dead, my child, my boy, in Rome. It was a gloomy day . . . seventeen or eighteen years ago. And in the afternoon, about this time — it was quite dark, the lights were not yet lit — a letter came : a letter from Rome . . . from Henri. . . . I trembled ... I could not find the matches, to light the gas . . . and, when I looked for them, the letter dropped from my hands. ... I thought, * He's writing to me that he is very ill. I shall hear presently that he's dead.' I lit the gas . . . and read the letter. I read not that he was ill . . . THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 243 but that he had to resign his post. He wrote to me about a woman whom I did not know, he wrote to me about you, dear. I breathed again, I thought to myself, * He is not dead, I have not lost my son.' But Father thought differently: he said, 'Henri is dead, we have lost our son.' Then I knew that my presentiment was right, that he was dead. . . . He was dead . . . and he stayed dead for years and years. . . . Oh, how I longed for him to come to life again! Oh, how I kept on thinking of my child! . . . But year followed upon year; and he remained dead. . . . Then by degrees I began to feel that it would not always be like that, that things would be a little brighter one day, that he would come back out of that distant death. . . . He came back; I had my boy back. ... I saw you . . . for the first time. Long dead years lay between us; and, when I wished to embrace you, I felt that I could not, that I did not reach you. My words did not reach you. They remained lying be- tween us, they fell between us like hard, round things. ... I knew then that you had suffered much and also that for long, long years you had been full of grief and resentment . . . grief and resentment. . . . You brought us your child: you brought him grudgingly. . . . Hush, don't cry, don't cry: it couldn't be helped. There was bound to be that feeling, that grudge, inside you . . . oh, I knew how it rankled! People are always like 244 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS that: they never understand each other as long as there is no love; and, when there is no love and no understanding, there is bitterness . . . oh, and often hatred! . . . No, it was not hatred yet, it was bitterness: I knew it. Don't cry: the bitterness couldn't be helped. We did not reach each other across that bitterness. . . . Also you were young still, dear, and it was / who had to go to you on Henri's birthday . . . and yet I do not believe that there was any wrong on my side. Tell me, was there any wrong on my side ? Was it not your bitter, implacable youth that refused the reconcilia- tion? . . . Hush, don't cry: reconciliation always comes, sooner or later; sooner or later, all bitter- ness melts away ... if not here . . . then there. . . . But with you and me, dear, it is here. With you and me it is here. I am certain that you gradu- ally felt the bitter grudge melting away in you, because you learnt to understand . . . learnt to understand that old people have different ideas from young people; you learnt to understand their ideas, the ideas of the older people, folk before your time, old-fashioned folk, my dear. You learnt to under- stand them; and your soul became more gently dis- posed towards them . . . and you said to yourself, 1 I understand them: they could not be any different.' You can even understand, can't you, dear, that the old man has not yet, has not even now forgiven and forgotten as completely as I forgave and forgot, THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 245 long, long ago? I am right about that, am I not? You must even learn to understand . . . that he will never forgive and forget — hush, child, don't cry! — you must learn to understand that; you do understand it. . . . We must understand that to- gether, however much we may regret it, but we will not tell anybody and we will both of us forgive him, dear, for now and for the time to come; for, if he can't do otherwise, then he is not to blame. . . . And, once we are there . . . when we meet again ... oh, what will all the old bitterness and all the old suffering amount to? Nothing! There, all the old bitterness and the old suffering are lost in love. Then Father too will no longer be bitter. . . . That's why I sent for you, you see: to tell you all this; because of the words which I could not keep in, because I longed to say to you, ' My dear child, you have suffered . . . but we have suffered too! My dear child, I ... I want to forgive you, now, with my last kiss. But let my forgiveness count as two; and do you, my dear child — it is my last request — forgive the old man also . . . now and always . . . always. . . ." The room was quite dark. The rain clattered in the darkness against the window. Constance had dropped to her knees beside the bed; she was sobbing quietly, her tears falling upon the old woman's hand. And there was a long silence, inter- rupted by nothing but the clatter of the rain and the 246 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS soft, heaving sobs. The dark room was full of the past, full of all the things which the old woman's words had brought to life out of the dead years. But through that past the dying woman saw the morrow breaking, as in a radiant dawn. She saw it breaking in radiance and she said : " Tell me that you forgive him . . . now . . . and always . . . always." " Yes, yes, Mamma . . . now . . . now and always." " For he will never forgive, he will never for- give." " No, no . . . but I forgive him, I forgive him." " Even if he never forgives? " " Yes, yes . . . even if he never forgives ! " " For he will never forgive, he will never for- give." "No . . . but I forgive him ..." "And I, dear ..." " You forgive me . . . you forgive me ! " " Yes, I forgive you . . . everything. From first to last. Your bitterness . . ." "Oh, I have long ceased to be bitter!" " Yes, I know that you had learnt to understand. . . . We could have become very fond of each other, if . . ." "Yes, if . . ." " But it was not to be. Let us become fond of THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 247 each other now. Love me, Constance, in your memory . . ." "Yes . . ." "Just as I shall continue to love you. There 1 Just because we suffered through each other in this life, we shall now love each other." "Yes, oh, yes!" " Kiss me, my dear. And . . . and forgive the old man." "Yes . . ." "Even if he . , ." "Yes, oh yes! . . ." " Never forgives. For he will never, he will never forgive ! " "I forgive him, I forgive him!" "Then all is well. Let him come in now: him . . . and my child, my son, Henri . . . and him ... the child . . . our child. ..." Constance rose from her knees; she stumbled, sobbing, across the dark room. She groped for the door, opened it: the light of the lamps streamed in. 44 Mamma is asking for you," she stammered through her tears. " For you . . . and Henri . . . and Addie. ..." Death entered the room with them. .. ,. . CHAPTER XVIII Constance and Henri returned to the Hague a week after Mrs. van der Welcke's funeral. Con- stance went straight to her mother. " Oh, you mustn't leave me alone again so long! " Mrs. van Lowe complained. " I can't do without you for so long. It's so dark, so gloomy when you're not here, my Connie ! . . . Yes, yes, they all came to see me regularly. But they are not like you, dear. It seems they no longer understand me. And, when they're gone, I sit here feeling so lonely, so lonely! . . . They're now all bothering me, wanting me to take a companion, or to have Dorine to live with me . . . but I worit have any one here. It's such a trouble. An extra person in the house means such a lot of trouble. I can't see to everything as I used to. I just sit here at my window. ... So the old lady, down there, is dead? People are dying every day. I can't under- stand why I need remain. I am no use to anybody now. I just sit here, giving all of you trouble: you all worry about me . . . you all have to come regularly to see how I am. I can't understand why I need go on living. It would be much better if I 248 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 249 just died. . . . There is nothing more to come for me. I've no illusions left. Not one. Even your boy, Connie: what an idea, to want to be a doctor! How do we know if he's suited for it? . . . It's a good thing that you're back. I couldn't do without you. ... Is the old man over there going to re- main all alone, in that big house . . . just as I remained all alone here?" 44 No, Mamma, he won't be alone. There's a cousin coming to live with him: you know, old Freule ' van der Welcke. ..." M No, I don't remember. I often muddle people and names." 44 Cousin Betsy van der Welcke. ..." 44 No, I don't remember. ..." 11 She's coming to live with the old man. We would have liked him to have had a companion to keep house for him . . . because Cousin Betsy her- self is so old." 44 A companion, a companion : you want every- body to have a companion. So the old man will be all alone. ..." 44 No, Mamma, the old cousin's coming." 44 Which old cousin?" 44 Cousin Betsy van der Welcke." 44 Who?" 44 Cousin Betsy, Mamma." 1 The title borne by the unmarried daughters of the Dutch noblemen. 250 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS " Oh, yes, Cousin Betsy . . . and a com- panion? ..." "No, not a companion. ..." " Well, then he'll be well looked after . . . with Cousin Betsy and a companion. Better than I. I'm here all by myself." " But that's not right. You must have some one with you." " No companions for me, thank you ! " "Or Dorine ..." " So you're beginning with Dorine too ! No, I won't have Dorine. She's too fidgety and restless for me." , " But she's out so much." " No, she's fidgety and restless. . . . It's not nice of me to say so, dear, but really Dorine is too fidgety and restless, child. . . . Oh, child, if you yourself could come and live with me ! " " But, Mamma, that would never do." " Yes, with your husband . . . and your boy. ..." " No, Mamma, it really wouldn't do." " Yes, it would, yes, it would . . . with your husband and your boy. . . . Then I would put up with the extra trouble." 11 No, Mamma, really, it wouldn't do. Whereas Dorine ..." " No, no, I don't want Dorine. I want you." "Why?" THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 251 11 1 want you. I want Addie. I want youth around me. It's all so gloomy here. Dorine . . . Dorine's gloomy too. ... So will you come?" M Mamma . . . really ..." 44 You don't want to. I see you don't want to. . . . You are all of you selfish. . . . Children always are. . . . Oh, why need I go on living?" 44 Dear Mamma, do be reasonable. You say you would find Dorine too much trouble . . . and, after all, there are three of us. ..." u Yes, three of you. Well?" "And the rest of the family?" "What about them?" 11 They wouldn't approve." 11 It's none of their business to approve or dis- approve." 44 And my husband ..." 44 Well?" 44 My husband ... no, really, it wouldn't do." 44 Yes, I see you don't want to come. . . . You're all selfish alike. ..." No, it was not feasible. Constance foresaw all the difficulties: the old woman still always moving aimlessly about the house in the mornings . . . and coming upon a cigarette of Van der Welcke's . . . a book of Addie's lying about ... a hundred trifles. . . . Adolphine, Cateau, Dorine disap- proving, beyond a doubt, that Constance, of all people, should come to live with her mother: Con- 252 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS stance, of all people . . . with Van der Welcke. . . . No, it was not feasible . . . because of all those trifles . . . and also because of a strange feeling of delicacy: she did not want to come and live at Mamma's with her husband, with Van der Welcke, long as it was since it had all hap- pened. . . . 14 Very well, dear, don't," said the old woman, bitterly; and she nodded her head repeatedly, in sad comprehension of all the disappointments of lonely, melancholy old age. " Yes, yes . . . that's how it is . . . always. . . . And so the old man,' down there, is left all alone? ..." Constance's heart shrank within her. She saw the old woman's dim eyes look vaguely into her own eyes and she read in the vague glance the uncertain memory of things that had just been said. And, while the eyes gazed dimly, the plaintive voice went on lamenting, with that inward sighing, a broken sound of broken strings, and with a keener note of bitterness through it, so that, with that voice, with that glance, the old woman suddenly aged into the semblance of her old sisters, Auntie Tine, Auntie Rine. ... Constance went home through a dismal, heavy rain, hurrying along under the shelter of her um- brella, from which the drops fell in a steady cataract. She could not shake off the gloomy an- xiety that haunted her in these days, through which THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 253 flashed strange premonitions and presentiments; and, since she had been to Driebergen, in response to the old woman's dying summons, she could no longer free herself from this haunting dread, as though it were all a magic web in which she was caught. Oh, what could be threatening, now that the old woman yonder was dead? What sort of change would come looming up, day after day, gloomy day after gloomy day, in her small life, in the small lives around her? . . . For herself, in the late aftermath of life, she had found a tiny grain of true philosophy — small, oh, so small, but very precious! — and she did not think of herself, because she believed that what might still come, in her own life, she would be able to bear philo- sophically. Sometimes even, at such times, she would think of the worst that could happen to her: if Addie were suddenly to die. In that case, per- haps, in that case alone, the grain would not be sufficient to enable her to bear it with philosophy. . . . But, for the rest . . . for the rest, she was no longer afraid of life. And yet what were these vague terrors which chilled her soul, which en- veloped her nowadays in that magic web of anxious speculation concerning the future? Would she be involved or would others? Was it illness . . . money trouble ... an accident ... a catastrophe ... or was it death? . . . Was it to do with Addie ... or was it to do with her mother? Oh, 254 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS she wanted to be prepared for anything . . . but what . . . what would it be ? And these haunting terrors which gathered around her so menacingly, like a gloomy twilight, with all those ghostly pre- monitions and presentiments of what was coming, was it because the days themselves were so gloomy, because it was always raining out of fateful skies? Why should there be deeper gloom around her soul in these days than around others, perhaps hundreds and thousands of people ? Was it not the reflection of that gloomy winter in and around her and was not that reflection casting its gloom around all the people who were now, like herself, walking under dripping umbrellas or else, like spectres, looking with pallid faces out of their windows at another dark and dreary day? . . . Oh, how vast, how immense it all was and how small were they all! To think that, if the sun happened to shine, she would perhaps think and feel quite differently! To think that possibly she was divining, with a shudder, something of days and things to come and went flying off to distant cloud-lands, to all ,. ,. . and that possibly she was divining nothing! ... How ready people were to play with their emotions, their sensitiveness ! How ready they were to delude themselves that they had seen invisible things, that they had foretold the most profound secrets! . . . No, she could foretell nothing, she saw nothing invisible . . . but still, argue as sensi- THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 255 bly as she might, a haunting fear oppressed her, a chill shudder ran through her, as though she had brought something of death back with her from Driebergen, as though its shadow continued to follow her, indoors and out of doors. Was it only because it was raining? . . . Well, she was glad to be at home, to change her wet things, to slip into a tea-gown and warm herself by the fire. Hark to the wind howling round the house and down the lane, the wind that came tearing on from afar that was far, wide and mysterious, wide and mys- terious as the heavens, above houses small as boxes, above people as insects small! . . . How mighty was the wind! . . . How often had she not thus listened to the wind, her mighty Dutch wind, as though it would carry all sorts of things to her ... or, not heeding her smallness, swoop right down upon her! . . . What calamity was there that could happen? Addie brought home unex- pectedly: an accident on his bicycle; run over by a motor-car; murdered? Henri telling her that they were ruined; that he Would have to work for his bread: he who had never been able to work after his shattered career? The house on fire, at home ... or at Mamma's? Mamma dying? . . . Oh, what thoughts of shuddering horror they all were and of sombre misfortune and of death, al- ways death! . . . Something happening to one of 256 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS the brothers or sisters or to their children. For, in spite of everything, she was fond of all of them, they were still her brothers and sisters. Despite all the misunderstanding, the lack of harmony, the ill-feeling, she was fond of all of them, felt herself to be of one blood with them. . . . Oh, how lonely she was! . . . And perhaps, very soon, she would have to be all alone like that, all her life long: without Mamma, dead; without Henri, dead; without Addie, dead! . . . She stared into the fire and shivered in its ruddy glow, while the shuddering horror gripped her in its sharp clutches. But a bell jangled loudly . . . and she felt a shock of apprehension passing through her; her breath was almost a scream: were they bringing Addie home dead? . . . Truitje opened the hall-door : thank goodness, she heard his voice. She sank back in her chair ; the door of the room opened; and he stood on the threshold, laughing: u I daren't come in, Mummy, I'm dripping wet. I'll go and change first. Did you ever see such weather?" She smiled; he shut the door; and — she couldn't help it — she began to sob. When he came down a quarter of an hour later, healthy, vigorous, smiling, he found her in tears : "What is it, Mummy?" " I don't know, dear. ... „ ." THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 257 44 But why are you crying? Surely there must be something! ..." 44 No, it's nothing. . . . It's nothing ... I think. ..." She leant against him. She told him how the dread horror was clutching at her. She was very much unstrung and she felt as if something was go- ing to happen: a great sorrow, a disaster, an acci- dent, she didn't know what. . . . She poured out her anxious soul to him, nestling in his arms: 11 It's too silly, Addie. I must try to be calmer." She became calmer under his steady gaze. Oh, what delightful eyes he had! As she looked into them, she became calmer: 44 Addie . . . your eyes ..." 44 What about them, Mummy? " 44 They are growing lighter in colour : they are seri- ous, as always, but they're becoming lighter. . . ." 44 What's the matter with my eyes now? " 44 They've become grey." 44 Oh, nonsense ! " 44 Yes, they're turning grey, blue-grey. ..." He laughed at her a little. She remained with her head on his shoulder, looked into his eyes. She be- came quite calm, now, gave a last, deep sigh : 44 Dear, listen . . . listen to it blowing. . . ." 44 Yes, Mamma." 44 I'm afraid of the wind sometimes ..." 44 And sometimes you love it." 258 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 11 Yes." " You're a very sensitive little Mummy." " I wonder, Addie, if I'm so strange . . . because of a presentiment. . . ." " A presentiment? " " Don't you believe in them? " u I don't know ... I never have 'em . . ." " Are you awfully matter-of-fact, Addie ? . . t . . Or . . ." " I don't know, Mamma. . . ." " No, you're not matter-of-fact. . . . It's very strange, but you have a magnetism about you which matter-of-fact people never have. You calm one. When I lean against you, I grow calmer. . . . Lis- ten, listen to it blowing! " " Yes, it's very stormy. Let's listen to it together, Mamma. Perhaps we shall hear something ... in the storm." She looked into his eyes. His eyes were smiling. She did not know if he was serious or joking. " Yes," she said, nestling closer in his arms, feel- ing that she still had him, that she had not yet lost him. " Let us listen to the storm . . . and see if we can hear anything ... in the wind. ..." And they remained still, without speaking. The lamps were not lit; only the fire in the open hearth cast its dancing gleams and shadows on the walls. The wind tore on from very far away, out of mys- terious cloud-laden skies. It shrieked round the THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 259 house, rushed past the windows, howled in the chim- ney, spread its wide wings and flapped on through the clattering rain, leaving its howl like a trail in the air. . . . By the flickering firelight, playing upon their small souls, they listened attentively. . . . He smiled. . . . Her eyes were wide and staring. . . . CHAPTER XIX The next day, a Sunday, Constance felt a strange longing for youth and laughter, for merry voices and sunny faces. Addie and his father had gone out early, trying the bicycles on the sodden roads; and she was so lonely, still obsessed by that unaccount- able sense of depression, that she felt that she must have laughter around her, that she must watch the romping of children, or she would be perpetually bursting into tears. And she took advantage of a lull in the rain to go to Adeline's in the Bankastraat. As she entered the house, it seemed to her that the sun was shining. Adeline was sitting downstairs in the living-room, with the children round her. Marie, the eldest girl, was just twelve. All the others fol- lowed her at regular intervals of age, like the steps of a .staircase. Marie was a sort of little mother to the rest: she was a great help to Adeline with the three youngest, those with the ugly names, Jan, Piet and Klaasje. These were now six years, four and two; and they formed a little group within the big group, because Jan insisted on ruling over Klaasje and Piet, looking upon them as his vassals, imitating Papa's voice, playing at horses with Piet and Klaasje, both very docile, while 260 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 261 Jan was the tyrant, trying to impart a roar to his shrill little cock-crow of a voice . . . until Marietje had to come in between as a supreme referee, giving her decision in all sorts of difficult questions that arose out of the merest trifle. . . . Adeletje, ten and a half, was a delicate, ailing child, mostly sitting very quietly close to Mamma, hiding in her skirts: a puny little thing, a great anxiety to her mother; and Adeline was uneasy too about Klaasje, as the child remained very backward and dull: the uncles and aunts called it an idiot. . . . But a merry little couple were Gerdy and Constant, nine and eight years old, always together, adoring each other, good little flaxen-haired kiddies that they were: very babyish for their age, blending their re- semblance to Papa and Mamma into one soft mix- ture of pink and white and gold, almost like a co- loured picture, and seeming a couple of idyllic little figures by the side of the rough, sturdy elder brothers. For, while Jan already was turbulent and tyrannical, Alex and Guy were regular " nuts/' had become indifferent to Marietje's judicial decisions, no longer even submitted to Adeline's restraint and had lost all sense of awe except when the stairs creaked under Gerrit's heavy footstep or when he bellowed at them. Though even then they knew, secretly, with a knowing glance of mutual understanding, that Papa might raise his voice, but never raised his hand; that, when Mamma decreed a punishment, he 262 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS would say something to her in French, so that the punishment became very slight. And this precocious worldly wisdom had turned them, in their little nur- sery world, into two intractable, cheeky, swanking young reprobates, putting on big boys' airs, striking terror into little Gerdy and Constant, who would run away together and hide and play at mothers and fathers behind the sofa standing aslant in the draw- ing-room, chuckling quietly when Mamma or Marietje looked for them and could not find them. But, however intractable, Alex and Guy were two handsome little fellows, with cheeky mouths, but gentle eyes, dark eyes, the Van Lowe eyes : not their hard, but their soft eyes; and, when they were impu- dent and troublesome, with lips stuck out cheekily, but with those eyes full of dark, soft gentleness, then Constance felt in love with them, spoilt them even more than Gerrit did, put up with everything from the rascals, even allowing the two great boys to hang all over her and ruffle her clothes and hair. This time too, they rushed at her the moment she came in; and Constance, glad to see them so radiant, glad that everything became bright around her, as though the sun were shining, flung open her arms; but Adeline cried: " Alex ! Guy ! Take care : Auntie's good cloak ! . . . Boys, do take care: Auntie's beautiful hat! " But neither Alex nor Guy had any regard for Auntie's good cloak or Auntie's beautiful hat; and THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 263 Constance was so weak in their rather rough and disrespectful embrace that she only laughed and laughed and laughed. Oh, sunshine, sunshine at last! Passionately fond as she was of her own big son, this was what she needed in these days of rain and gloomy skies and gloomy feelings: this almost over- whelming sunshine, this almost pitiless blaze of ra- diant youth; this rough gambolling around her of what was young and healthy and bright, as if the shock brought her out of her gloomy depression. . . . When the boys, after behaving like young dogs jumping up to kiss her face, were at last satisfied, she and sober Marietje looked all through the house for Gerdy and Constant, who had purposely hidden themselves and who, she knew, had crept behind the slanting sofa in the drawing-room. She would not find them too quickly, wished to prolong their enjoy- ment, called out in the drawing-room : " But where can they be? Wherever can they be? Constant! Gerdy! . . ." Then at last the giggles of the little brother and sister behind the sofa made her look over the back: 41 Here they are! Here they are! " Oh, how young those children were! Excepting wise and sedate Marietje — Mamma's help — and perhaps quiet Adeletje, how young they were! Those two rascals, what children they were for their eleven and ten years ! That little father-and-mother pair, Gerdy and Constant, what babies for their nine 264 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS and eight ! And then the nursery proper, Jan tyran- nizing over Piet and Klaasje ! . . . How pink and young and fresh and sunny it all was! . . . Now those were real children, even though Klaasje's laugh was very dull and silly. She had never known Addie like that. Addie had never had that sort of youth. No, his childhood had been spent amid the outbursts of temper of his father and mother, amid their jealousies, amid scenes and tears, so that the child had never been a child. And yet . . . and yet, though he had grown up early, how well he had taken care of himself and what kindly powers had watched over him, making him into their one great joy and happiness and consolation ! . . . But, though this melancholy just passed through her, still the morning, that Sunday morning, had begun sunnily for her, with all that golden hair, all those soft, pink cheeks, all that mad, radiant gaiety; and Constance forgot her gloomy depression, caused by she knew not what, in the glow of childish happi- ness in that living-room. The stairs now groaned under a heavy tread. " There's Gerrit," said Adeline. " How late he is ! " said Constance, laughing. 11 Gerrit, how late you are ! " she cried, even before he opened the door. And she was surprised that his step should sound so sluggish and heavy, accustomed as she was to hear him fill the whole house with the brisk noise of his THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 265 movements. Sluggishly and heavily his footsteps came down the passage. Then he slowly opened the door of the dining-room, which was also the living- room. He remained standing in the doorway: 11 Ah, Constance ! Good-morning." u Good-morning, Gerrit. How late you are!" she repeated, gaily. M You're in no hurry to get up on a Sunday, I see ! " But she was startled when she looked at him: 44 Gerrit, dear . . . what's the matter?" 44 I'm feeling rotten," he said, gloomily. 44 No, children, don't worry Father." And he pushed aside the playful-rough hands of the two cheeky rascals, Alex and Guy. 44 Gerrit hasn't been at all well for a day or two," said Adeline, anxiously. 44 What is it, Gerrit?" asked Constance, smiling her smile of a moment ago, when the sunny warmth of the children had made her smile through her own gloomy depression. 44 1 feel beastly rotten," he repeated, gloomily. 14 No, thanks, I don't want any breakfast." 44 Haven't you been well for the last two days? " asked Constance. He looked at her with dull, glassy eyes. He thought of telling her, with bitter irony, that all his life he had not been well; but she would not have understood, she would have believed that he was 266 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS joking, that he was vexed about something; she would not have known. And, besides, he did not want to hurt her either: she was so nice, he always looked upon her as the nicest of his sisters, though they had gone years without seeing each other. What a good thing it was that she had come back! She had been back in Holland three years now, his little sister; he was fond of her, his little sister; he had an almost mystic feeling for her, the sympathy which has its origin in kinship, that sharing of the same blood, the same soul, appor- tioned so mysteriously in the birth of brother and sister out of one and the same mother by one and the same father; and he felt so clearly that she was his sister, that he loved her as something of himself, a part of himself, something of his own flesh and blood and soul, that he went up to her, laid his hand on her head — she had taken off her hat; and her hair was all ruffled with the boys' romping — and said to her, in a voice which he could not possibly raise to a roar and which broke faintly with emotion: " It's good to see you, Sissy, with your dear, kind face. ... I don't know about being unwell, child : Fve had a couple of bad nights, that's all." " But you sleep well as a rule." " Yes, as a rule." " And your appetite is good." 11 Yes, Connie, I have a good appetite as a rule. But ... I don't feel like breakfast this morning." THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 267 44 Your face is so drawn. ..." u I shall be all right presently," he said, brighten- ing up. And he struck his chest with his two hands. 44 My old carcase can stand some knocking about." 11 Gerrit came home dripping wet two days ago," said Adeline. " He had been standing on the front of the tram, in a pelting rain, and he was wet to the skin." 14 But, Gerrit, why did you do it? " " To get the wind in my face, Sissy ..." 11 And to catch cold." He laughed: 44 There, don't worry about me. My old carcase," striking his chest, 44 can stand some knocking about." 44 But you're looking ill." 44 Oh, rot!" 44 Yes, you're looking ill." 44 1 want some air. The weather's not so bad. It's not raining, it's only blowing fit to blow your head off. Are you afraid of the wind, or will you come for a walk with your brother? " 44 Very well, Gerrit . . . but first eat a nice little egg-" He gave a roar of laughter which made the whole room ring again. The children also laughed: they always laughed when Papa laughed like that; and the laughter gave courage to Gerdy, who had looked frightened at first. She crept up on Gerrit's knees, mad on being caressed, clung on to Gerrit, kissed him 268 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS with tiny little kisses; and Alex and Guy hung, one on his arm, the other on his leg, while his Homeric laughter still rang long and loud. And his laughter never ceased. He laughed till the servant peeped round the door and disappeared again, perplexed. He laughed till all the children, the nine of them, were laughing, for his laughter had tempted the three little ones — Jan, the tyrant, and his two small vassals — from the stairs, where they were playing. He laughed till Adeline, the dear quiet little mother, also got a painful fit of giggling, which made her choke silently in herself. And he could not stop ; his laughter roared out and filled the house: even a street-boy, out of doors, flattened his nose against the window in an attempt to peer in and discover who was laughing like that inside. And at last Gerrit got up, released himself from the three children, kissed Constance ; and, with a red face, tears in his eyes and a mouth still distorted with merriment, he caught her two shoulders in his great hands and said, looking deep into her eyes : " Don't be angry, Sissy, but I c-couldn't help it, I c-couldn't help it! . . . You'll be the death of me with laughing, if you go on like that ! . . . And when you put on that kind little voice and or-order me . . . to eat a n-nice little egg . . . before you consent to go for a walk with me ...!.. . Oh, dear, oh, dear ! I shall never get over it! . . . Very well ... all right . . . just to please you . ..; . but then ... THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 269 but then you must . . . b-boil the n-nice little egg for me . . . and put it before me . . . put my n-nice little egg before me ! . . . " Constance was laughing too; the children all kept on laughing, like mad, not really knowing what they were laughing at, now that they were all laughing together; and Adeline, Adeline . . . "L-look!" said Gerrit, pointing to his wife. "Irlookl" And, while Constance took the egg out of the boiler, she looked round at Adeline. The little mother was still overcome with her fit of silent giggling; the tears rolled down her cheeks; the children around her were screaming with the fun of it. 11 I n-never in all my 1-life, Connie," said Gerrit, " saw Line laugh ... as she's laughing at that n-nice little egg of yours. ..." And he started afresh. He roared. But she had put his plate in front of him. He now played the clown, took up his spoon, said in a pretty little voice that sounded humorously in his great roaring throat: 11 Thank you kindly, Constance . . . for your n-nice little egg. . . . It's too sweet of you! . . ." And he nipped at his nice little egg with small, careful spoonfuls, pretending to be very weak and very fragile; and the children, seeing their big, burly father nipping at the nice little egg with dainty little 2 7 o THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS movements, were wild with delight, thought it great fun of Papa. . . . He had finished and was ready for his walk with Constance. " Papa, may we come too? Do let us come too, Papa!" "No," he said, bluntly. "No, don't be such limpets. You're just like a pack of octopuses, wind- ing one in their suckers. No, Father wants to go out with his sister alone, for once. ..." And he went out alone with Constance, after she had managed to conceal the disorder of her hair un- der her hat and veil. Outside, she said to him : " Gerrit, how bright it all is in your house, how sunny, how happy ! " " Yes," he said. " You have every reason to be thankful, Gerrit." " Yes." " Do you feel better now, in the air? " " Yes . . . especially after your nice little cgg. u " No, don't be silly, Gerrit. You don't look half as well as usual." " And I feel simply rotten ... if you really want to know.'" " Still?" " Yes . ,. . but it'll pass off. ... I ... I always sleep very well; and just because of that a bad night upsets me. ..." THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 271 44 But that's an exception, isn't it?" 44 Yes, of course, it's an exception. Don't be anxious about me, Sissy. I've a hide like a rhino- ceros. I'm the pachyderm of the family. I haven't got your dainty little constitution. ..." 11 1 am so glad when I come to you, Gerrit. I always brighten up in your house." 44 You haven't been gloomy, surely?" 44 That's just what I have been, quite lately." 44 And why, Connie?" 44 1 don't know. Because of the weather . . ." 44 Are you afraid of it? It's beginning to rain again." 44 As long as it doesn't pour, we can go on walk- ing. . . . 44 It does me good, especially the wind blowing about one. Do you like wind? " 44 Yes, I do ... but . . ." 44 But what?" 44 Sometimes I hear too much in it." 44 My little fanciful sister of old ! What do you hear in it?" 44 Gloomy things, melancholy things . . . but al- ways very big things . . . whereas we ourselves are so small, so very small. . . ." 44 People never change. . . . You're just the little sister that you used to be . . .in the river . . . with your fairy-tales ..." 44 But what I hear in the wind is not a fairy-tale." 272 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS "What do you hear?" " Life : the whole of life itself. . . . Things of the past; things of the future; and all big and tremen- dous. . . . When I listen to the wind, the past be- comes immense and the future tremendous. . . . and I remain so small, so small. . * . V " What you remain, child, is a dreamer. . . . " " No, I haven't remained so. ... I may have become one again. . . ." 11 Yes, you have become one again. ... I recog- nize you like this absolutely, just as you were as a slim, fair-haired little girl, the same little fairy-like vision. . . . How long ago it all is, Connie ! . . . How everything melts away in our lives ! . . . How old we grow ! . . . " 44 But all your children : they keep you young. They all . . . they all belong to the future. ..." " Yes, if only I myself "What?" " Nothing." 11 What were you going to say? " 14 1 was going to own up to something. I was go- ing to confess to you. But why should I ? It's bet- ter not. It would be very weak of me. It's better not. It's better that I shouldn't speak." " Gerrit . . . Gerrit, dear . . . tell me . t . ; f .< is there ... is there . . . ? " "What? . . ." " Is there anything? ^ . 2 L J' THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 273 "No." 11 Is there anything threatening you? " "Why, no, child! " 44 Aren't you well? ... Do you feel ... un- happy? . . . Have you some big trouble? . . . Tell me, Gerrit, tell me ! . . . I'm your sister after all! " 44 Yes, you're my sister, the same flesh and blood, soul of my soul. . . . No, there's nothing, Constance, there's nothing threatening." 44 And there's no secret trouble ? " 44 No, no secret trouble." 44 Yes, I'm sure there is." 44 No, old girl. It's only that I've slept badly the last night or two. And I feel rotten. That's all." 44 But your health is good, isn't it?" 44 Oh dear, yes!" 44 There's nothing serious the matter? You're not seriously ill? " 44 No, no, certainly not." 44 Then what is it?" 44 Nothing." 44 No, no, I feel that you have a trouble of some kind. Gerrit, aren't you happy? Is there some pri- vate worry? Aren't you happy with Adeline? " 44 Why, of course I am, Connie ! She's awfully sweet. I'm very happy with her." 44 Then what's wrong? " 44 Nothing." 44 Yes, Gerrit, there's something wrong. Oh, do 274 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS tell me about it! Don't keep it to yourself. Sor- row . . . chokes us . . . when we keep it in." " No, it's not sorrow. . .. . It's . .... I don't know what it is. ..." " You don't know?" " No." " But there's something, you see. What is it?" " Constance, it's . . ,. it's ..." "What?" 11 Constance, it's an overpowering melan- choly." " An overpowering melancholy? " " Yes." 44 What about?" " About . . . myself." "Yourself?" " Yes. . . . Because I'm rotten." 11 Because you haven't felt well the last few days?" " Because I'm never well." She now thought that he was exaggerating, that he was joking, that he was pessimistical, hypochon- driacal; and she said: "Why, Gerrit! ..." He understood that she did not believe him, that she never would believe him. He laughed : " Yes," he said, " I've a gay old imagination, haven't I?" " Yes, I think you're imagining things a bit." THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 275 " It's this confounded weather, you know." " Yes, that makes people out of sorts. It doesn't affect children, fortunately." 44 No, not children." M When you see them presently, you'll . . . But you mustn't let our walk make you gloomy. Gerrit, will you try to keep your mind off things and not to be melancholy? I had no idea that you were like this!" 44 No, old girl, but what does any one of us know about the other?" 44 Not much, I admit." 44 Each of us is a sealed book to the other. And yet you're fond of me and I of you. And you know nothing about me . . . nor I about you." 44 That's true." 44 You know nothing of my secret self. And I know nothing of your secret self." 44 No," she confessed softly; and she blushed and thought of the life that had blossomed late in her, blossomed into spring and summer, the life of which nobody knew. 44 It has to be so. It can't be otherwise. We per- ceive so little of one another, in the words we ex- change. I have often longed for a friend . . . with whom I could feel his secret self and I mine. I never had a friend like that." 44 Gerrit, I did not know . .. . that you were so . . . sensitive." 276 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS " No. I am saying things to you which I never talk about. And I say them feeling that it is no use saying them. And yet you're my sister, you know." " Yes." " I shall take you home now. I'm only dragging you through the mud and rain. The roads are soaked through. You'll be home in a minute or two." He brought her home. She rang the bell. Truitje opened the door. "Is Van der Welcke in, do you think?" Gerrit asked Constance. u Yes, ma'am," Truitje answered, " the master's upstairs." " I'll just go up and see him." Gerrit ran up the stairs. "I was forgetting, ma'am: there's- a telegram come," said Truitje. "A telegram? ..." She did not know what came over her, but she felt deadly afraid. The blood seemed to freeze round her heart. She took the telegram from Truitje, went into the drawing-room and closed the door before breaking it open. . . . Gerrit had only run up to say a word to Van der Welcke : he had to go back home, for it was twelve o'clock and getting on for lunch-time. Van der Welcke saw him down the stairs. " Well, good-bye, old chap," said Gerrit, genially, THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 277 shaking hands with Van der Welcke. " Con- stance!" he cried. "Constance! . . ." She did not answer. " Constance! M Gerrit called once more. The kitchen-door was open. 44 The mistress is in the drawing-room, sir," said the servant. 44 Constance ..." He opened the door. But the door stuck, as though pushing against a body. 44 What the devil! ..." Gerrit began, in con- sternation. They rushed in through the dining-room: Van der Welcke, Gerrit, the maid. Constance was lying against the door in a dead faint, with the telegram crumpled in her clenched hand: " Paris. . ,., ,., 44 Henri dead. Am in despair. " Emilie." CHAPTER XX It was a dismal evening at Mrs. van Lowe's that Sunday. And yet Mamma knew nothing: together with Dorine, she had seen that the maids set out the card-tables, had seen, according to her custom, to the sandwiches, the cakes and the wine which were invariably put out in the boudoir, under the portrait of her husband, the late governor- general. But the old lady was different from usual; and Dorine, looking very pale and appre- hensive, gave a start of amazement when she asked: "Dorine, who's been moving Papa's portrait?" The old woman asked the question testily and peremptorily. " But, Mamma, it's been here for years. After Papa's death, you said you wouldn't have it always before your eyes in the drawing-room ... and it was moved in here ..." "Who, do you say, moved it?" " Why, you yourself, Mamma ! " "I?" "Yes, you. ..." " Oh, yes ! " said the old woman, remembering. "Yes, yes, I remember; I only asked because it a 7 8 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 279 looks so out of place here ... in the little room . . . and it is such a fine portrait. . . ." Dorine said nothing more. Her legs shook be- neath her; but she went on spreading out the cards. Karel and Cateau arrived: M How aw-ful! " said Cateau, pale in the face. 11 We thought we had bet-ter come . . . for Mamma's sake . . . didn't we, Ka-rel?" 11 Mamma knows nothing," said Dorine. " But we can't possibly keep it from her. . . . Otto has gone to Baarn to break the news to Bertha." The Van Saetzemas arrived: 44 No details yet? " asked Adolphine. 44 No," Dorine whispered, nervously, seeing Mamma approaching. 44 How late you all are ! " grumbled the old woman. 44 Why aren't Uncle Herman and Auntie Lot here? And why haven't Auntie Tine and Auntie Rine come yet? " There was a moment's painful pause. 44 But they haven't been coming for some time, Mamma," said Adolphine, gently. 44 What do you say? Are they ill? " 44 The old aunts haven't been for ev-er so long on Sunday even-ings," said Cateau, with a great deal of pitying emphasis. Suddenly Mrs. van Lowe seemed to remember. Yes, it was true : the sisters had not come on Sunday evenings for a long time. She nodded her head in 280 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS assent, with an air of knowing all about the sad things which happen in old age and which will happen also in the future that is still hidden from the children. But in her heart she thought : " There's something." And she seemed to be trying to gaze ahead. But she did not see it before her, did not see it before her vague eyes, as she had seen the death of Henri's mother, yonder, in a dark room at Driebergen, in a dark oak bedstead, behind dark green curtains. She felt that there was something that they had kept from her in order to spare her pain, but she did not see it as she had but lately seen other things which the children did not know. It was as though her sight were growing dim and uncertain, as though she only guessed, only suspected things. And she would not ask what it was. If there was something . . . well, then her Sunday family- evening could not help being dreary and silent. Adolphine's children no longer sat round the big table in the conservatory : the old lady did not under- stand why, did not see that they were growing up, that the round games bored them. Only, as she looked at her empty room, she asked just one more question : " Where's Bertha? And where's Constance?" This time, Adolphine and Cateau did not even trouble to remind Mamma that Bertha was living at Baarn. As for Auntie Lot, how could they tell THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 281 her that the good soul had had a nervous break- down after being told of Henri's sudden death, about which no one knew any details? Toetie ar- rived very late and said that Mamma had a little headache. As for Constance, not one of the children would have dared to say that she and Van der Welcke had gone to Paris by the night-mail at six o'clock, as soon as they could after Emilie's tele- gram. Gerrit wanted to go with them, but he was ill and had hardly said a word to Adeline about the telegram when he returned home from the Kerk- hoflaan. He had got into bed shivering, thinking that he had a feverish attack, influenza or some- thing. The daughters also thought it better not to tell Mamma that Gerrit was ill; and Mamma did not even ask after Gerrit, though she missed him and Adeline and thought that her rooms looked very empty. Where could they be? the old woman wondered. None of Bertha's little tribe; the old sisters not there; Constance not there; Gerrit not there; Auntie Lot not there: where were they all? the old woman kept wondering. How big her rooms looked, what a shivery feeling the card-tables gave her, with the markers, with the cards spread out in an S! Well, if there were no children left, it was not worth while having the table put out for the round games in the conservatory, at least not until Gerrit's children were bigger, until a new warmth sur- 282 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS rounded her, on her poor Sunday evenings! And what was the use of ordering such a lot of cakes, if there was nobody there to eat them? And it was very strange, but this evening, now that her rooms were so empty, she grew very weary of those who were there — Adolphine, Cateau, Floortje and Dijkerhof — very tired. She felt her face becoming drawn and haggard, her drooping eyelids twitching over her dim eyes and her heavily- veined hands trembling in her lap with utter weari- ness. She did not speak, only nodded : the wise nod of old age, knowing that old age spells sadness. She only nodded, longing for them to go. They were uncomfortable: they whispered together, their faces were pale; they sat there staring in such a strange, spectral way . . . as if something dreadful had happened or was going to happen. . . . Had the servants made up the fires so badly? Was it so bitterly cold, so creepily chilly in her rooms, that she felt shivers all down her old, bent back? . . . And, when the children at last, earlier than usual, took leave of her — still with that same spectral stare, as though they were looking at something dreadful that had happened or was going to happen — she felt inclined to say to them that she was getting too old now to keep up her Sunday evenings ; she had it on her lips to say as much to Floortje, to Cateau, to Adolphine; but a pity for them all and especially for herself restrained her and she THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 283 did not say it. On the contrary, she said, very wearily: " Well, I hope that you will all be more par- ticular about coming next Sunday ... all of you, all of you. ... I want you all here. ... I want to have you all around me." Then they left her alone, earlier than usual, and the old woman did not ring at once for the servants to put out the lights, to go to bed, but first wandered for a little while longer through her large, empty, still brightly-lit rooms. How much had changed in the many, many years that very slowly accumulated about her and seemed to bury her under their grey mounds! Sometimes it seemed to her as if nothing had changed, as if the Sunday evenings always remained the same, even though this or that one might be absent for one reason or another. But sometimes, as to-day, it seemed to her as if everything, everything had changed, with hardly perceptible changes. Did she alone remain un- changed? . . . She had now reached the little boudoir: hardly any of the cakes had been touched; above them hung the fine portrait of her husband, in the gold-laced uniform, with the orders. He was dead . . . and with him all their grandeur, which she had learnt to love because of him, through him. . . . She wan- dered back to the other rooms: there were portraits on the walls, photographs in frames on the tables 284 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS and mantelpieces. Dead was the old family-doctor; as good as dead her two old sisters; dead was Van Naghel; as good as dead Bertha, now so far away. Aunt Lot, she still remained, she still remained, bearing up bravely, in spite of financial disaster. . . . Then the children: they were all dying off, for surely it was tantamount to that, when they were becoming more and more remote from her: Karel; Adolphine; Ernst; even Paul; and Dorine, her youngest. There was only Constance . . . and Gerrit, perhaps. . . . And the grandchildren: Frans, in Java; Emilie and Henri, in Paris: O God, what were they doing in Paris? O God, what was it, what was the matter with them? For she sud- denly saw the boy . . . white as a corpse . . . with his clothes open . . . and a deep, gaping wound above his heart, sending a stream of purple blood from his lung . . . while he lay in the last agonies of death. . . . Why did she see it, this strange vision of a second or two? It couldn't be true, yet it filled her with anxiety. . . . And in sad understanding she nodded her old head, with the dim eyes which were suddenly seeing visions more clearly than reality . . . until the time when they would see nothing, numbed by the years which were slowly accumulating about her. . . . Why did she see it? . . . And, amid the emptiness of her brightly-lit drawing-room, a sort of roar came to her from the distance, from the distance outside the THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 285 room, the distance outside the house, the distance outside the night, the very distant distance of eternity, the eternity whence all the things of the future come: a roar so overwhelming that it seemed to come from a supernatural sea in which the poor, trembling old woman was drowned, drowned with all her vanity and all her unimportant, insignificant sorrow, a sea in which her very small, small soul was drowned, swallowed up like the veriest atom in the roaring, roaring waves; a roar whose voice told her that it was coming, that it was coming, the great sorrow, the thing before which she trembled with fear because she had long foreseen it and because it would be so heavy for her to bear . . . now that she was too old and too weary to bear any more sorrow! And, with an unconscious ges- ture, she raised her trembling old hands and prayed, mechanically: " O God, no more, no more! . . ." Why must fate be like that, so heavy, so ruthless and crushing? Why had it not all come earlier, including the thing which advanced with such a threatening roar and under which she, too weary now, too weak and too old, would succumb when it passed over her, when it reached her at last out of the roaring, threatening, distant, distant eternity, wherein all the things of the future are born. . . . But the roar of that doom and her knowledge of it lasted no longer than a second. And, when 286 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS that second was past, there was nothing around her but the empty, brightly-lit rooms. It was eleven o'clock, the children had all gone home and she rang for the servants, to put out the lights, to go to bed, duly observant of the small needs of her very small life, in spite of all those supernatural things which threatened from afar, out of eternity. . . . Leaving the maids occupied in the empty room, where they turned off the gas in the chandelier, the old woman slowly climbed the stairs, nodding her old head in bitter comprehension, knowing too well, alas, that the great sorrow would come . . . even though, trembling with fear, she prayed: " O God ... no more, no morel " CHAPTER XXI "Are you going out, Gerrit?" asked Adeline. She was surprised to see him come down the stairs, dressed, in uniform. He had spent the morning in bed, but he felt better now; and a fever- ish excitement acted like a spur. He said, in answer to his wife's question, that he was better, played for a moment with Gerdy, took his lunch standing and then hurried out of the house and rushed through a parade at barracks, where he was not expected. The fever, which he still felt sending shivers through his great body, drove him out of barracks again; and he walked to the Kerkhoflaan and asked Truitje if there was any news of her master or mistress, if Master Addie had had a telegram from Paris; but Truitje didn't know. Then he tore off like one possessed, first to Otto and Frances' house, where he found Frances and Louise, both sick with wait- ing: Otto had gone to Baarn, to break the news to Bertha. He could not stay with the two women: Frances wandering from room to room, crying helplessly; Louise, calmer, looking after the children, the entire care of whom she had taken on herself since she had come to live with Otto and since Frances had 28 7 288 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS become such an invalid. Gerrit could not possibly stay: with long strides, he flew to the Alexander- straat, to Mamma, who was glad to see him well again after his two days' illness. He found Dorine with her; Adolphine called, followed by Cateau, all obeying an impulse not to leave the old woman alone in these days, when at any moment Van der Welcke, Constance and Emilie might arrive from Paris, bringing home the body of Henri, of whose death no one had telegraphed any details, much to the indignation of Adolphine and Cateau. But, when Auntie Lot came in, her small eyes red and swollen with weeping, and cried, " Oh dear! . . . Kassian!" — an exclamation at once hushed by the children, an exclamation which Mamma, staring dimly into space, failed to under- stand — Gerrit could no longer endure it among all those overwrought women; and, convinced that Mamma did not even yet know that Constance and Van der Welcke had gone to Paris, convinced that the sisters had not even paved the way by telling her that Henri was seriously ill, he cleared out sud- denly, without saying good-bye, and rushed into the open air, down the street, into the Woods, gasping for breath. What was it, what could it be, hanging in the air? The clouds seemed to be bending over the town in pity, an immense, yearning pity which turned into a desperate melancholy while Gerrit THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 289 hurried along with his great strides; the wintry trees lifted their crowns of branches in melan- choly despair; the rooks cawed and circled in swarms; the bells of the tram-cars tinkled as though muffled in black crape; the few pedestrians walked stiffly and unnaturally; he met ague-stricken, black-clad figures with sinister, spectral faces: they passed him like so many ghosts; and all around him, in the vistas of the Woods, rose a clammy mist, in which every outline of houses, trees and people was blurred into a shadowy unreality. And it seemed to Gerrit as if he alone were real and possessed a body; and he ran and rushed through the spectral landscape, through the hollow avenues of death. What was it in the air? Nothing, nothing extraor- dinary: it was winter in Holland; and the people ... the people had nothing extraordinary about them: they walked in thick coats and cloaks, with their hands in their pockets, because it was cold; and, because the mist was cold and raw, their eyes looked fixed, their lips and noses drawn and pinched and they bore themselves rigidly and spectrally when they came towards him out of the fog and passed him with those shadowy and unreal figures. And, with all sorts of fever-born images whirling before his eyes, like shining will-o'-the-wisps in that morning mist, his thoughts touched hastily on every sort of subject: he saw the barracks before him; 2 9 o THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS Pauline; the Paris train and Constance and Van der Welcke in a compartment with Henri's coffin be- tween them; Auntie Lot and Mamma; Bertha at Baarn. He saw his boyhood at Buitenzorg; the foaming river; all his bright-haired children. He saw a worm, big as a dragon, with bristles like lances sticking straight out of its dragon's back. . . . He was still feverish and had been unwise to get up and go out. But he could not have stayed in bed, he couldn't have done it: his feverish ex- citement had driven him to the barracks, to his mother and to . . . Where was he going? Was he going to Scheveningen ? And why was he going through the Woods like that? What was it that constantly impelled him to keep to the right, to turn up the paths on the right, as though he were making for the Nieuwe Weg? What did he want on the right? . . . Suddenly, as a counteragent to his fever, he turned to the left; but, on coming to a cross-road, he wandered off to the right again, helplessly, as if he had forgotten the way. . . . There was the Ornamental Water, with the Nieuwe Weg behind it. There lay the ponds, like two dull, weather- worn mirrors, under the sullen pity of the skies; and the rather tame landscape of the Woods, with its wreath of dunes, became cruel, a tragic pool surrounded by all that avenue of chill death, which seemed to be creeping through the wintry air. . . £, THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 291 But what was it in the air? Why, there was nothing, nothing but the Ornamental Water, in a misty haze; the few villas around it looming vaguely out of the fog; no pedestrians at all; nothing but the familiar, everyday, usual things. . . . Then what impelled him to wander so aimlessly past the Ornamental Water to the Nieuwe Weg? Why were those ponds like tragic pools? Was it not as though pale faces stared out of them, out of those tragic pools, pale, white faces of women, multiplied a hundredfold by strange reflections, eddies of white faces, with dank, plastered hair and dying eyes, which gleamed? . . . Yes, yes, he was in a fever. He had been unwise to go out, in that chill morning mist. But it was rotten to be ill . . . and he was never ill. He had never said that he was ill. He was a fellow who could stand some knocking about. But for all that he was feverish. Otherwise he would not have seen the Ornamental Water as a tragic pool . . . with the white faces of mermaids . . . Lord, how cold and shivery the mermaids must feel down there in those chilly, silent pools . . . their dying eyes just gleaming up with a single spark! Were they dead or alive, the chilly mermaids? Were their eyes dying or were they ogling? How strangely they were all reflected, until they became as a thousand mermaids, until their faces blossomed like white flowers of death above the light film of ice 292 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS coating the pool ! Whew ! How chill and cold they were, the poor, dead, ogling mermaids ! . . . Dead: were they dead? . . . Were they ogling and laughing . . . with eyes of gold? . . . He shivered as though ice-cold water were trickling down his spine; and he wrapped himself closely in his military great-coat. He felt something hard in his breast-pocket, a square piece of cardboard. Yes, he had been carrying that about for ever so long . . . and yet . . . and yet he couldn't do it. It was the photograph of his children, the latest group, taken for Mamma's last birthday. For weeks he had been carrying it about in his pocket, in an en- velope with an address on it . . . and yet, yet he couldn't send it or hand it in at her door. The portrait of all his children: "I expect they're charming kiddies, Gerrit?" Gad, how could she have asked it, how could she have asked it, as though to drive him mad? . . . Whew, how cold it was! . . . He looked fear- somely at the mermaids: no, no, there was nothing, nothing but the chilly pool. He was in a high fever, that's what he was . . . Gad, how could she ask such a thing? Still . . . still, it was over. She was no longer the girl she was. She was finished with, done for; she had lain in his arms like a corpse, tired of her own kisses, broken by his embrace, white as a sheet, done for. . . . Lord, how rotten, to be done for THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 293 and still so young, a young woman ! . . . Done for . . . like a defective machine: Lord, how rotten! . . . No, he couldn't give that photograph . . . of all his children . . . to a light-o'-love. . . . He couldn't do it . . .If she had only asked for a necklace or some such gaud ... he would have managed somehow, out of his poverty, to buy her a nice keepsake. . . . Whew, how raw and cold it was! . . . The will-o'-the-wisps of all sorts of images shone in front of him; and, through them, through the flames, the flying Paris express . . . with the compartment, the coffin, Van der Welcke, Constance, two motionless figures. And yet it was bitterly, clammily cold; he was chilled to his mar- row; and a great hairy dragon split its beastly maw to lick that chilled marrow with a fiery tongue. How big the filthy brute had grown! It was no longer inside him, it was all around him now: it filled the air with its wriggling body; it lifted its tail among the wintry boughs; and its tongue of fire licked at Gerrit's marrow; and under that marrow — how strange ! — he was simply freezing. . . . Brrr, brrr ! . . . Lord, how he was shivering, what a fever he was in ! . . . Home . . . home . . . to bed ! . . . Oh, how good to get into bed . . . nice and warm, nice and warm! . . . Still better to be nice and warm in women's arms ... no kissing . . . just sleeping, nice and warm! . . . Brrr, brrr! ... Lord, Lord, Lord, the water 294 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS pouring down his back! Never in his life had he shivered like that! . . . How hard that photo- graph of his children was ! He felt it on his heart like a plank. How long had he been carrying it about with him? Brrr, brrr! He might just as well have let her have it : it was the only thing that she had asked him for. . . . Money he had never given her: only fifteen guilders — brrr, brrr! — fif — brrr 1 — teen — brrr ! — guilders. . . . Come, why not do it now? . . . Just hand it in, at her door — brrr! — and then — brrr! — and then — brrr! — home, to bed . . . nice and warm in bed ! . . . The thought suddenly took definite shape and it drove him on along the Kanaal. Here also the mist hung like a haze over the water and the meadows on the other side ; and, shivering and shud- dering under the fiery lick of the dragon's tongue, Gerrit hurried to the Frederikstraat. That was where she lived, that was where he had been so often lately, until that last time when she had begged him not to come back again and to give her, as a keepsake, the portrait . . . the portrait of his children. He would leave it now at the door. He had taken it in his hand, because it lay like a plank Dn his heart; and her name was on the envelope. . . . Brrr! . . . Hand it in quickly and then — brrr! — nice and warm in bed. The landlady opened the door. u Would you please give this to the young lady? " THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 295 He meant to shove the envelope into the woman's hand and then — brrr, brrr! — home ... to bed . . . warm . . . warm. . . . " Don't you know, then, where the young lady is, sir? " 14 Where she is?" 14 Where she's gone to? " "Has she gone?" 44 She didn't come home yesterday afternoon. I don't say I'm anxious; but still she always used to come home of an evening. She owes me some money, but she hasn't run away ... for every- thing has been left as it was, upstairs: her clothes, her bits of jewellery. ..." 44 Perhaps she's out of town. ..." " Perhaps . . . only she's taken nothing with her." 11 Perhaps, all the same ..." 44 Yes . . . it's possible. ... So I'm to give her the envelope . . . when she comes?" 44 Yes. ... Or no, no, give it to me . . . I'll see to it myself. ... Or no, you'd better give it her when she comes back. . . . No, after all, I'll see to it. ..." He stuffed the envelope into his pocket, went off. Brrr! It lay on his chest like a plank. . . . Where could she be gone to? Where was Pauline gone to? Had she gone out of town? . . . Why hadn't he simply left the envelope? Well, you never knew: 296 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS if she didn't come back, it would be there, with the photograph of his children. . . . She'd probably cleared out. . . . Yes, she had probably cleared out . . . with her rich young fellow. . . . Well, he, whoever he was, wouldn't remember her as he remembered her in the old days. . . . Brrrrrr! . . . Lord, Lord, how he was shivering! . . . Oh, to be in bed ! . . . When could Constance and Van der Welcke be back? . . . Oh, the express! . . . Oh, the coffin! . . . Oh, the fiery lick of the dragon, whose great, hairy body filled the whole grey sky with its wriggling! . . . He turned down the Javastraat: he wanted to hurry home; his teeth were chattering; he felt as if ice-cold water was dripping from him, while the confounded brute sucked his marrow with long, fiery licks of its tongue. Near the Schelpkade, he met a little group of four or five policemen: rough words sounded loud; their words sounded so loud through the unreality of the mist that they woke him out of a walking sleep, out of his dream of the dragon-beast with the stiff bristles : " She was quite blue," he heard one of them say. They were striding along, talking loudly, as if something startling had happened. Gerrit suddenly stood rooted to the ground: " Who was blue? " he asked, in a hoarse bellow. The policeman saluted: "Sir?" THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 297 "Who was blue?" bellowed Gerrit. " A woman, sir. ... A woman who drowned herself, last night, in the Kanaal. ..." 44 A woman? " 44 Yes, sir. My mate here was the first to see the body, when it was floating with the face out of the water. Then he came and told me; and we went and fetched the drag. It was a young woman. ..." 44 And she was quite blue, you say? . . ." 44 Yes, sir, and all bloated: she'd swallowed a lot of water. . . . We took the body to the cemetery near the Woods and we're on our way to the com- missary." 44 To the cemetery? ..." 44 Yes, sir. ..." The men saluted: 44 Sir." 44 She was quite blue," Gerrit repeated to him- self. And he hurried on at a jog-trot. Brrr, brrr ! Oh, to be in bed ... he wanted to get to bed! He was as cold as that woman must have been last night, floating in the water until her face blossomed up like a phantom flower of death. . . . Brrr! Icy cold water : wasn't he walking beside icy cold water twenty minutes ago? Hadn't it seemed to him that the whole tame landscape, in its wreath of dunes, had melted away into a hazy unreality, with those ghostly villas and trees . . . and the ponds like 298 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS tragic pools, in which were mirrored the motionless, low, grey skies, full of the wriggling of his giant worm . . . until the faces of mermaids, with wet, plastered hair and gold-gleaming eyes had risen up like dead flowers, water-lilies of death, and ogled him with the last quiver of their dying eyes? . . . Oh, the Paris express! . . . Oh, what a fever he was in! . . . He must go quick to bed now . . . but, before he went, he would just call in at the Kerkhoflaan and ask if there was no telegram from Van der Welcke and Constance. . . . But how cold he felt and how he was shivering: brrr, brrr! . . . It was as though his legs moved independently of his will, propelled by alien instincts, by energies outside himself; for his legs moved healthily, sturdily and quickly, with the click-clack of his sword knocking against his thigh, while, above those sturdy legs, his body shivered in the clutch of the monster, which licked and licked with fiery dabs of its tongue. And, above his body, towered his head, colossally large, with vertigos whirling like tangible circles around the huge head in which he seemed to be carrying a heavy lump of brains. From it there shot forth the strangest dreams; and these dreams, to- gether with the contortions of the monster, filled the whole grey sky until everything became one great dream: all that town of unknown streets; houses; people who bowed and nodded to him; a THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 299 couple of hussars, who saluted; a couple of officers whom he knew and to whom he waved: " Bon jour! " " Bon jour! " And, in this singular dreaming and waking and suffering and walking, he knew things which nobody had told him, knew them for certain: knew that a woman had drowned herself last night in Paris, in the lake in the Bois; knew that Van der Welcke and Constance had gone to fetch her body and were now bringing it back to him in a rushing express- train, but a train that came rushing through the sky on whirling aerial rails, cutting through the con- tortions of a huge snake-thing which wriggled round the clouds and filled the whole sky. Oh, how full the sky was! For round the snake wriggled like cockscrews the whirling rails, all aslant and askew, tangled into iron spirals; and the express, in which Van der Welcke and Constance sat with a coffin between them containing a woman's blue corpse, had to follow all those turns and came rushing and puffing along them, constantly curving round its own track and covering them a thousand times, as though that aerial express were climbing and descending endless wriggling corkscrews. Then the rails and the dragon-coils were all tangled together; and the rails became dragon-coils; and the express flew and flew along the twisting dragon-thing, flew along every curve of its tail. The train became a toy- 3 oo THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS train; the dragon was enormous and filled the firmament; the town underneath was a toy-town; and Gerrit walked and walked with hurrying legs; and his head towered colossally large; and his brains became like heavy clouds: he saw his lump of brains massing in curling clouds outside him. Nevertheless he was propelled by instincts and energies of assured consciousness, for, when he turned down the Kerkhoflaan and left the Kerkhof, the cemetery, behind him, on one side, he knew quite well that there lay in it a blue woman who had been dragged out of the Kanaal by policemen; but he also knew, with equal certainty, that, up in the sky above, the express flew and flew over the body of his dragon and along its every curve; and he als i knew that he was now standing outside Van der Welcke's villa: so small a house, such a toy- house that Gerrit's head stuck out above the roof of it and that his own voice sounded to him like distant thunder as he asked the person who opened the door: "Telegram? From your master and mistress? Telegram? " He did not at once recognize who was at the door nor at once understand the reply : "Telegram? Telegram?" he repeated. And the thunder of his voice sounded distant and dull compared with the rattle of the express-train right through the sky. THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 301 u What do you say? " he now repeated. " What do you say? " 14 Uncle, are you ill?" asked Addie. 44 111? 111? No, I'm not ill, my boy. But . . . telegram ? Telegram ? " 44 Papa and Mamma will be back to-morrow morn- ing; they're bringing Henri's body with them, Uncle; and they're bringing Emilie; and I've been to the undertaker's ... to arrange to have the body fetched at the station at once. . . . I've seen to everything. . . . And I must go to all the uncles now: to Uncle Karel and Uncle Saetzema. . . . I've telegraphed to Otto; I don't know if Aunt Bertha will come or not. . . . It's very sad, Uncle, and it'll be very sad for Grandmamma when she knows everything: Henri . . . Henri was mur- dered; he was drunk, it seems; and ..." 44 He drowned himself and he was quite blue? n 44 No, Uncle, he was murdered: stabbed with a dagger. . . . Mamma is bearing up, Papa writes, but she is terribly overwrought ... on Emilie's account also. Emilie is quite beside herself. Papa fortunately is keeping calm: he is doing all that has to be done; he has been to the legation. . . . But, Uncle, you're not at all well; you're shivering; you've caught a chill. Oughtn't you to go home and get into bed? ..." 44 Yes, yes, I'm -going home." 3 o2 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS " Then you'll be better in the morning. ..." " Yes, of course, of course ... I shall be bet- ter. " Then will you come to the station too, early to-morrow morning, and meet the train from Paris?" " To-morrow morning early . . . yes, certainly, certainly. . . ." " You oughtn't to have gone out." " No, no . . . but I'm going home now . . . going to bed. . . . Good-bye. To-morrow morning early." " Good-bye, Uncle." Gerrit went away. Above the Woods, on one side, the low sky sank lower and lower, heavy with grey clouds, such heavy grey clouds that they did not seem light enough to continue hovering there, seemed bound to fall . . . and to Gerrit they were, in the dim hues of his fevered vision, like purple pieces falling from the dragon's body, which was cut up by the express. The whole sky was full of purple dragon's blood; and it now streamed down like pouring rain. The blood streamed in a violent downpour and appeared intent upon drowning everything. . . . Gerrit had now turned in the direction of the cemetery; and, impelled by instincts and forces out- side himself, he walked in and, vaguely, asked the porter some question, he did not know what. The THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 303 man seemed to understand him, however, and led the way: Gerrit followed . . . brrr, brrr! . . . Nevertheless, it was as though his fever abated: and, in that sudden cooling, he all at once felt and knew the truth. It must be so: it was she. The water, the policemen, she. Who else could it be? . . . He walked on, following the porter. . . . On either side, the silent graves, with their tomb- stones, the lettering blurred and melancholy in the rain. . . . Yonder, on the left, the family-grave. Gerrit recognized it in the purple rain of dragon's blood: a sombre mausoleum of brick, like a small house; and it looked larger to him than the toy- villa of just now. What a huge building it was, that family-tomb of theirs! It was like a great palace: it would be able to contain all their dead within its walls. For the present, Papa was living alone there, quietly; but he was waiting, waiting for all of them, waiting for all of them . . . until the shadows had deepened into thick darkness around all of them and they came to him, in that huge sepulchral palace. . . . Lord, Lord, how small he was now : he was walking like a dwarf past the tomb, which stuck its steeple into the clouds, high as a cathedral. . . . What was that strangeness in the air? . . ,. How long had he been walking? . . . Was life no longer ordinary? . . . Were there not, as usual, houses, people, things: the barracks ... his child- 3 o 4 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS ren . . . Adeline? . . . Who was that man who went before and led the way? . . . Was it a real man, that porter? ... Or was it a dead man, walking? . . . Wasn't everything dead here? . . . Was it morning or was it evening? . . . Was it life or death? . . . Was he alive or was he dead? . . . Brrr, how cold he felt again ! . . . Was that the cold of death? . . . What was this building which they now entered? . . . What a huge place! . . . Was it a church or was it only a tomb ? . . . Where was he and why was he alone, alone with that dead man, that ghost showing him the way? . . . Where on earth was Constance and where was Van der Welcke? . . . Hadn't they brought it back from Paris, Pauline's blue body? . . . Was that Pauline? . . . The coffin was open, covered only with a sheet; he lifted it, the sheet. . . . Brrr, brrr, how cold he was! . . . He remembered: Paris; yes, yes, he remembered: Paris; poor fellow; poor Henri! . . . But this, this wasn't Henri. . . . Who was it, who could it be? . . . Wasn't it Henri the policemen found? . . . What had become of those police- men? . . . When was it he met some policemen? ... It was years since he met those police- men . . . and her body had turned quite blue. . . . What was the matter now? . . . What was that porter saying, hovering round him like a ghost? . . ... THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 305 Yes, everything was dead, for the shivering cold which he felt could only be the cold shiver of death. . . . Blue, was she blue? . . . The man lifted a corner of the sheet: Gerrit saw a face, pale as that of a mermaid whose features had blossomed up out of the icy stillness of a tragic pool. . . . The eyes were open. . . . What sad golden eyes those were! . . . Had they not always laughed . . . with golden gleams of mockery? . . . Then why did he now for the first time see them weeping ... in death ... see them mournfully staring ... in death? . . . Had they never laughed? . . . Had they always gazed mournfully . . . even though they gleamed golden and mocked ... or seemed to . . . seemed to? . . . Then what was real? . . . Was everything . . . was everything dead then? . . . Did he . . . dead . . . want to bring her his gift . . . what she had asked for so strangely . . . the portrait . . . the portrait of his chil- dren? . . . He had it here: he felt it lying on his chest . . . hard and heavy . . . like a plank, like a plank ... He had it here. . . . "Gerrit, dear, are you coming ?" Who was calling him from so very far away? . . . Wasn't it his sister? . . . His favourite sister? . . . " Come along, Gerrit I M Who were those calling him away from that 3 o6 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS woman? . . . What were those voices, which he vaguely recognized? . . . Was it not the voice of his favourite sister, was it not the voice of her hus- band, of the two of them, who had brought Pauline's body back from Paris? . . . Yes, he recognized them, it was . . . " Come on, Gerrit, old man, you're not well. . . . What are you doing here, beside this woman, beside this corpse? She's all blue, drowned in the lake in the Bois de Boulogne. . . . Did you know the woman? ... r Yes, yes, he had known the woman. . . ... " Come along, old chap ! " "Gerrit, dear, won't you come?" " Constance," whispered Gerrit, " you brought her from Paris ..." "Beg pardon, sir?" asked the porter. "Yes, there she lies, there she lies, dead. . . ." " Gerrit, come away ! " cried the voices. " Lay your flowers over her now ! . . . Con- stance, lay your flowers over her. . . . She is lying so cold and all alone . . . and it is all so big here . . . big as a church . . . she is lying . . . as if in a cold, damp church. . . . Lay flowers beside her ..." " What do you say, sir? " " Yes . . . lay flowers beside her . . . lay flowers beside her . . . Constance . . ..." "Won't you come away now?" THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 307 4 * Yes, yes, I'm coming. . . ." There, there she lay . . . covered all over, with the sheet. She was nothing but a blue, motionless woman's shape . . . under a sheet. Now . . . flowers lay over the sheet: all the white flowers of his imagination. Now his fingers tore into little pieces the plank which he carried on his heart and strewed them in between the flowers: into such little, little pieces that they were as the petals of flowers . . . and nothing more . . . over the woman. . . . The voices called him. 41 Yes, yes, I'm coming . . . I'm coming . . ." The voices lured him home, to bed; and he jogged on through the streets raining with dragon's blood. . . . When he reached home, Adeline at once sent for the doctor. ... It was typhoid fever. CHAPTER XXII Next morning, in a mist, a drizzly mist, the relations met at the railway-station: Otto van Naghel; Karel; Van Saetzema; Uncle Ruyvenaer, just back from India; Paul; Addie. They moved about, in the waiting-room, on the platform, with gloomy faces and upturned coat-collars, waiting for the train, which was late, which would not arrive for another quarter of an hour or twenty minutes. " Does Grandmamma know about it yet? " Uncle Ruyvenaer asked Addie. " No, Uncle. No one liked to tell her. I believe the uncles and aunts would really prefer to keep it from her altogether." " That's impossible." " I think it would be very difficult, Uncle. Grand- mamma might hear it from an outsider. . . . She has friends who call to see her." " Is Emilie coming? " " Yes, Uncle. She'll stay with us." "Is Uncle Gerrit very ill?" " Yes, Uncle, very ill indeed." "Does Grandmamma know he's ill?" " No." 308 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 309 " The children are now all out of the house, aren't they? We've got Alex and Guy with us." 11 And we have Adeletje, Gerdy and Constance. The three little ones are at Otto's: Louise came and fetched them. Marietje is with Aunt Adol- phine." 11 Has Aunt Adeline any one to help her? " " There are two male nurses, Uncle. Uncle Gerrit is very violent in his delirium." 44 Oughtn't the train to be here soon? " " It's overdue now." 44 It's a very sad affair. And how people will talk ! Yes, how people will talk 1 Lord, Lord, how they're going to talk ! " 44 Here comes the train, Uncle." The train steamed slowly into the station, like a grey ghost of a train through the ghostly, drizzling mist; and the waiting relations saw Constance, Van der Welcke and Emilie get out, Emilie leaning heavily upon Constance. Then came the dreary, dreary task of taking possession of the coffin. The hearse was waiting outside. And it all went as in a dream, in the ghostly, drizzling mist. . . . 44 How people will talk!" Uncle Ruyvenaer whispered to Karel and Van Saetzema, with whom he was sitting in the second coach. 44 Yes, it's a damned rotten business." 44 It's not over-respectable ..." 44 Having a nephew who becomes a clown . . ," 310 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 44 And then, it seems, goes and gets murdered in Paris . . ." " For a girl?" 44 Yes . . . some obscure story about a girl . . . in Paris." " I thought he had committed suicide? " 44 We really don't know anything. Constance wrote no particulars." " In any case, it's not over-respectable." 14 1 call it a damned rotten business." 44 Constance has gone on ahead with Emilie." " Yes. What a sight Emilie looked! " 44 Very odd, that sister and brother." 44 Yes, it was because of him that she left her husband. And now — no doubt through his own im- prudence — stabbed, I suppose . . . ? " 44 Unless he committed suicide." " Van Raven, after all, was a decent fellow." "Van Raven? I believe you! Van Raven was a very decent fellow." 44 Those young Van Naghels never had a sensible bringing-up. ..." 44 No, I bring my boys up very differently." 44 Ah, but then they're fine boys! " " Is Van der Welcke in the first coach? " 14 Yes, with Otto, Paul and Addie." 14 Then why did they put us in the second coach?" 44 Perhaps it was a mistake." THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 311 " 1 daresay, but it's not the thing. Uncle ought to be in the first coach. " " Yes; and you too, Karel." " Yes; and you too, Saetzema, of course." 11 Well ... I daresay it's a mistake. The thing wasn't arranged. ..." "No; but when Van der Welcke has to arrange a thing . . . ! " " It was that young bounder who arranged things." "Addie?" " Of course." " Oh, so that young bounder arranged things ! " "Look here, what are we to say to Mamma?" " Well, I don't intend to mention it. For that matter, I know nothing." " Nor I. The women had better do it." " But they're too much upset." 11 The best thing will be not to say anything." " Yes, it's best not to say anything to Mamma." "Lord, what a day! . . . And to have to ride for an hour in this weather at a foot's pace . . . behind the body of an undergraduate who has been sent down from Leiden and must needs run away to Paris with his sister and become a circus- clown ..." " And go getting murdered into the bargain ! But we mustn't tell anybody that. No, no, we won't speak about it. We'll merely say that he was 3 i2 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS taken ill. After all, it's a rotten incident . . .] for us. 7 ' " Yes, it's very rotten for us." 11 Lord, Lord, how people will jabber! " 44 Of course they will." 44 Of course they will." " If things con-tin-ue like this . . . / shall leave the Hague," said Karel. " Ca-teau said so too" He copied his wife's voice : he always copied her voice, unconsciously, when he talked about her. " Are we nearly there? " 44 No such luck!" "Lord, what a day! . . ." " How people will talk! ..." The carriage containing Constance had driven on ahead of the procession. Emilie leant against her, feebly and listlessly, without speaking or hearing. When they approached the Kerkhoflaan, Emilie said: " Auntie . . . it's just stupid chance. ..." 44 What, dear?" 44 Is this life? My life has never been anything but stupid chance ! The little pleasure I had ... and the sorrow . . . was all stupid chance! I am now so miserable; and it's all . . . all stupid chance! . . . Oh, Auntie, I shall never be able to live . . . not now, when Henri's death will always . . . will always haunt me like an accusing ghost! . . . Auntie ... do other people have so much THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 313 stupid chance in their lives? . . . If I hadn't gone to Paris! ... If Henri had not ... oh, I can't say it, I can't say it! Auntie, we shall never know! It's too awful, what happened! I can never tell you . . . what I think! " " My darling, I suspect it! " 44 Oh, it's awful, awful ! Uncle suspects it too ... so they do at the legation. . . . It's awful, awful! . . . He's disappeared: Eduard, I mean. ... It was a mere accident: we were walking to- gether, Henri and I, when we . . . when we met Eduard. . . . They looked at each other. . . . They hated each other. . . . Then he walked on . . . but we met him again later. . . . Then, in the evening, when I came home . . . and found Henri . . . lying in his blood . . . ! " She flung herself back with a scream. 44 Auntie, Auntie, we know nothing! . . . But the suspicion will always be with me! I shall al- ways see it like that! Oh, Auntie, Auntie, help me . . . and keep me with you always, al- ways! ..." She closed her eyes in Constance' arms, too weak to face her life, which had changed from fantastic humour into tragedy. . . . The carriage suddenly stopped, in the Kerkhoflaan; Truitje opened the door; Constance made a sign to her to ask no ques- tions. She herself, on the other hand, asked: 44 How is Mr. Gerrit doing? M 3 i4 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS " Not at all well, ma'am." "Where are the children?" "They're in the dining-room, ma'am, playing: it's easier there for me to keep an eye on them." Constance opened the door of the dining-room, with her arm round Emilie. She saw Gerdy and Constant; but, just as in the drawing-room at home, they had hidden behind a sofa standing aslant, where they were quietly playing at father and mother, worshipping each other like a little husband and wife, two small birds in a little nest. " Peek-a-boo ! " said Constance, mechanically. They were quiet at first and then burst into chuckles, crept out, kissed Auntie and Emilie: "Auntie," asked Gerdy, "is Papa ill?" " Yes, darling." " Will Papa get better very soon? " "Oh, yes, dear!" " Are we staying with you long? " " No, not very long, darling." And Constance did not know why, but she sud- denly saw the children staying on; and this vision was mingled with a vague impression of the gloomy house at Driebergen. She thought that her brain must be very tired in her head, that she was sleeping while awake, dreaming as she moved about. Every- thing before her was confused: that terrible day in Paris; Henri's body; the mystery about the whole affair, with the dark, half-uttered suspicions; the THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 315 formalities; the legation; the journey back: oh, she was dead-tired, dead-tired! . . . Oh, that coffin, that coffin ! . . . And in the middle of it all a letter from Addie: Uncle Gerrit seriously ill; the children ordered out of the house; he was taking Gerdy and Constant and giving them his room: he was sure Mamma would approve. . . . Oh, how dead-tired, how dead-tired she was! . . . 11 Auntie/' said Constant, " Truitje has been so kind: she made us a lovely rice-pudding. ..." 44 But we'd rather be at home ! " said Gerdy. And the children suddenly began to cry. Con- stance took them in her arms, pressed them to her: 44 You would be just a little in Mamma's way," she said, with a dead voice. 44 Mamma must look after Papa. ..." And she dropped almost fainting into a chair. 44 Aunt Constance ! " Emilie sobbed. 44 Aunt Constance, let me ... let me .. . stay with you ! . . . Let me stay with you! . . . Where . . . where could I go?" She sobbed wildly, huddled on the floor against Constance' knees. The children were also crying. Constance had put one arm round Emilie and held the children in the other. It was very gloomy out of doors. Indoors, life's tragedy lay heavy upon them. CHAPTER XXIII The gigantic beast wriggled through the sky, from end to end of the vast sky. The beast wobbled the point of its tail slowly up and down over the earth : in the room, above the bed, which had become a narrow coffin; and, commencing with that wobbling tail, the beast's body wound up and up, filling the room and the house with one mighty contortion of monstrous dragon's scales and sweeping away with its tangible reality all the dreamy unreality of the room and the house, the ceilings and roofs. With thousands of legs the beast humped its sinuous body over the chimney-stacks and church-steeples, slung itself wriggling round the church-steeples and chimney-stacks like a festoon of scales, which then turned into a long, dense chain of clouds, filling the sky with great cloud-eddies, which whirled and whirled over the town and through the sky, from end to end of the vast sky. And the monstrous beast now lifted its long crocodile's jaws out of its own winding clouds; and its eyes belched forth fire like volcanoes; and shafts of flame shot like lightning-flashes from its darting tongue: shafts darting to such a length from the very high expanse, right up there, up there, from the sky above the 316 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 317 clouds, that they shot through the man in one second and retreated and hid themselves again in the abyss of the dragon's mouth, from such a height indeed that they shot quicker than lightning right down to his marrow, licking it until it dried up; and, after each burning lick, after each dab of fire, the lightning-quick, darting flame, the miles-long shaft withdrew to its own source and birthplace in the deep funnel of the fiery jaws. And the martyred man shivered under the dabbing lick; and in his shivering he raised himself high as though upon waves of trembling, as though his fever were a stormy sea that bore him away from his bed high above the clouds, the clouds that were the windings of the beast's body. . . . And, as he rose, as the man rose, the beast set up all its stiff bristles, which stuck out between its scales like trees, stuck them up and drew them in again, until the whole sky, the whole vast stretch of sky, was all the time growing full of tree-trunks, straight forests of dragon's bristles which swarmed and vanished, swarmed and vanished as the beast put them out or drew them in. . . . And the point of the beast's bristly, scaly tail flicked with such oppressive weight upon the chest of the man who lay in the bed which was a coffin that the man moaned and groaned and tried with both hands to lift that heavy, flicking tail from his crushed heart. . . . But the beast grinned with its cavernous jaws, shot fire from the volcanoes 318 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS of its eyes, darted swiftly up and down the miles- long fiery trail of its all-penetrating tongue, split into myriad needles of fire, and with long voluptuous licks sucked away the man's marrow, until the man, all shivering and shaking, was scorched and roasted and shrivelled within. . . . The beast left him no blood, licked up his marrow and blood and poured fire into him instead. When the beast smacked its lips voluptuously, when it greedily swallowed the blood and the marrow, when the man thought that he was dying, then the beast pricked him with a needle of its fiery tongue and goaded him to shivering-point; and the man shivered and raised himself high upon the waves with his shivering, as though his fever were a stormy sea. . . . Thus the man lay twisting and tossing, till he put out his hands towards the demon and tried to fight the beast with human hands. . . . And it seemed to him as if he were flinging his hands, the hands of a brave man and a martyr and a hero, around the beast; and, while the stormy sea, the sky, which was churned into billows by the contor- tions of the beast, bore him up and up and up, he fought and wrestled with the ever more violently writhing and coiling beast; and the beast humped its way through the sombre universe of clouds, shoot- ing out its thousands of feet; its head was now here, now there; its tail flicked now high, now low; the beast lashed earth and sky; the beast became THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 319 one vast, dizzying whirl, with town, spires, roofs and chimney-stacks all whirling in it; the bed which was a coffin was now here, now there, now high, now low; and he fought and wrestled and twisted round the beast and the beast round him; and he would not let himself be conquered by the beast. Until the beast from out of the volcano of its eyes and the abyss of its jaws belched so much fire that the sky was a sea of blood-fire wherein a hell of faces flamed — faces of women and children: naked women with eyes of gold; bright children with flaxen hair — like a sudden flowering of tortured af- fections, of tortured passions, all blossoming up in the blood-fire into faces of laughing and crying children and ogling siren-mermaids; and through it all and through them all the man writhed and wrestled with the wrestling, writhing beast, which could not free itself from him, even as he could not free himself from the beast. . . . 44 Gerrit, dear Gerrit," voices sounded, soft- murmuring, earthly voices, voices from far below, 11 Gerrit, dear, are you coming? " And he answered: "Yes . . . yes . . . I'm coming. ..." And he, the man heaving up and down, down and up, on the mighty swaying of the storm, down and up, up and down, he, this heaving, wrestling man, one with the beast and the beast one with him, saw a woman, between the faces of children and women, 3 2o THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS saw two women, two women belonging to him: his wife and his sister. But in between them crept a third woman; and her eyes mocked like golden eyes of mockery . . . until suddenly they ceased to mock and died away in sadness, in unutterable sadness, as though really they had always been sad and had never mocked or laughed. " Gerrit . . . dear Gerrit . . . are you com- ing?" " Yes . . . yes . . . I'm coming. ..." " He's delirious," whispered Constance. The room around the sick man had now become as glass, but not transparent glass. For he no longer, through the walls of the room, saw the universe and the beast: he saw nothing now save the room; but so brittle was that room, so brittle all the things which it contained that it seemed to be all of glass — the room, the bed and he — all glass, all brittle glass, which a single incautious movement might shiver into dust. Yes, now that the beast had sucked up all his marrow with that voluptuous licking, it had let him go, left him lying exhausted on his bed; and he lay, his glass body lay powerless to move ; and, now that, after a long time, he had laboriously opened his eyes and saw his room around him as glass and felt himself as glass, he knew that the beast would no longer dart the fiery shafts of his tongue, because it had eaten the whole THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 321 of him up. His body lay lifeless, like a glass husk; and he asked himself if he wasn't dead. He did not know for certain that he was alive. He saw that the room was very quiet; beside him, in the glass atmosphere of his room, sat a man, who also seemed made of brittle glass; and the man sat motionless: he seemed to be sitting with a book in his hand, reading in the glassy twilight that filtered through the close-drawn window-curtains. . . . The sick man laboriously closed his eyes again; and it seemed to him that he sank away very slowly, into a great, downy abyss, lower and lower, a very depth of down, into which he sank and went on sinking, sank and went on sinking. . . . 11 There's less fever now," said the military doctor. " He's asleep." " Is he out of danger? " asked the pale little wife, who sat with Constance' arms around her. M Yes. . . . You would be wise to take a rest, mevrouw." "I can't ... I can't. ..." 11 Go and get some sleep, Adeline," said Con- stance. " I'll stay in the room with Gerrit; and the nurse will keep a good watch." " He looked round for a moment very peacefully, before he fell asleep," said the male nurse by Gerrit's bedside. "Go and get some sleep, Adeline. . . ." 322 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS How long the sick man sank and sank and sank in the downy abyss no one knew. ... At last he opened his eyes again and looked into the room and saw the quiet attendant sitting on a chair at the foot of his bed, where he also saw a woman standing: " Constance," the sick man murmured. He tried to smile because he knew her, but he felt too weak to smile. . Another woman appeared beside the first: he knew her too, but it was as though she were dead. . . . " Line," murmured the sick man. " He knows us," whispered Constance. CHAPTER XXIV Gerrit made progress every day. He was now so much better that he sat in a big chair, sat dozing until he sank away in the downy abyss and fell asleep in his chair. He was now so much better that he was able to speak a few words to the two women and the doctor and the nurse; and his first question was: M The children . . . ? " He had understood that they were not there and that he would not see them just yet. He was now so much better that he remembered his recent life and asked: " Pauline . . . ? " And he saw that they did not understand. Why they did not understand he failed to see, for, when he asked after the children or Mamma, they always understood and answered kindly, telling him that Mamma and the children were well. Then he asked: " Your husband, Constance . .. . ? Your boy . ?" And Constance answered that they were well. Then he asked: " Pauline . . . ? " 333 324 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS And she gave a gentle, smiling nod. Yes, of course, she understood now, told him that Pauline was well. Yes, yes, he remembered: Mamma, the children, Pauline. . . . They were as ghosts in his empty memory, looming up and making him ask questions of the women around him. But, apart from that, his memory was one vast emptiness, like an empty universe, now that the beast had vanished into space . . . into nothingness . . . into nothingness. . . . He had no marrow left : the beast would not eat him up any more. There was no centipede rooting at his carcase now. Lord, Lord, how done he felt, how utterly done for! . . . He now recognized his doctor: " Ah, is that you, Alsma ? " " Well, Van Lowe, do you recognize me? " "Yes, yes. . . . Didn't I recognize you be- fore?" " No . . . once or twice you didn't know who I was. . . . Well, you'll soon be all right again now. You're getting better every day. ..." u Yes, yes . . . but . . ." "What?" "I feel very queer . . . damned queer. . . ." "Yes, you're a bit weak still. ..." "A bit weak? . . ." He gave a grin. He felt his arm, thought it odd that he couldn't find his biceps: THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 325 44 Where's the thing got to?" he asked. u Is it gone? . . ." 44 No, you'll get your strength back all right. ... It doesn't take long, once you're well again." 44 Oh, it doesn't take long?" 44 No, you'd be surprised. ..." 44 1 say, Alsma, can't I see my children . . . just for once? ..." 44 No, it would tire you a bit. . . . Later on, later on. ..." 4< I say, do you know what's so rotten? I don't know ... all sorts of things . . . whether I've been dreaming ... or not. ..." 44 Don't worry about it. That'll all come right ... bit by bit, bit by bit. ..." 44 A lake full of white-faced mermaids: that's rot, eh? . . .An express-train: was I away, shortly before my illness? I wasn't, was I? . . . The body ... of a girl: did I see that? ... A snake-thing, a great wriggling snake-thing: yes, that snake-thing was there all right; I fought the thing. ... I believe it was all rot . . . except the great snake-thing, which licked me up . . . with its tongue. ..." 44 You mustn't talk so much." 44 . . . Because I always used to feel that snake- thing inside me . . . always. ..." 44 Come, Van Lowe . . . keep very quiet now .. . . and rest . . . rest. ..." 326 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS The sick man sank away, sank away in the downy abyss. ... Gerrit made progress every day. He was now so much better that he had walked across the room, on Constance* arm, and just seen his two boys, only for a moment, because he longed for them so: " The others too," he said. The next day they brought Marietje and Gerdy and Constant to him; the day after that, the four others. . . . He had how seen them all: " But for such a short time ! " he said. He recovered slowly. He had seen Van der Welcke and Addie; and, one pale, wintry, sunny day, he had been out for a little while, but the outside world made him giddy. Still he couldn't deny it: he was getting better. He saw his mother; and, when she saw him, she forgot that he had been ill: "Where have you been, Gerrit? . r . ." " Laid up, Mamma." "Laid up? . . ." The old woman nodded wisely. "You haven't been ill, have you?" "Just a little, Mamma. It wasn't very bad. And he got better, he made progress. He went out walking, with his wife, with Constance, with THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 327 Van der Welcke. He went out with his nephew Addie; the outside world no longer made him giddy. On his walks, he recognized brother- officers; one day, he met the hussars: 44 Oh, damn it all ! " he swore, without knowing why. It was as though he suddenly saw that he would never again ride, straight-backed, clear-eyed, at the head of his squadron. But it was all rot, seeing that. . . . Still he was unable to resume his service. He lazed and loafed, as he said. In the evenings, al- ways very early, he sank away into a downy abyss, dropped asleep, heavily. . . . And he no longer remembered things: 44 I say, Constance." " What is it, Gerrit?" " When I saw that girl ... in the ceme- tery . . . were you there too and did you call me? . . ." " No, Gerrit. You've been dreaming." "Oh, did I dream that?" 44 Yes." 44 No, no." 44 Yes, Gerrit, you dreamt it." Another time, he said to Van der Welcke: 44 1 say, Van der Welcke." 44 What is it, Gerrit?" 44 You don't know . . . but I was carrying on 328 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS with a girl . . . one I knew in the old days. . . . Find out what's become of her, will you? " " What's her name and where does she hang out?" He reflected: 11 Her name . . . her name's Pauline." "And where does she live?" " In . . .in the Frederikstraat." Van der Welcke made enquiries, but said nothing, next time he came. The sick man remembered, however : ' " I say, Van der Welcke." "Yes, Gerrit?" " Did you ask about that for me?" "Yes," Van der Welcke answered, hesitatingly. "Well?" " The girl's dead, old chap." "Did she drown herself?" " Yes." "They took the body to the cemetery?" " Yes." " Oh, then I wasn't dreaming! You see for your- self. . . . And your wife came and fetched me there. ..." " No, no." " Yes, she did." " No, no, old chap." The sick man reflected : " I no longer know," he said, " what I've lived THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 329 and what I've dreamed. The confounded snake- thing: that . . . that was real. It had been eating me up . . . eating me up since I was a boy. . . ." He grew very gloomy and sat for hours and hours, silently, in his chair . . . until he sank into the downy abyss. CHAPTER XXV It was time that he became the old Gerrit again, bit by bit, you know, bit by bit. The weeks dragged past and the weeks became months and it was time that he became the old Gerrit again, bit by bit, you know, bit by bit. His doctor wouldn't hear yet of his resuming his service; but he saw his pals daily: the officers looked him up, fetched him for a walk ; and in their company he tried to go back to his breezy, jovial tone, his rather broad jokes, all the noisy geniality which had characterized the great, yellow-haired giant that he had been. And it was all no use. He had grown thin, his cheeks were hollow, his flesh hung loosely on his bones and he was soon tired and, above all, soon giddy. . . . But the rottenest part of it was that he didn't re- member things. No doubt he felt that, by degrees, with the diet prescribed for him, which Adeline observed so conscientiously, he would be able to strengthen his carcase a bit; he even took up his dumb-bells once, in his grief at the disappearance of those grand muscles of his; but he very soon put the heavy weights down again. Then he smacked his emaciated thighs and, despite his inner conviction, yielded to a feeling of optimism : 330 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 331 "Oh, well!" he thought. "That'll get right again in time! " But the rottenest part of it was that he no longer remembered things — he was ashamed of that above all, he did not want it noticed — and that everybody noticed it. Then he would sit in a chair by the fire — it was a raw, damp January, cold without frost — and his thoughts stared out idly before him, with a thousand roaming eyes, his idle thoughts. They hung heavily in his brain, filling it, like clouds in a sky He would sit like that for hours, with a newspaper or an illustrated weekly: French comic picture-papers, which Van der Welcke brought him to amuse him. He hardly laughed at the jokes, only half understood them, sat reading them stupidly. And, in his turgid brain full of clouds, full of those idle thoughts, an immense, world-wide melancholy descended, a leaden twilight. The twilight de- scended from the sky outside and it descended from his own brain. . . . Then everything became chilly around him and within him; and, above all, memory was lost. Since the beast no longer held him in its clutching dragon's claws, since the thousand-legged crawling thing had devoured all his marrow with voluptuous licks, since it had perhaps sucked up his very blood : since then it had left him like an empty house, with soft muscles and flabby flesh; and he almost longed to have the beastly thing back, because the beast had given him the energy to fight against 332 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS the beast: for himself, in order to conquer; for others, in order to hide himself. The beast had conquered, the beast had eaten him up. It wanted no more of him; the great dragon-worm had dis- appeared. It no longer wound through the skies; and nothing more hung in the skies but twilight- distilling clouds. . . . Oh, the creepy, chilly twi- light ! Oh, the all-pervading mist, dank and clammy all round him! He shivered; and the fire no longer warmed him. He crept up to it, he could have crept into it; and the glowing, open fire no longer warmed him. " Line, ring for some wood: I want to see flames; this coke's no use to me." Then he heaped up the logs until Adeline feared that he would set the chimney on fire. Or else Constance would come to fetch him, wanted him to go for a walk. " No, dear, it's too chilly for me outside." He remained sitting in what to the others was the unendurable heat of the blazing fire. He shivered. He shivered to such an extent that he asked : " Line, send in the children." " But, Gerrit, they'll only tire you." 11 No, no . . . I'm longing to see them." They would come in; and, when the others came home from school, he would gather them round him and try to play with them, teasing and tickling them now and again. It tired him, but they were some- THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 333 thing warm around him: more warmth radiated from a single one of them than from his glowing log-fire. "How many have I?" he reflected, groping in his memory, which fled in front of him with winged irony. And he counted on his fingers. He was not quite certain. Until he saw them all gathered round him and had counted them on his fingers, silently — Marie, Adeletje, Alex, Guy — he did not always re- member that he had nine. The children were very sweet: Marie saw to his oatmeal, which he had to take at five in the afternoon; the cheeky boys were very attractive. But he suffered because little Gerdy, the child with such a passion for caresses, had become afraid of him. She shrank back timidly from him, thinking him strange, that thin, emaciated father whom she used to embrace in her little childish arms as a strong father, a great, big father who tossed her up in the air and caught her again and romped with her and kissed her. She had become frightened of his long, lean fingers and looked in dismay at the hands that gripped her with the fingers of a skeleton. He noticed it and no longer asked her to come to his room, now that he saw that she shuddered when she sat on his thin legs and that she disliked the big fire, which made her frown angrily and draw in her little lips. But it hurt him, though he said nothing. 334 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS But what hurt him most was . . . that he did not remember things. It was as though daily the twilight deepened around him, around his soul, which shuddered in his chilly, shuddering body. One day, Constance said: "We have good news from Nunspeet. ..." But Gerrit remembered nothing about Nunspeet; still he did not wish to show it : "Really?" he said. Nevertheless she saw it in his blank look. " Yes," she continued, " Ernst is a great deal better. I shall go and see him again to-morrow." He now remembered all about Ernst and Nuns- peet, but yet he was ashamed of his recent lack of memory and his hollow cheeks almost flushed. . . . A week later, Ernst came to see him, with Con- stance. He was so much improved that the doctor himself had advised him to go to the Hague for a few days; he was staying with the Van der Welckes. His hallucinations had almost vanished; and, when Gerrit saw him, it struck Gerrit that Ernst was looking better, his complexion healthier, pro- bably through the outdoor life, his hair and beard trimmed; and his eyes were not so restless, while he himself was neatly dressed, under his sister's care. " Well, old chap," said Gerrit, " so you've come to look me up ? . . . That's nice of you. . . . I'm a bit off colour. And you . . . ? " THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 335 " I'm much better, Gerrit." 11 I'm glad of that. And those queer notions of yours: what about them? " Ernst gave an embarrassed laugh : " Yes," he confessed, shyly. " I did have queer notions sometimes. I don't think I have any now. But I am staying on at the doctor's. I've only come up for a day or two. . . . I've seen my rooms again." "You have, have you? . . . And your vases?" " Yes, my vases," said Ernst, greatly embar- rassed. 11 And all the voices that you used to hear, Ernst ... all the souls that used to throng round you, old chap: you don't feel them thronging now, you don't hear them any longer? " Gerrit tried to put on his genial bellow and to poke fun at Ernst about the vases and the souls, as he used to ; but it was no good. He lay back in his chair, by the big fire; and his idle thoughts stared before him. No," Ernst answered, quietly. " I only hear the voices now and again; and I no longer feel them thronging so much, Gerrit. . . . And you've been very ill, haven't you?" he added, quietly. " Yes, old chap." u You're getting better, eh?" 11 Yes, I'm getting better now. My carcase can 336 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS stand some knocking about. I'm glad you're better too. Constance made a sign to Ernst : he got up, good and obedient as a child. And they left Gerrit alone. Adeline was sitting in the other room, with both doors open, because Gerrit's big fire was too much for her and also because she didn't want the children to be running in and worrying him. " Ernst is looking well," she said, glancing up at him. Then her hands felt for Constance' hands and she began to cry, sobbing very quietly lest Gerrit should hear. "Hush, Adeline, hush!" " He won't get better ! " " Yes, he will, he'll get quite well. Ernst is better too." " But he . . . he's lost all his strength . . . he's so weak! ..." " He'll get well and strong again. ..." "What day of the week is it, Constance? ..." M It's Sunday, Adeline. . . . I'm going with Ernst to Mamma's for a minute or two. How glad Mamma will be to see him! . . . Are you coming to Mamma's this evening, Sissy?" Adeline shook her head: M No," she said, " I can't. I daren't leave Gerrit alone yet. . ,. ." CHAPTER XXVI Oh, how the twilight was gathering, oh, how it was gathering around him! It was dark now, quite dark; and the fire on the hearth was dying out in the dark, shadowy room. But what was the use of making it blaze up : did the room not always remain shiveringly cold, however much the fire might glow? What was the use of lighting lamps: was the twi- light not deeper and gloomier day by day, whether it were morning or evening? Did not the pale gold of the dawn shimmer more and more vaguely through the dense mist of twilight? ... A dull, apathetic, feeble man. . . . Had he kept his secret all his life, concealed the real condition of his body and his soul, to become like that? And yet was he not Ernst's brother? Had he not always been Ernst's brother . . . though it had always seemed otherwise? Were they not of the same blood and had not they, the brothers, the same soul, the same darkened soul? Was the darkness not gathering around all of them now, the sombre twilight of their small lives? . . . Would the darkness one day close in upon his own pale-golden dawn: his children, who also shared the same soul? ... It might be the darkness of old age as it closed in 337 338 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS upon Mamma — he could see her as she sat — or it might be the darkness of sorrow and weariness and loneliness, as yonder, round Bertha. Were the shadows not deepening round Paul and Dorine, for all their youth? . . . Had it not been as a night round Ernst, even though he was now stepping out of the dark . . . back into the twilight that sur- rounded them all? . . . Was it their fault or the fault of their life: the small life of small souls? . . . Did the twilight come from their blood, which grew poorer, or from their life, which grew smaller? . . . Would they never behold through the twi- light the vistas, far-reaching as the dawn, where life, when all was said, must be spacious . . . and would they never strive for that ? Would his child- ren never strive for that? Would they never send forth the rays of their golden sunlight towards the greater life and would they not grow into great souls? . . . Would the twilight, afterwards, deepen . . . and deepen . . . and deepen . . . around them too . . . until perhaps the very great things of life came thundering and lightening unexpectedly before them, crushing them and blinding them . . ,., because they had not learnt to see the light? . . . He tried to remember thoughts of former days . . . but they shot ahead, like winged ironies. He knew only that night was falling, one vast night around all the family, under the grey skies of their winter. He knew only that the light was growing THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 339 dimmer and dimmer around them, until it became unillumined dusk: the dusk of age; the dusk of sorrow; the dusk of cynical selfishness; the dusk of life without living; all the heavy, sombre twilight that gathered around small souls . . . until with Ernst the dusk had grown into night and the dark dream from which he was now emerging. . . . They called that recovering. . . . They thought that he would recover. . . . Oh, how dark and gloomy were the shadows of the twilight and how heavy was the fate that hung over their small souls, hung over them like a leaden sky, an immensity of leaden skies ! . . . He, yes, he would get better. It might take months yet; and then he would resume his service as a dull, decrepit old man, diseased through and through, from his childhood, under the semblance of muscular strength, until one serious illness was enough to break him and make him dull and old for all the rest of his life. . . . Yes, he would get better. But it would no longer be necessary to raise his voice to a roar, to make his movements rough and blunt, to make a show of strength and force and roughness; for they would now all see through the sad pretence. He would jog along through his small, shadowed life, until the shadows gathered around him ... as they were now gathering around his mother; and . . ,. and . . ., and his children would never again recognize in 340 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS him their father of the old days, who used to romp with them and fill the whole house with all the rush of his healthy vitality. ... It was over, over for the rest of his life. . . . It was over. In the room which had grown chill and dark, the black thought haunted him, that it was over. It almost made him calm, to know that it was over, that for his children, his nine — did he not remember their golden number correctly? — he could never be other than the shadow of their father of the old days. . . . Oh, would he never again be able to love them, to be a father to them? Could he never do that again? Must he, when cured, remain for all the rest of his life the man conquered by the beast, the man eaten up by the beast, the man broken in the contest with the dragon-beast? Was it so? Was it so? . . . Why did they leave him in the cold and the dark? Shivers ran down his back — his marrowless back, his bloodless body — like a stream of ice-cold water? Why didn't they make up his fire and why didn't they light his lamp? . . . Did they know that nothing could give him warmth and light ? " Adeline I " His voice sounded faint and weak. In the next room, which was now dark, nothing stirred. He rose out of his deep chair with difficulty, like an old man. He groped round for the door of the other room. A feeble light still entered from out- THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 341 side. . . . There she sat, there she lay, his wife: she had fallen asleep with weariness and anxiety for him, her arms on the table, her face on her arms. . . . Was it his imagination, or had she really changed? He had not noticed her for weeks, since his illness, had not looked at her, though she had nursed him all the time. . . . Certainly he was very fond of her; but she was doing her duty as his wife. She had borne him his children and she was nursing him now that he was ill. Had he been wrong in thinking like that? Yes, perhaps it had not been right of him. . . . Gad, how she had changed! How different from the young, fresh face that she used to have, the little mother-girl, the little child-mother! Was it the ghostly effect of the faint light or was it so? Was she so pale and thin and tired . . . with anxiety about him, with nursing and looking after him? . . . He felt his heart swelling. He had never loved her as he did now! He bent down and kissed her . . . with a fonder kiss than he had ever given her. She just quivered in her sleep: she was sound asleep. . . . Lord, how tired she was! How pale she was, how thin! She lay broken with worry and weariness, her head in her arms. . . . "Adeline. ..." She did not answer, she slept. . . . He would not wake her; he would ring for the fire and the lamp himself. .., A ,.. But what was the good? 342 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS Lamp and lire would make things no brighter around him, now that the great twilight was de- scending. . . . Oh, the great inexorable, pitiless twilight ! Would it fall around him as it had fallen around Ernst . ,. . around whom it was now slowly clearing? Did the twilight clear again? Or would the shadows around him gradually deepen into darkness, the darkness that was now gathering around his mother? Or would it just remain dim around him, with the same wan light that glim- mered around Paul and Dorine? What, what would their twilight be? . . . The house was very cold and he felt chilly. Was there no fire anywhere? Where were the children? Were Marietje and Adeletje and the two boys not back from school yet? . . . He now heard Gerdy and Constant playing in the room downstairs — the nursery and dining-room — heard them talking to- gether with their dear little voices. . . . Oh, his two sunny-haired darlings! . . . But Gerdy was afraid of him. . . . He was becoming afraid of himself. . . . He was no longer the man he used to be. . . . People now saw him as he was. . He could no longer put on that air of brute strength. . . . His voice had lost its blustering force. . . . He did not know why, but he roamed through the house. ... It struck him as lonely, dreary and quiet, though the children were playing below. . . . He stood on the stairs and listened. What was THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 343 that rushing noise in the distance? No, there was no rushing . . . Yes, there was: something came rushing, from outside, to where he stood; some- thing came rushing: a melancholy wind, like a wind out of eternity. ... An immense eternity; and immense the wind that rushed out of it; and chilly and small and dreary the house; everything so small; he himself so small! . . . He did not know what was coming over him, but he felt frightened . . . frightened, as he had sometimes felt when a child. . . . He was so afraid of that rushing sound that he called out: "Adeline! . . . Line! ..." He waited for her to hear and answer. But she did not hear, she slept. . . . Then he roamed on, shuddering . . . upstairs ... to his own little room. . . . And it was all so dreary and chill and lonely and the sound of rushing from the immense eternity outside the house was so melancholy that he sank helplessly into a chair and began to sob. . . . He was done for now. . . . He sobbed. . . . His great, emaciated body jolted up and down with his sobs; his lungs panted with his sobs; and, in his great, lean hands, his head sobbed, in despair. . . . He was done for now. . . . He knew now that he would not get well. ... He knew now that he ought really to have died . . . and that he had gone on living only because his life had gone on hanging to a thread that had not broken. Would 344 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS that last thread soon break? Or would his darkened life go on for a long time — he always ill — hanging to that last thread? Would he yet be able to be a father to his children ... or would he ... on the contrary . . . become ... a burden to his dear ones? Was it growing dark, was it growing dark? Was not that eternity rushing along? . . . He heaved a deep sigh, amid his sobs. His eyes sought along the wall, where a rack of swords and Malay krises hung between prints of race-horses and pretty women. He had a whole collection of those weapons. Some of them had belonged to his father. At Papa's death they had been divided between him and Ernst. . . . Among the krises and swords were two revolvers. . . . He stared past the swords and krises . . . and his eyes fastened on the revolvers. ... In among the swords and krises, in among the race-horses and the pretty women whirled all the heads of his children — he did not know if they were portraits or spectres — as they had been, children's heads of six months, one year old, two years old: growing older and bigger, radiating more and more sun- light, his golden dawn of nine bright-haired child- ren? . . . Would he be able to be a father to them, or would he on the contrary become a bur- den? . . . It was as if his imagination were digging in a deep pit. In a deep pit his imagination, with hurry- THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 345 ing hands, dug up sand. What was it seeking, his rooting imagination? What was it seeking in the deep pit, why was it flinging the sand around him . . . just as Addie once told him that Ernst had dug and flung up sand ... in the dunes ... in the dunes at Nunspeet? . . . What! . . . What! . . . Was he going mad too ! . . . Was he going mad . . . like Ernst? Was he going mad . . . like Ernst? ... A cold sweat broke out over his chilly, shivering body. Was he going mad? . . . "Gerrit! . . . Gerrit!" A voice sounded very far away through the house, which had suddenly become very deep, very wide, very big. " Gerrit! . . . Gerrit!" He could hear the hurrying footsteps on the creaking stairs, but he was powerless to answer. "Gerrit! . . . Gerrit! . . . Where are you?" The door opened. It was Adeline, looking for him ... in the dark: " Gerrit! . . . Are you here? . . . Even yet he did not answer. 44 Where are you, Gerrit? " " Here." 44 Are you here?" 44 Yes." 14 Why are you sitting in the dark ... in the cold? . . . What are you doing here, Gerrit? . . ." " I . . .1 was looking for something." t* 11. u 346 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS " For what? . „.u» I've forgotten. ,, Why didn't you ask me ? " She had lit the gas. " You were asleep." " Don't be angry, Gerrit. I was tired." 11 I'm not angry, dear. I didn't like to disturb you." u Why didn't you wake me? " " You were asleep." " You ought to have waked me." He put out his arms to her : " Come here, dear." She came; he drew her to his knees. "What is it, Gerrit?" " Darling . . . Line ... I believe I'm very . . . very ill." " You've been ill, Gerrit. You're . . ,. you're getting better now . " Do you think so? . . "Oh yes!" " Line, I believe . . . I'm very . . . very . . ., ill." "Why, do you feel worse? . . . It's so cold in here. Come downstairs. We'll make up the fire." " No, stay here. . . . Tell me, Line: if I died, would you ..." " No, no, Gerrit, I can't bear it! " THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 347 14 Hush, dear: if I died, would you believe . . . after I am dead ..." "Oh, Gerrit, Gerrit!" 11 That I have always been very fond of you "Gerrit, don't! " 11 That I have always been kind to you . . . that I have not neglected you? . . ." 11 Oh, you're not going to die, Gerrit ! . . . You will get better . . . and you have always, always been kind! . . . " 44 Line . . . and all our children . . . " 44 Don't, Gerrit!" 44 Won't they think ... if I die .. . that I had no business to die . . . because I ought to have lived and been a father to them? ..." 44 But, Gerrit, you're not going to die!" 44 1 should like to go on living, Line . . . for you, dear, and for the children. But I fear I'm very ill. ..." k> Will you see the doctor, Gerrit? ..." 44 No, no. . . . Stay like this, quietly, for a minute, on your husband's knees. . . . Line, Gerdy has become frightened of me. Tell me, Line, are you also frightened of your skeleton of a husband?" 44 Gerrit, Gerrit, no ! Gerdy isn't frightened . . . and I . . . I'm not frightened. ..." 44 Put your arms round me." 348 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS She put her arms right round him. She hugged him, warmed him against herself, while she sat upon his knees : u I'm not frightened, Gerrit. Why should I be frightened of you? Because youVe been ill, because you've grown thin? Aren't you still my husband, whom I love, whom I have always loved? Sha'n't I nurse you till you are yourself again, till you're quite well . . . and strong? . . . Oh, Gerrit, even if it should take weeks . . . months ... a year! Gerrit, what is a year? In a year's time, you will be yourself again and well . . . and strong . . . and then we shall be happy once more . . . and then our children will grow up. ..." 44 Yes, dear ... if only it doesn't get dark ..." "Gerrit ..." " If only it doesn't get so dark ! . . . Do you know that it got very dark around Ernst? It's getting lighter around him now . . . but there's some twilight around him still . . . even now. . . . Do you know that it is getting dark around Mamma . . . and that it will get darker and darker? . . . Do you know that the twilight is closing around Bertha . . . and that there's twilight around the others? . . . Line, darling, I'm frightened. I'm frightened . . . when it gets dark. As a child, I remember, I used to be frightened . . . when it grew dark. . . . YouVe lit the gas now, you see, Line. . . .Is there only one light burning? The THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 349 flame of a gas-jet . . . and yet . . . and yet it's getting dark. ..." 44 Gerrit, my Gerrit, is the fever returning? Would you like to go to bed?" 44 Yes, Line, I want to go to bed. . . . Put your baby to bed, Line . . . it's tired, it's not well. Put it to bed, Line, and tuck the nice, warm clothes round its cold back . . . and promise to stay and sit with it . . . till it's asleep . . . till it's asleep. . . . Put it to bed, Line. . . . And, Line, if your baby ... if your baby dies . . . if it dies . . . will you promise never ... to think . . . that it did not love you ... as much as it ought to? . . ." She had gently forced him to rise from his chair and she opened the partition-door. He stood in the middle of the little room while she busied her- self in the bedroom and lit the gas and then came back for him and helped him undress. 44 It's getting dark . . . it's getting dark," he muttered, shivering, while his teeth chattered with the cold. And he felt that it was not the cold of fever, but a cold in his veins and his spine, because the beast had sucked all his blood and marrow with its voluptuous licks, had eaten him up from the days of his childhood, had devoured him until now, in the twilight, his soul shrank and withered in his body, which had no more sap to feed it. . . . 44 It's getting dark," he muttered. CHAPTER XXVII It was snowing heavily. For days the great snow- flakes had been falling over the small town out of an infinite sky-land, out of infinite sky-plains of infinite snow. And, after all the gloom of the dark days that had been, the days under the grey skies of storm and rain, it was now snowing whiter and whiter out of a denser greyness of sky-plains and sky-land, flakes falling upon flakes in a soft white shroud of oblivion that enveloped houses and peo- ple. And, in that ever-falling snow from the great, grey infinity above the small town and the small people, the town seemed still smaller, with the out- line of its houses now scarcely defined against the all-effacing oblivion, which fell and fell without ceasing, and the people also seemed still smaller, as they moved about the town or looked through the windows of their small houses at the white flakes descending from the grey infinity overhead. For old Mrs. van Lowe the white days dragged on monotonously from Sunday to Sunday: only the Sunday gave her a glimpse of light; but the other days had become so white and blank, so white and blank in their twilight emptiness. Even though the children called to see her regularly, she no longer 350 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 351 knew that they had been. It was only on Sundays that she missed them: when she did not see all of those whom she still carried in her mind gathered in her large rooms, rooms which not the largest fires now seemed able to warm, a mournful reproach swelled up in her heart; and her head nodded in sad understanding and protest against the sorrows of old age. . . . 11 But here is Ernst, Mamma, coming again as he used to," said Constance, leading Ernst by the hand to her mother. He now came up once a week from Nunspeet, for the day, in order to reaccustom himself to all the familiar things at the Hague, to the houses and the people; and, though still a little shy, as usual, he had lost all his nervous restlessness and become quite calm. " Ernst?" asked Mamma. 11 Yes, Mamma, he is coming again as he used to." 11 Has he been long away? " " Yes, Mamma." Light seemed to break upon the old woman and she smiled, becoming younger in her smile, now that she remembered. She took her son's hands and looked at Constance with unclouded eyes: "Is he better now?" 11 Yes, Mamma," said Constance. 352 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS u Are you better now, Ernst? " " Yes, Mamma, I am much better." She looked very glad, as though a flood of light were shining around her: u Don't you hear . . . any of those . ,. .of those strange things?" " No, Mamma," he answered, smiling gently. " And don't you see . . . don't you see any . . . of those strange things?" 11 No, Mamma." u That's good." She said it with grateful, shining eyes, the flood of light making everything very clear. " I have been very strange, I believe," Ernst admitted, softly and shyly. "That's all cured now, Ernst," said Constance. "But Aunt Lot?" asked Mamma. "What's become of her . . . and the girls?" " They've gone to Java, Mamma." "To Java? . . ." " Yes, don't you remember? They came and said good-bye last week. They'll be back in twelve months. . . . Don't you remember ? They thought they could live more cheaply in India. ..." " Yes, yes, I remember," said the old woman. " India ... I wish I could go there myself. ..." She felt as if she must go there to have warmth in and around her. And yet . . . Ernst was back; and at the card-tables were Karel and Cateau; THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 353 Adolphine and her little tribe; Otto and Frances were there; Van der Welcke, Dorine and Paul, Addie. ..." 44 There are a good many, after all," she said to Constance. 44 There are a great many. . . . But I miss ... I miss ..." 44 Whom, Mamma?" 44 1 miss my big lad ... I miss Gerrit. Where is Gerrit?" 44 He hasn't been very well lately, Mamma. I don't think he'll come." 44 He's ill again. ..." 44 Not ill, but ..." 44 Yes, he is, he's ill. . . . He's very seriously ill. . . . Constance ..." 4 ' What is it, Mamma?" 44 You're the only one to whom I dare say it. . . . Constance, Gerrit is very . . . very ill. . . . Hush . . . he's . . . he's dead! . . ." 44 No, Mamma, he's not dead." 44 He is dead." 44 No, Mamma." 4 Yes, child. . . . Look, don't you see, in the other room? ..." 44 What, Mamma?" 44 That he's dead." 44 No." 14 What do you see in the other room then?" 44 Nothing, Mamma. I see the two card-tables 354 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS and Karel and Adolphine and Adolphine's two girls playing cards." " And that light ... ." "What light?" "All that light: don't you see it?" " No, Mamma." " He's lying there ... on the floor." " No, no, Mamma." " Be quiet, child ... I can see it plainly! . . ., There, now it's gone! . . ." " Mamma darling! " " Constance ..." "Yes, Mamma? ..." "Go . . . go to Gerrit's house. ..." 11 Do you want me to go to him? " " No, no, stay here. . . . Constance ..." "Yes, Mamma? ..." " Send your husband ... or your son." " Are you feeling anxious? " " Anxious ? . . . No. But send your husband. ... or your son. . . . Send Addie. ... If you send Addie . . . that'll be best." " Would you like him just to go . . . and find out for you how Gerrit is? " " Yes, yes." "What's the matter with Mamma?" asked Van der Welcke. "Isn't Mamma well?" asked Adolphine, at the card-table. THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 355 11 Mamma is very restless and excited," said Van Saetzema. " Hadn't we better send for the doc- tor? ..." "The doctor?" they repeated, irresolutely. " Addie," asked Dorine, " are you going to the doctor's?" " No, I'm going to Uncle Gerrit's. Granny is uneasy. She wants to know how he is." 11 Constance," whispered the old woman, with strangely luminous eyes, " it's better that you should go too." 11 Addie's gone now, Mamma." 11 You go too . . . with your husband. You and your husband go too. . . . Tell the others that I am tired. Let them go away . . . now . . . soon. Tell the others that I am tired, dear. And tell them . . . tell them ..." " Tell them what, Mamma? " " That I am too tired to . . . " "Yes?" "On Sundays ..." "To have us here on Sundays, Mamma?" " No, dear, no, don't say it. . . . Don't say that! ... But tell them that this evening . . ." " This evening? " " Is the last time ..." "The last evening?" " No, dear, no, not the last. . . . Just tell them to go away, dear . . . and you go with your hus- 356 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS band. . . . Has Addie gone? But you go now . . . you go also ... to Gen-it' s house. . . . And then come back here again. ... I want to see you ... all three of you . . . here again. . . . Do you understand? . . . All three of you . . . do you understand? " 44 Yes, Mamma." 44 Go now . . . go. ..." They went; and the children took their leave. Outside, it was snowing great flakes. The snow- flakes had been falling all through the night over the small town out of an infinite land of death, out of infinite sky-plains of infinite death. And, after all the gloom of the dark nights that had been, the nights under the grey skies of storm and rain, it had snowed whiter and whiter out of the dense greyness of sky-plains and skyland, flakes falling upon flakes in a soft white shroud of oblivion that enveloped houses and people. . . . CHAPTER XXVIII Outside, the snow was falling in great flakes. The parlour-maid had opened the door: u But your cab isn't here yet, ma'am. . . ." 44 It doesn't matter. We'll walk." 44 I must say, it's a little absurd of Mamma," said Van der Welcke, on the doorstep. 44 Must we go to Gerrit's ... in this weather? And has Addie gone too? . . . Was Mamma as anxious as all that? . . . It's snowing hard, Constance: it's enough to give one one's death, to go out in this weather. ..." 44 Well, then you stay, Henri." 11 Do you mean to go in any case? " 44 Yes, Mamma wants me to." 44 But it's absurd!" 44 Perhaps so . . . but she would like it. . . . And we mayn't be able to do things to please her much longer ! " 4 Then send the cab on to the Bankastraat, when it comes. ..." 44 Very well, sir." They went. . . . 44 Didn't Addie go just now?" 44 Yes, a minute or two before we did." 357 358 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS " I don't see him." u He walks very fast." "Was Mamma so uneasy?" " Yes. . . . She was very restless and anxious." "Have the others gone away as well?" 11 Yes, Mamma was tired. . . . All the same, she relies upon us ... to come back presently for a moment." " Mamma is becoming a little exacting. ..." " She's growing so old. . . . We may as well give her that pleasure ... of just going." How much gentler her tone had become! . . . Once, ah, once she would have flared out at him violently for less than this little difference! . . . Now, ah, now, how much gentler everything about her had become! . . . She stumbled through the snow. " Take care, Constance. . . . The pavements are slippery. . . . Take my arm." " No, I can manage." " Take my arm." She took his arm. She slipped again; he held her up. He felt that she was trembling. "Are you cold?" " No." " You've got a thick cloak on." " I'm not cold." " What are you so nervous about? " "I don't know. ..." THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 359 " Your nerves liave been all wrong for some time. . . . You often cry . . . about nothing." " Yes. I don't know why. . . . It's nothing. . . . It's the weather. ..." " Yes . . . our Dutch climate. . . . Now at last it's something like winter. It's freezing like any- thing. The snow is crisp underfoot." She slipped again. He held her up and they walked close together, in the driving snow, which blinded them. . . . " I must say, it's absurd of Mamma ... to send us out in this weather. ..." She did not answer: she understood that he thought it absurd. The cold took her breath away; and it seemed to her, as she kept on slipping, that they would never reach the Bankastraat. . . . At last they turned the corner of the Nassauplein. And she calculated: not quite ten minutes more; then a moment with Gerrit and Adeline; the cab would fetch them there; then back to Mamma's with Addie ... to set Mamma's mind at ease. And, as she reckoned it out, she grew calmer and thought, with Henri, that it was certainly rather absurd of Mamma. She planted her feet more firmly; she was now walking more briskly, still hold- ing her husband's arm. . . . Was it the cold or what, that made her keep on trembling with an icy shiver? . . . Now, at last, they were nearing the Bankastraat and Gerrit's house; and it seemed to 3 6o THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS her as if she had been walking the whole evening through the thick, crisp snow. Suddenly, she stopped : 44 Henri," she stammered. "What?" "I . . .;. I daren't . . ." "What daren't you?" " I daren't ring." 44 Why not?" 44 1 daren't go in." 44 But what's the matter with you?" 44 Nothing. ... I'm frightened. I daren't." 44 But, Constance . . ." 44 Henri, I'm trembling all over! ..." 44 Are you feeling ill?" 44 No . . . I'm frightened. ..." 44 Come, Constance, what are you frightened of? Now that we're there, we may as well ring. What else would you do ? . . . Here's the house." He rang the bell. . . . They waited ; no one came to the door; and the snow beat in their faces. * 44 But there's a light," he said. 44 They haven't gone to bed." "And Addie ..." 44 Yes, Addie must be there." 44 Ring again," she said. He rang the bell. . . . They waited. . . . The house remained silent in the driving snow ; but there was a light in nearly every window. THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 361 "Oh! . . . Henri!" He rang the bell. u Oh! . . . Henri !" she began to sob. "I'm frightened! I'm frightened! ..." She felt as if she were sinking into the snow, into a fleecy, bottomless abyss. Her knees knocked to- gether and he saw that she was giving way. He held her up and she fell against him almost swoon- ing. . . . He rang the bell. . . . The door was opened. It was Addie who opened the door. They entered; Constance staggered as she went. And, in her half-swooning giddiness, she seemed to see the house full of whirling snow- flakes, coming through the roof, filling the passage and the rooms; and, amid this strange snow, her son's face appeared to her as the face of a ghost, very white, with the blue flame of his big eyes. . . . At that moment there came from upstairs a wailing cry, a long-drawn-out shriek, uttered in an agony of despair; and that cry seemed to call to Constance out of Adeline's body through all that night of snow indoors and out. u Mamma, Papa, hush! . . . Uncle Gerrit . . . Uncle Gerrit is . . . dead. . . . Uncle Gerrit has ..." It was snowing, before Constance' giddy eyes, as she went up the stairs, with her husband and her son; it was snowing wildly, a whirl of all- obliterating white; it was snowing all around her. 362 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS And through it, for the second time, Adeline's long wail of despair rang out loud and shrill. . . . The rooms upstairs were open. . . . The maids . . . and Marietje in her little nightgown . . r were peeping round the doors, trembling. . . . Gerrit's little room was open . . . and on the floor lay the big body, looking bigger still, stretched out like that . . . and, beside it, beside the big body, on her knees, the wife . . . the small, fair-haired wife. . . . And her wail of despair rang out for the third time. " Adeline !" She now looked round, flung up her arms, felt her sister's arms, Constance' arms, around her: "He's dead! He's dead!" " No, Adeline . . . perhaps he's fainted." 14 He's dead! He's dead! . . . He's cold . . . wet . . . blood . . . feel! ..." She uttered a scream of horror, the small, fair-haired wife. And suddenly, drawing herself up, she looked at the sword-rack. . . . Yes, the missing revolver ... was clutched in his stiff hand. Van der Welcke and Addie closed the doors. The maids were sobbing outside. But the sound of little voices came; and small fists banged at the closed door: 11 Mamma ! Mamma ! Mamma ! . . . Aunt Constance ! " THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 363 Constance rose, giddy arid fainting, not knowing whether to go or stay. . . . 44 Constance ! Constance ! " cried Adeline, call- ing her back, holding her in her arms. 44 Mamma ! Mamma ! . . . Aunt Constance 1 Aunt Constance ! " Constance rose to her feet, made a vast effort to overcome that dizzy faintness . . . and, now that the body of the small, fair-haired woman lay moan- ing upon the body of the dead man, she opened the door. . . . Was every light in the house full on? Why were the maids sobbing like that? Was it real then, was it real? . . . Was this Marietje, clasping her so convulsively, trembling in her little nightgown? . . . Were these Guy and Alex, sleepy still their gentle eyes, cheeky their little mouths? . . . Were these Gerdy— oh, so frightened! — and little Constant? . . . 44 Aunt Constance, Aunt Constance ! M She overcame her dizziness, she did not faint: 44 Darlings, my darlings, hush! . . . Hush! . . ." And she led them back to their bedroom. . . . What could she do but embrace them, but press them to her? . . . 44 Darlings, my darlings ! . . . " The wail of despair rang out once more. . . . Oh, she must go back to that poor woman ! Oh, she had not arms enough, not lives enough! . . . Oh, she must multiply her life tenfold! . . ,. ; 364 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS " Mamma." It was Addie speaking. " The cab is here. . . . I'm going for Dr. Alsma. One of the maids has gone to another doctor, close by." " Yes, dear; and then . . . and then go to . . . oh, go to Grandmamma's! She's expecting us! I know for certain that she's expecting us ! . . . Stay in here, darlings, don't leave the room, promise me! . . . And, Addie, don't tell her . . . don't tell her anything yet . . . tell her . . . tell her that ..." The wail of despair rang out. And there were only two of them, now that Addie was gone, there were only two of them, helpless, she and Henri, in that night of death and snow — as though death were snowing outside, as though death were snowing into the brightly-lit house, with its all-obliterating whiteness, dazzlingly light, dazzlingly white — there were only two of them. . . . CHAPTER XXIX The twilight had passed away in the dazzling white light. But yonder, in the big, dark, chilly house, the old woman sat waiting. She had sent the maids to bed and told them to put out all the lights, but she herself did not go to bed; she waited. She sat in her big, dark room, with just a candle flickering on the table beside her. It seemed to her that she was waiting a long time. She felt very cold, though she had put her little black shawl round her shoulders. And she peered into the frowning shadow, which quivered with dancing black ghosts and with the flickering of the candle. It was a dance of ghosts, hovering silently round the room, and they seemed to have come from the distant past to haunt her, to have come out of the things of long ago, of very long ago: far-off, forgotten years of childhood and girl- hood; the young man whom she had married; their long life together; their children, young around them. . . . Then the rise of their greatness; the rise of the white palaces in tropical climes; the glitter around them and their children of all the glittering vanity of the world. . . . Then the child- ren growing up and moving farther and farther 365 366 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS away from her. . . . And she saw it all looming so darkly and so menacingly in the long, dark rooms, while she sat waiting and watching by the flickering flame of the candle. Then her old head nodded very slowly up and down, as if to say that she recognized all the things of long ago which loomed so darkly and threaten- ingly, that there was not a ghost which she did not recognize, but that she did not understand why they all thronged round her to-night, like a vision of menace, a dance of death. . . . And, while she sat and wondered, it was as if each dancing phantom blacked out something of the room and the present that she still saw faintly gleaming, blacked out one outline after the other with dancing phantom after dancing phantom, until at last all was black around her . . . and not only the room and the present had become black, but also the pale visions of the past: the years of childhood and girlhood; the young man whom she had married; and the children; and all the life, yonder, in the white palaces amid the tropical scenery : black, everything became black, until everything was blotted out, until the dance of all those phantoms was obliterated in shadow and the old woman, nodding her head, still sat peering into the dark, with the flickering candle beside her. Thus she sat and waited; and, with the darkness before her, it was as if she did not see the candle, now that everything had become black. Thus she THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 367 sat and waited and wondered whether many and many nights would still drag their blackness over her: how many black hours, how many black nights could the black future still drag along? . . . Until at last she heard a bell, clanging like a shrill alarm through the livid darkness. And mechanically — because she was waiting — she rose painfully and took her candle. Through the dark room and the dim passage she went; and the faint light went with her, so faint that she did not see it, that she just groped her way painfully through the passage and down the stairs, still holding high the candle. . . . The stairs seemed steep to her and she went cau- tiously, waiting on each step; at each step the faint light of the candle descended with her; and behind her the night accumulated with each step that she left behind her. . . . She had now reached the foot of the stairs; and, slowly and painfully, with the dragging tread of age, she went through the hall to the front door, whence the alarm had rung. And her trembling hand opened the door. Addie entered: 44 Granny, is that you yourself? ..." 44 Yes, child." 44 1 came, Granny dear, because Mamma said that you expected us." 44 Yes." 44 Were you waiting up for us, Granny? " 44 Yes." 368 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS He took the candle out of her hand: " I have come to say, Granny . . . that there's nothing wrong with Uncle Gerrit. ..." She nodded her head wisely. 11 Now you won't wait any longer for Mamma, Granny . . . and you'll go to bed, won't you? . . ... Can I do anything more for you?" She nodded her head: " Yes," she said. "What, Granny dear? Shall I hold the candle for you and will you go to bed then? " "No, no. ..." " What do you want to do then, Granny dear? " "Wait. ..." "Are you still waiting for Mamma?" " Yes." " But perhaps she won't come. ..." She nodded her head again. He gently led her away from where she stood and up the stairs : " So you are not going to bed yet? " She shook her head. "Are you still expecting Mamma?" She nodded. " Shall I light the gas, Grandmamma? " She put her hand on his arm to prevent him: " No, no," she said. " It's dark. There is no light." " But won't you have the gas lit, Grandmamma ? " THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS 369 44 There is no light." 44 You would do better to go to bed." 44 Mamma's coming." " She will hardly come now, Granny." 11 She's coming." A bell rang; and Addie started. 44 She's coming," repeated the old woman. Addie went downstairs and opened the door. It was Constance, with a cab, in the driving snow. 44 Mamma! ..." 44 I've come. ... I left the doctor and Papa . . . with Aunt Adeline. ..." 44 Grandmamma is expecting you ..." They went in. And it semed to Constance as though, after the whiteness outside and all the despair yonder, she saw it snowing here, inside the house, snowing black, with dark, black snow-flakes, inside the hall, inside the rooms; and the face of her mother, sitting beside the candle, stared at her, like a ghost, with glassy eyes. . . . 44 Mamma! ..." 44 Constance, there's nothing wrong . . . with Gerrit?" 44 No, oh no, Mamma ! " 44 I'm glad, I'm glad, dear. And there's nothing wrong . . . with Ernst either?" 44 No, oh no, Mamma!" 44 So there's nothing wrong with any of them?" 44 No, they're all well, Mamma ! " 370 THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS " All well ... all well. I'm glad, dear . . . especially as to-night ..." "What, Mamma?" 11 Is the last time. The last Sunday. I am too tired, dear . . . and they . . . they are all too far. . . . And, if there's nothing wrong with any of them ... if they're all well ..." " Then . . . ? " 11 Then . . . then no more . . . Sundays. . . . And this house ... is too big . . . and the house is so cold, so cold. The house is so cold and so big. . . . And the cold house is so dark. . . . And Mamma wants ..." ' " What do you want, Mamma? " " To come to you, dear . . . now that you are back . . . from Brussels. . . . To you, dear . . . Mamma . . . Mamma wants to come ... to you. ..." 11 Do you want to come to us, Mamma? " " Yes, to you . . . dear. . . . To you, dear. . . . So Gerrit ... is well? " "Oh yes, Mamma . . . he's well. ..." "Then . . . then all is well. ..." Suddenly the candle flared up and went out. Then they lit the gas and took the old woman up to bed. She submitted like a child. For around her, after her last glimmer of light, the twilight had deepened into black night. THE END THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW AN INITIAL FINE OF 25 CENTS WILL BE ASSESSED FOR FAILURE TO RETURN THIS BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY WILL INCREASE TO 50 CENTS ON THE FOURTH DAY AND TO $1.00 ON THE SEVENTH DAY OVERDUE. DEC 14 1932 AUG 11 1934 . 6IAH 2; 27 REC'D LO OCT 2 5 19^ APR 14 1980 (sc.cw.wifc' 80 i* LD 21-50ui-8,'32 CDS3S33314S UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA UBI^RY