7 The Later Life THE LATER LIFE BY LOUIS COUPERUS Author of "Small Souls," "Footsteps of Fate," etc. TRANSLATED BT ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS COPYRIGHT, 1915 BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY TRANSLATOR'S NOTE The Later Life is the second of The Books of the Small Souls, following immediately upon Small Souls, the novel that gives the title to the series. In the present story, Couperus reverts, at times and in a measure, to that earlier, " sensitivist " method which he abandoned almost wholly in Small Souls and which he again abandons in The Twilight of the Souls and in Dr. Adriaan, the third and fourth novels of the series. ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS. CHELSEA, 22 March, 1914. The Later Life CHAPTER I VAN DER WELCKE woke that morning from a long, sound sleep and stretched himself luxuriously in the warmth of the sheets. But suddenly he remembered what he had been dreaming; and, as he did so, he gazed into the wardrobe-glass, in which he could just see himself from his pillow. A smile began to flicker about his curly moustache ; his blue eyes lit up with merriment. The sheets, which still covered his body he had flung his arms above his head rose and fell with the ripple of his silent chuckles; and suddenly, irrepressibly, he burst into a loud guffaw: " Addie 1 " he shouted, roaring with laughter. " Addie, are you up ? ... Addie, come here for a minute ! " The door between the two rooms opened; Addie entered. " Addie ! . . . Just imagine . . . just imagine what I've been dreaming. It was at the seaside Ostende or Scheveningen or somewhere and ev- erybody, everybody was going about . . . half- naked . . . their legs bare . . . and the rest beau- tifully dressed. The men had coloured shirts and light jackets and exquisite ties and straw hats, gloves and a stick in their hands . . and the rest . . . 2 THE LATER LIFE the rest was stark naked. The ladies wore lovely blouses, magnificent hats, parasols . . . and that was all! . . . And there was nothing in it, Addie, really there was nothing in it; it was all quite natural, quite proper, quite fashionable; and they walked about like that and sat on chairs and listened to the music! . . . And the fishermen . . . the fishermen, Addie, went about like that too ! . . . And the mu- sicians ... in the bandstand . . . were half- naked too; and . . . the tails ... of their dress- coats . . . hung down . . . well . . . like that! " Van der Welcke, as he told his dream in broken sentences, lay shaking with laughter; his whole bed shook, the sheets rose and fell; he was red in the face, as if on the verge of choking; he wept as though consumed with grief; he gasped for breath, threw the bed-clothes off : ' Just imagine it ... just imagine it ... you never . . . you never saw such a stretch of sands as that! " Addie had begun by listening with his usual serious face ; but, when he saw his father crying and gasping for breath, rolling about in the bed, and when the vision of those sands became clearer to his imagination, he also was seized with irresistible laughter. But he had one peculiarity, that he could not laugh outright, but, shaken with internal merri- ment, would laugh in his stomach without utter- ing a sound; and he now sat on the edge of his THE LATER LIFE 3 father's bed, rocking with silent laughter as the bed rocked under him. He tried not to look at his father, for, when he saw his father's face, dis- torted and purple with his paroxysms of laughter, lying on the white pillow like the mask of some faun, he had to make agonized clutches at his stomach and, bent double, to try to laugh outright; and he couldn't, he couldn't. " Doesn't it ... doesn't it ... strike you as funny? " asked Van der Welcke, hearing no sound of laughter from his son. And he looked at Addie and, suddenly remember- ing that Addie could never roar with laughter out loud, he became still merrier at the sight of his poor boy's silent throes, his noiseless stomach-laugh, until his own laughter rang through the room, echo- ing back from the walls, filling the whole room with loud Homeric mirth. " Oh, Father, stop ! " said Addie at last, a little relieved by his internal paroxysms, the tears stream- ing in wet streaks down his face. And he heaved a sigh of despair that he could not laugh like his father. " Give me a pencil and paper," said Van der Welcke, " and I'll draw you my dream." But Addie was very severe and shocked: "No, Father, that won't do! That'll never do. . . . it'd be a vulgar drawing! " And his son's chaste seriousness worked to such 4 THE LATER LIFE an extent upon Van der Welcke's easily tickled nerves that he began roaring once more at Addie's indignation . . . Truitje was prowling about the passage, knock- ing at all the doors, not knowing where Addie was : " Are you up, Master Addie? " " Yes," cried Addie. " Wait a minute." He went to the door: "What is it?" " A telegram . . . from the mistress, I ex- pect . . ." " Here." He took the telegram, shut the door again. " From Mamma? " asked Van der Welcke. " Sure to be. Yes, from Paris : ' J' arrive ce soir.' " Van der Welcke grew serious: " And high time too. What business had Mamma to go rushing abroad like that? . . . One'd think we were well off ... What did you do about those bills, Addie? " " I went to the shops and said that mevrouw was out of town and that they'd have to wait." " I see. That's all right . . . Can you meet Mamma at the station? " " Yes. The train's due at six ... Then we'll have dinner afterwards, with Mamma." " I don't know ... I think I'd better dine at the club." THE LATER LIFE 5 " Come, Father, don't be silly! " " No," said Van der Welcke, crossly, " don't bother me. I'll stay on at the Witte." " But don't you see that means starting off with a manifestation? Whereas, if you wait in for Mamma peacefully and we all have dinner together, then things'll come right of themselves. That'll be much easier than if you go staying out at once: Mamma would only think it rude." "Rude? . . . Rude? . . ." " Well, there's nothing to flare up about ! And you just come home to dinner. Then you'll be on the right side." " I'll think it over. If I don't look out, you'll be bossing me altogether." " Well, then, don't mind me, stay at the Witte." " Oho! So you're offended, young man? " " Oh, no! I'd rather you came home, of course; but, if you prefer to dine at the Witte, do." " Dearly-beloved son ! " said Van der Welcke, throwing out his hands with a comical gesture of resignation. " Your father will obey your sapient wishes." " Fond Father, I thank you. But I must be off to school now." " Good-bye, then . . . and you'd better forget those sands." They both exploded and Addie hurried away and vanished, shaking with his painful stomach-laugh, 6 THE LATER LIFE while he heard Van der Welcke break into a fresh guffaw : " He can laugh ! " thought the boy. CHAPTER II VAN DER WELCKE had dressed and breakfasted and, because he felt bored, took his bicycle and went for a long ride by himself. He was very often bored these days, now that Addie was work- ing hard at the grammar-school. Without his boy, he seemed at once to have nothing to do, no object in life; he could see no reason for his exist- ence. He would smoke endless cigarettes in his den, or go jbicycling, or turn up once in a way at the Plaats, once in a way at the Witte; but he did not go to either of his clubs as often as he used to. He saw much less of his friends, his friends of former days, the men of birth and position who had all won fame in their respective spheres, though Van Vreeswijck continued his visits regularly, ap- preciating the cosy little dinners. Van der Welcke generally felt lonely and stranded, found his own company more and more boring from day to day; and it was only when he saw his boy come back from school that he cheered up, enjoyed life, was glad and lively as a child. He loved the quick movement of it; and he cycled and cycled along the lonely, chill, windy country- roads, aiming at no destination, just pedalling away for the sake of speed, for the sake of covering the 7 8 THE LATER LIFE ground. If he were only rich: then he'd have a motor-car! There was nothing like a motor-car! A motor-car made up for this rotten, stodgy, boring life. To rush along the smooth roads in your car, to let her rip : tock, tock, tock, tock, tock-tock-tock- tock ! Ha I ... Ha ! . . . That would be grand ! Suppose his father were to make him a present of a car . . . Ha! . . . Tock-tock-tock-tock ! . . . And, as he spurted along, he suggested to himself the frantic orgy of speed of a puffing, snorting motor- car, the acrid stench of its petrol-fumes, the ready obedience of the pneumatic-tyred wheels while the car flew through the dust like a storm-chariot over the clouds. It made him poetic tock-tock-tock- tock, tock-tock-tock-tock but, as long as his father lived, he would never have enough money to buy himself a decent car ! Life was stodgy, rotten, boring ... If only Addie had finished school ! But then . . . then he would have to go to the university . . . and into the diplomatic service . . . No, no, the older his boy grew, the less he would see of him . . . How wretched it all was : he did not know whether to wish that Addie was older or not! ... To think, it wasn't a year ago since the child used to sit on his knee, with his cheek against his father's, his arm round his father's neck; and Van der Welcke would feel that slight and yet sturdy frame against his heart; and now . . . now already he was a lad, a THE LATER LIFE 9 chap with a deep voice, who ruled his father with a rod of iron ! Yes, Van der Welcke was simply ruled by him: there was no getting away from it! Sup- pose he wanted to stay and dine at the Witte that night: why the blazes shouldn't he? And he knew as sure as anything that he wouldn't! He would come home like a good little boy, because Addie had rather he did, because otherwise Addie would look upon it as a manifestation against Constance . . . She too was coming back, after Addie had written that it really wouldn't do, financially. She had run away like a madwoman, two months ago, after that pleasant business at the last Sunday-evening which they had spent at Mamma van Lowe's, after the furious scene which she had made him, Van der Welcke, because he wanted to hit their brother-in- law, Van Naghel, in the face. Mind, it was for her, for his wife's sake, that he wanted to hit Van Naghel in the face. For her sake, because that pompous ass had dared to say that he wasn't keen on Constance calling on Bertha's at-home day . . . but that in other respects they were brothers and sisters ! The disgusting snob ! That old woman, that non- entity, that rotter, that twopenny-halfpenny cabinet- minister, who had got on simply because old Van Lowe, in his day, had kicked him upstairs step by step ! . . . Van der Welcke was still furious when he thought of the fellow, with his smooth face and his namby-pamby speeches. He hadn't been able to io THE LATER LIFE control himself that time : his wife, at any rate, was his wife; his wife was Baroness van der Welcke; and he couldn't stand it, that they should insult his wife and before his face too; and, if Paul had not prevented him, he would have struck the snobbish ass in the face, thrashed him, thrashed him, thrashed him! His blood still boiled at the thought of it . . . Well, there it was! Paul had held him back . . . but still, he would have liked to chal- lenge the fellow, to have fought a duel with him ! . . . He grinned pedalling like mad, bending over like a record-breaker at the last lap of a bicycle- race he grinned now when he thought of the de- spair of the whole family, because their revered brother-in-law Van Naghel, " his excellency," whom they all looked up to with such reverence, might have to fight a duel with a brother-in-law who was already viewed with sufficient disfavour at the Hague! . . . Well, it hadn't come off. They had all inter- fered; but it wasn't for that reason, but because dear old Mamma van Lowe had taken to her bed and also for Addie's sake that he had not insisted on the duel. Yes, those Dutchmen : they never wanted to fight if they could help it ! He, Van der Welcke, would have liked to fight, though Van Naghel had been a thousand times his brother-in-law, a thousand times colonial secretary. And it wasn't only that the whole family had thought the very idea of a duel so dreadful; but his wise son had interfered, THE LATER LIFE n had taken up a very severe attitude to his father, had reproached him because he still " a young man," as Addie put it in his amusing way wanted to in- sult and strike a man of Uncle van Naghel's age, even though it was for Mamma's sake ! And Addie had gone to Frans van Naghel, the eldest son, the undergraduate, of whom he was very fond; and Frans was furious, wanted to take his father's place and fight in his stead. But Addie had said that Papa was in the wrong, that Papa had lost his self- control; and he had calmed Frans and told him, his father, positively, that it was his, Van der Welcke's, duty to apologize to Uncle van Naghel ! That boy, that boy, thought Van der Welcke, thinking half- angrily of his son's perpetual tutelage. It was really too silly: if he didn't look out, the brat would twist him round his little finger entirely. A little chap like that, a schoolboy of fourteen . . . and yet the beggar had managed so that Frans did not challenge Van der Welcke and that Van der Welcke had sent Van Naghel a note of apology, a note the thought of which made him boil even now, made him rant and curse at the thought that he had let him- self be persuaded by the fourteen-year-old school- boy. And then he had had to express his regret to Mamma van Lowe into the bargain; but that he didn't mind, for she was an old dear and he thought it too bad that the wretched affair should have made her ill. And so the fourteen-year-old schoolboy 12 THE LATER LIFE had succeeded in hushing up a Hague scandal, just like a grown-up man . . . When you came to think of it, it was simply absurd, incredible; you would never have believed it if you read it in a book; and it was the positive truth: the schoolboy had prevented the cabinet-minister or his son from fighting a duel with the schoolboy's father! . . . And now Van der Welcke had to choke with laughter at the thought of it; and, as he spurted along the roads, like a professional, with his back bent into an arch, he roared with laughter all by himself and thought: " Lord, what an extraordinary beggar he is! " But the boy's mother, after scene upon scene with him, the father; his mother, furious that her hus- band should have dared to raise his hand against that revered brother-in-law, " his excellency;" his mother, driven out of her senses, with every nerve on edge after all that she had had to endure that Sunday: his mother the boy had not been able to restrain; a woman is always more difficult to manage than a man; a mother is not half so easy as a father! Constance, after one of those scenes which followed one upon the other as long as the atmosphere re- mained charged with electricity, had said: "I'm sick of it all; I'm going away; I'm going abroad!" And even the fact that she was leaving her son be- hind her did not bring her to reason. She packed her trunks, told Truitje to keep house for the master THE LATER LIFE 13 and Master Addle as she herself used to and went away, almost insolently, hardly even saying good- bye to Addie. . . . They thought at first that she would do something rash, goodness knows what, and were anxious because they didn't know where Constance had gone; but the next day there was a telegram from Paris to reassure them, telling them that Constance was going to Nice and meant to stay some time. Then letters came from Nice and they had no more fears, nor had Mamma van Lowe; they all thought the change might even do her good; and she continued pretty sensible. She wrote to her mother, to Addie; she wrote to Truitje, impress- ing upon her to look after the house well and after the master and Master Addie and to see that every- thing was going on all right when her mistress re- turned. And this sensible, housewifely letter had done more than anything to reassure Mamma van Lowe and the two of them; and now they didn't grudge Constance, Mamma, her trip, for once in a way. But it was an expensive amusement. Con- stance, it was true, had taken some money of her own with her; but still, since they had come to the Hague, Van der Welcke no longer made anything out of wine- and insurance-commissions; he was no longer an agent for the Brussels firms; and they had not much to live on and had to be very economical. And so Van der Welcke, after seven weeks had passed, was obliged to tell Addie that it wouldn't i 4 THE LATER LIFE do for Mamma to stay on at Nice, in an expensive hotel, and that he had better write to her. And the schoolboy had written asking his mother to come back now, telling his mother that that would have to do and that there was no money left. And Con- stance was coming home that evening. Van der Welcke was in good spirits all day, per- haps through the after-effects of his dream he kept seeing those sands before his eyes and, pedalling along like mad, he sat shaking in his sad- dle, thinking of that young scamp of his, who ruled over his father and mother. It wasn't right, it was too absurd, soon they would neither of them be able to call their souls their own; but the boy was so sensible and he was always the little peacemaker, who settled everything. Yes, the scamp was the joy of his life; and really, really, except for the boy, everything was unrelieved gloom ... If only he could buy a motor-car, or at least a motor-cycle. He must find out one day, just ask what a motor-cycle cost . . . But, apart from that, what was there? Especially now that they two Constance in par- ticular had wanted at all costs to " rehabilitate " themselves, as Constance called it, in Hague society and now that they had failed utterly through that scene with Van Naghel, things were stodgier than ever . . . with no one to come and see them but Van Vreeswijck, with no outside interests what- ever. It was his fault, his fault, his wife kept re- THE LATER LIFE 15, preaching him in their scenes, almost with enjoy- ment, revelling in her revenge, because he, not long ago, had reproached her that it was her fault, her fault that they were buried away there, " cursing their luck in the Kerkhoflaan." And he was sorry too because of Marianne: she used to come and dine once in a way; when Van Vreeswijck was coming, Constance would ask either Paul or Marianne, to make four; and, now that he had insulted her father, she wouldn't come again, they were on unfriendly terms not only with the parents, but also with the daughter . . . and with the sons, to the great re- gret of Addie, who was very fond of Frans and Henri . . . His fault! His fault I Perhaps it was his fault, but he couldn't always restrain him- self, control himself, master himself. Possibly, if he had stuck to his career, he would have learnt to do it, after his training in diplomatic reserve ... or else he would always have remained an indifferent diplomatist. That might have happened too; it was quite possible! . . . Yes, he was sorry . . . because of Marianne. She was a nice girl, so nat- ural, so unaffected, in spite of her worldly environ- ment; and he liked her eyes, her voice. He was sorry . . . because of Marianne; but it couldn't be helped: although he had written to her father, she would not come to the house again, she would never come again, he thought. And he almost sighed, sadly, he did not know 1 6 THE LATER LIFE why, no doubt because life would be still more stodgy without Marianne's eyes and voice. But, after all, it was only once every four or five weeks that she used to come and dine ; so what did it really matter? What did it matter? No, really nothing mattered; really, the whole world was a sickening, stodgy business, rottenly managed . . . Oh, if he could only have bought a motor 1 The longing was so intense, so violent that he was almost tempted to ask his father for one straight out. And now, while he spurted home after his long ride, he hummed between his teeth, to the rhythm of the flying wheels, a song which he suddenly made up for himself : " A motor-car and a motor-car : Ottocar in a motor-car Ottocar in a motor-carl " And burning with his longing for the unattain- able, he pedalled away Ottocar in a motor-car ! in a mad frenzy, delighting in the sheer speed of his ride, which made people turn round and stare at him, at his arched back and his piston-legs, like an automaton's . . . He came home very late, just as Addle was start- ing to go to the station. " I really thought, Daddy, that you were staying at the Witte after all! " said the boy. " You're so late!" " No, old chap, I wouldn't have dared do that! " cried Van der Welcke. " Ottocar in a motor- THE LATER LIFE 17 car! I've been cycling my legs off and I'm tired out." " You're quite red in the face." "Yes, I've had great fun! Ottocar in his motor-car! You see, I've got to have my fun by myself . . . when you're cooped up at school." " What are you saying, Father, about Ottocar? " "Nothing, nothing, it's a song: Ottocar in his motor-car! . . ." "Well, I'm off ... to meet Mamma. Good- bye, you mad old Dad! " " Good-bye, my boy . . . Come here a mo- ment . . ." "What's the matter now? . . ." " Old chap, I feel so lonely sometimes ... so terribly alone ... so forlorn . . . Tell me, Ad- die, you'll always be your father's chum, won't you? . . . You won't leave me, like all the rest? You'll stay with your old father?" " But, Daddy, what makes you so sentimental suddenly? " " Oh, no, I'm not sentimental . . . but, my dear boy, I'm so awfully bored sometimes ! " " Then why don't you find more to do, Daddy? " " Oh, my boy, what would you have me do? . . . Oh, if I only had a car! " "A car? . . ." " A motor-car ! Like Ottocar ! " And Van der Welcke burst out laughing: 1 8 THE LATER LIFE " He at least had one ! " he bellowed, amidst his laughter. " Father, you're mad ! " * Yes, to-day . . . because of that dream, those wonderful sands . . . Oh, how I wish I were Ot- tocar ! . . . My boy, my boy, I'm so terribly bored sometimes ! " " And just after you've had a jolly bicycle-ride ! " " All on my own . . . with my head full of all sorts of wretched thoughts! . . ." " Well, to-morrow, Wednesday afternoon, we'll go together." " Do you mean it? A long ride? To-morrow? To-morrow? " " Yes, certainly, a long ride." " You brick ! My own Addie ! My boy ! My boy!" He was as grateful as a child, caught his son in his arms: " Addie, let me give you one more hug! " 11 Well, be quick about it, Father, for I must really go, or I shall be late." Van der Welcke put his arms round him, kissed him on both cheeks and flew upstairs. He un- dressed, flung his clothes to right and left, washed his face in a huge basin of water, shaved quickly, dressed himself neatly. He did all this with much fuss and rushing about, as though his toilet was a most important affair. Then he went downstairs. THE LATER LIFE 19 The table was laid. It was nearly seven. Con- stance would be there in no time. And, sitting down in the drawing-room with a cigarette, looking round the room Constance' room all over, in which he sat as a stranger he hummed, while he waited for his wife and his son: " And Ottocar had a motor-car; but I have none! . CHAPTER III ADDIE ran up the stairs to the platform just as the train from Paris steamed in. He hurried along, looking into the windows . . . There was Mamma, there was Mamma! And he flung himself on the handle, pulled open the door, helped Constance to alight. "Ah!" he said. "There you are! There you are at last! " She laughed, kissed him, her handsome, sturdy boy: " My boy, how could I do so long without you? " " Ah, so you see ! You're surprised at it your- self! Come, make haste, I've got a cab. Give me your luggage-ticket." He swept her along; and, in the cab, while they were waiting for the luggage : " Tell me, Addie," she said, " is there really no money left? " " Do you imagine that, when you go spending seven weeks at Nice, in a first-class hotel, there'll still be money? " " I never thought of it like that," she said meekly. He laughed, thought her tremendously amusing. She laughed too, they both bubbled with mirth, 20 THE LATER LIFE 21 Constance glad at seeing him, at finding him look- ing so well and in such good spirits. " Mamma, you're hopeless 1 " he exclaimed. 11 Did you really never think that there was no money left? " " No," said Constance, humbly. And they both started laughing again. He shook his head, considered her incorrigible: " And I've got some bills too, for the things you bought when you went away." " Oh, yes! " she said, remembering. " But they can wait." " I told them that you were abroad and that they'd have to wait." " Of course," said she. And they arrived in the Kerkhoflaan in excellent spirits. '' Well, Truitje, have you looked after the master and Master Addie nicely? " " I did the best I could, ma'am . . . But it's just as well you're back again . . ." "Well, Constance?" "Well, Henri?" "Did you have a good time?" " Yes." " You're looking well." ' Thanks. . . . Oh, have you waited dinner for me?" "Well, of course!" 22 THE LATER LIFE " I'll go and wash my hands and I'll be down immediately." " Mamma never thought for a moment . . . that there was no money left," said Addie. " Nonsense ! " said Van der Welcke. But he seemed to consider it quite natural; and, when Constance came downstairs, he said, laughing: " Didn't you think that there was no money left?" Constance glanced up, imagining that he meant to make a scene. But he was smiling; and his question sounded good-humoured. " No! " she said, as if it was only natural. And now they all went into fits of laughter, Addie with his silent convulsions, which made him shake up and down painfully. " Do laugh right out, boy!" said Van der Welcke, teasing him. " Do laugh right out, if you can." They were very gay as they sat down to dinner. " And just guess," said Constance, " whom I met in the hotel at Nice, whom I sat next to at the table d'hote: the d'Azignys, from Rome . . . The first people I met, the d'Azignys. It's incredible how small the world is, how small, how small ! " He also remembered the d'Azignys: the French ambassador at Rome and his wife . . . fifteen years ago now . . . THE LATER LIFE 23 " Really? " he asked, greatly interested. " Were they all right?" " Oh, quite," she said, " quite ! I remembered them at once, but didn't bow. But d'Azigny was very polite; and, after a minute or two, he spoke to me, asked if he wasn't right in thinking I was the Baronne de Staffelaer. ' Baronne van der Welcke,' I replied. He flushed up and his wife nudged him, but after that they were very charming and amiable all the time I was at Nice. I saw a lot of them and, through their introduction, I went to a splendid ball at the Due de Rivoli's. I enjoyed it thoroughly. I wore a beautiful dress, I was in my element once more, I was a foreigner, everybody was very pleas- ant and I felt light-hearted again, quit of everything and everybody, and I thought to myself . . ." "Well, what did you think?" " Oh, if only we had never gone back to Holland ! If, when Brussels became so dull, we had just moved to a town like Nice. It's delightful there. As a foreigner, you need have nothing to trouble about, you can do just as you like, know just whom you please. You feel so free, so free . . . And why, I thought, must Addie become and remain a Dutch- man? He could just as well be a Frenchman . . . or a cosmopolitan. . . ." ' Thank you, Mamma : I don't feel like being a Frenchman, nor yet a cosmopolitan. And you'd 24 THE LATER LIFE better not say that to Uncle Gerrit, or you can look out for squalls." " Addle, I've met with so many squalls in my dear Holland that I feel like blowing away myself, away from everybody . . ." " Including your son? " " No, my boy. I missed you. I thought of you every day. I am so glad to see you again. But I did think to myself that we should have done better never to come back to Holland." " Yes," said Van der Welcke, thoughtfully. " We could have lived at Nice, if we liked." "Yes," Van der Welcke admitted, a little du- biously, " but you were longing for your family." She clenched her little hand and struck the table with it: " And you ! " she cried. " Didn't you long for your parents, for your country? " " But not so much as you did." " And who thought it necessary for Addle ? I didn't! " she exclaimed, in a shrill voice. " I didn't for a moment ! It was you ! " " Oh, d ," said Addle, almost breaking into an oath. " My dearest parents, for Heaven's sake don't begin quarrelling at once, for I assure the two of you that, if you do, I'll blow away and /'// go to Nice . . . money or no money! " Van der Welcke and Constance gave one roar and Addie joined in the laugh. THE LATER LIFE 25 " Oh, that boy ! " said Van der Welcke, choking with merriment. ' That boy! " Constance uttered a deep sigh: "Oh, Addie!" she said. "Mamma does and says such strange things, sometimes . . . but she doesn't mean them a bit. She's really glad to be back again, in her horrid country . . . and in her own home, her dear cosy home . . . and with her son, her darling boy!" And, throwing her arm round his neck, she let her head fall on his breast and she sobbed, sobbed aloud, so that Truitje, entering the room, started, but then, accustomed to these perpetual, inevitable scenes, quietly went on laying the dessert-plates. Van der Welcke fiddled with his knife. " Why can't those two manage to get on better together?" thought Addie, sadly, while he com- forted his mother and gently patted her shoul- der . . . " AND shall Mamma show you what she looked like at the Due de Rivoli's? " Dinner was over and she was sitting by her open trunk, while Truitje helped her unpack and put the things away. " I had my photograph taken at Nice. But first here's a work-box for Truitje, with Nice violets on it. Look, Truitje: it's palm-wood inlaid; a present for you. And here's one for cook." " Oh, thank you, ma'am ! " " And for my wise son I hunted all over Nice for a souvenir and found nothing, for I was afraid of bringing you something not serious enough for your patriarchal tastes; and so I had myself photo- graphed for you. There : the last frivolous portrait of your mother." She took the photograph from its envelope: it showed her at full-length, standing, in her ball-dress; a photograph taken with a great deal of artistry and chic, but too young, too much touched up, with a little too much pose about the hair, the fan, the train. He looked at her with a smile. " Well, what do you think of it? " she asked. " What a bundle of vanity you are, Mamma ! " 26 THE LATER LIFE 27 " Don't you like it? Then give it back at once." " Why, no, Mummy: I think it awfully jolly to have a photograph of you . . ." " Of my last mad mood. Now your mother is really going to grow old, my boy. Upon my word, I believe Truitje admires my portrait more than my son does! . . ." "Oh, ma'am, I think it's splendid!" " How many did you have done, Mummy? " " Six. One for Granny, one for Uncle Gerrit, one for Uncle Paul, one for you, one for my- self . . ." " And one for Papa." " Oh, Papa owns the original ! " " No, give your husband one." " Henri ! " she called. He came in. " Here's a portrait of your wife." "Lovely!" he exclaimed. "That's awfully good! Thanks very much." " Glad you like it. My husband and my hand- maid are satisfied, at any rate. My son thinks me a bundle of vanity . . . Oh, how glad I am to be back! . . . Here's the ball-dress. We'll put it away to-morrow. I shall never wear the thing again. A dress that cost six hundred francs for one wearing. Now we'll be old again and economical." They all laughed, including Truitje. " Oh, how glad I am to be back! . . . My own 28 THE LATER LIFE room, my own cupboards . . . Truitje, what did you give your masters to eat? " " Well, just what you used to, ma'am! . . ." " So it was all right? I wasn't missed? . . ." " Oh, but you mustn't go away for so long again, ma'am! " said Truitje, in alarm. Constance laughed and stretched herself out on her sofa, glad to be home. Van der Welcke left the room with his photograph, Truitje with her work-box. " Come here, Addie. Papa has had you for seven weeks. Now you belong to me ... for an indefinite period." She drew him down beside her, took his hands. It struck him that she looked tired, more like her years, not like her photograph; and, his mind travelling swiftly to his father, he thought his father so young, outwardly a young man and inwardly sometimes a child : Ottocar in a motor-car . . . " It's strange, Addie," she said, softly, " that you are only fourteen: you always seem to me at least twenty. And I think it strange also that I should have such a big son. So everything is strange. And your mother herself, my boy, is the strangest of all. If you ask me honestly if I like being ' vain,' I mean, taking part in social frivolities, I shouldn't know what to answer. I certainly used to enjoy it in the old days; and, a fortnight ago, I admit I looked upon it as a sort of youth that comes over THE LATER LIFE 29 one again; but really it all means nothing: just a little brilliancy; and then you feel so tired and empty . . . and so discontented . . ." She stopped suddenly, not caring to say more, and looked at the photograph, now lying on a table be- side her. It made her laugh again; and at the same time a tear trembled on her lashes. And she did not know if it gave her a peaceful feeling to be grow- ing old ... or if she regretted it. It was as though the sun of Nice had imbued her with a strange, dull melancholy which she herself did not understand. " To live! " she thought. " I have never lived. I would so gladly live once . . . just once. To live ! But not like this ... in a dress that cost six hundred francs. I know that, I know all about it: it is just a momentary brilliancy and then no- thing . . . To live! I should like to live . . . really . . . truly. There must be something. But it is a mad wish. I am too old. I am growing old, I am becoming an old woman . . . To live! I have never lived ... I have been in the world, as a woman of the world; I spoilt that life; then I hid myself ... I was so anxious to come back to my country and my family; and it all meant no- thing but a little show and illusion . . . and a great deal of disappointment. And so the days were wasted, one after the other, and I ... have . . . never . . . lived . . . Just as I throw away my 30 THE LATER LIFE money, so I have thrown away my days. Perhaps I have squandered all my days . . . for nothing. Oh, I oughtn't to feel like this! What does it mean when I do? What am I regretting? What is there left for me? At Nice, I thought for a mo- ment of joining in that feminine revolt against ap- proaching age; and I did join in it; and I succeeded. But what does it all mean and what is the use of it? It only means shining a little longer, for nothing; but it does not mean living . . . But to long for it doesn't mean anything either, for there is nothing for me now but to grow old, in my home ; and, even if I am not exactly among my people, my brothers and sisters, at any rate I have my mother . . . and, perhaps for quite a long time still, my son too . . ." " Mummy . . . what are you thinking about so deeply?" But she smiled, said nothing, looked earnestly at him: " He's much fonder of his father," she thought. " I know it, but it can't be helped. I must put up with it and accept what he gives me." " Come, Mummy, what are you thinking about? " " Lots of things, my boy . . . and perhaps no- thing . . . Mamma feels so lonely . . . with no one about her . . . except you . . ." He started, struck by what she had said: it was almost the same words that his father had used that afternoon. THE LATER LIFE 31 " My boy, will you always stay with me ? You won't go away, like everybody? . . ." " Come, Mummy, you've got Granny and Uncle Gerrit and Uncle Paul." " Yes, they are nice," she said, softly. And she thought: " I shall lose him, later, when he's grown up ... I know that I shall lose him . . ." It made her feel very weak and helpless ; and she began to cry . . . He knelt down beside her and, in a stern voice, forbade her to be so excitable, forbade her to cry about nothing . . . It was heavenly to have him laying down the law like that. And she thought: " I shall lose him, when he's grown up ... Oh, let me be thankful that I have him still I . . ." Then, tired out, she went to sleep; and he left her, thinking to himself: " They both feel the same thing! " CHAPTER V SHE tried tyrannically to monopolize her son, so that Van der Welcke became very jealous. It was the next day, Wednesday afternoon. " Are you coming with me to Granny's? " " I promised Papa to go cycling." " You've had seven weeks for cycling with Papa." " I promised him yesterday that I would go for a long ride to-day." She was angry, offended: " The first day that I'm home! . . ." she began. He kissed her, with a shower of tiny little kisses, tried to appease her wrath: " I promised! " he said. "We don't go cycling together often. You will have me to yourself all the evening. Be sensible now and nice; and don't be so cross." She tried to be reasonable, but it cost her an ef- fort. She went alone to Mrs. van Lowe's. She saw two umbrellas in the hall: " Who is with mevrouw? " she asked the maid. " Mrs. van Naghel and Mrs. van Saetzema." She hesitated. She had not seen her sisters since that awful Sunday-evening. She had gone abroad five days after. But she wanted to show them . . . She went upstairs. Her step was no longer as 32 THE LATER LIFE 33 timid as when she climbed those stairs ten months ago, when she first came back among them all. She did not wish to seem arrogant, but also she did not wish to be too humble. She entered with a smile : " Mamma ! " she cried, gaily, kissing her mother. Mrs. van Lowe was surprised: "My child!" she exclaimed, trembling. "My child! Are you back? Are you back again? What a long time you've been abroad! " " I've enjoyed myself immensely. How d'ye do, Bertha? How d'ye do, Adolphine?" She did not shake hands, but just nodded to them, almost cordially, because of her mother, who looked anxiously at her three daughters. Bertha and Adolphine nodded back. Carelessly and easily, she took the lead in the conversation and talked about Nice. She tried to talk naturally, without brag- ging; but in spite of herself there was a note of tri- umph in her voice: " Yes, I felt I wanted to go abroad a bit ... Not nice of me to run away without saying good- bye, was it, Mamma dear? Well, you see, Con- stance sometimes behaves differently from other people ... I had a very pleasant time at Nice: full season, lovely weather." " Weren't you lonely? " " No, for on the very first day I met some of our Rome friends at the hotel . . ." She felt that Bertha started, blinked her eyes, 34 THE LATER LIFE disapproved of her for daring to speak of Rome. And she revelled in doing so, casually and airily, thought it delicious to dazzle Adolphine with a list of her social triumphs, very naturally de- scribed: " People we used to know in Rome: Comte and Comtesse d'Azigny. He was French ambassador in those days. They recognized me at once and were very kind-; and through the introduction I went to a glorious ball at the Duchesse de Rivoli's. And, Mummy, here's a portrait of your daughter in her ball-dress." She showed the photograph, enjoyed giving the almost too-well-executed portrait to Mamma, not to her sisters, while letting them see it. She described her dress, described the ball, bragging a little this time, saying that, after all, parties abroad were al- ways much grander than that " seeing a few friends " in Holland, addressing all her remarks to Mamma and, in words just tinged with ostentation, displaying no small scorn for Bertha's dinners and Adolphine's " little evenings:" " Everything here is on such a small scale," she continued. " There, the first thing you see is a suite of twelve rooms, all with electric light ... or, better still, all lit up with wax-candles . . . Yes, our little social efforts at the Hague cut a very poor figure beside it." She gave a contemptuous little laugh to annoy THE LATER LIFE 35 her sisters, while Mamma, always interested in the doings of the great, did not notice the contempt and was glad enough to see that the sisters behaved as usual to one another. And now Constance went on to say that everything had gone on so well at home, that Truitje had looked after everything, even though Constance had gone away indefinitely, an unprecedented thing, so unlike a Dutch house- wife ! Then she turned to her sisters with an in- different phrase or two; and they answered her al- most cordially, out of respect for Mamma . . . Adolphine was the first to leave, exasperated by Constance' insufferable tone, by all that talk about Nice, all those counts and dukes whom Constance had mentioned; and, when Constance said good- bye, Bertha also left and they went down the stairs together. " Constance," said Bertha, " can I speak to you a minute in the cloak-room?" Constance looked up haughtily, surprised ; but she did not like to refuse. They went into the little cloak-room. " Constance," said Bertha, " I do so want to say that I am sorry for what happened between us. Really, it pained me very much. And I want to tell you also that Van Naghel greatly appreciated Van der Welcke's writing to him to apologize. He has written to Van der Welcke to say so. But we should both like to call on you one day, to show 36 THE LATER LIFE you how glad we should be to come back to the old terms once more." " Bertha," said Constance, a little impatiently and wearily, " I am prepared to receive your visit, but I should really like to know what is the good of it and why you suggest it. Do let us have some sin- cerity . . . when there is no occasion for hy- pocrisy. Sometimes one has to be insincere . . . but there is no need for that between us now. We both know that our mutual sympathy, if it ever ex- isted, is dead. We never meet except at Mamma's and we don't let her see our estrangement. Apart from that, it seems to me that things are over be- tween us." " So you would rather that Van Naghel and I did not come? " " It's not for me to decide, Bertha : I shall speak about it to Van der Welcke and write you a line." " Is that cold answer all you have to say to me, Constance? " " Bertha, a little time ago, I was not backward in showing my affection for you all. Perhaps I asked too much in return; but, in any case, I was repulsed. And now I retire. That is all." " Constance, you don't know how sorry we all are that the old aunts . . . spoke as they did. They are foolish old women, Constance ; they are in their second childhood. Mamma had to take to THE LATER LIFE 37 her bed, her nerves are still quite upset; she can't bear to see her sisters now; and it sometimes sends her almost out of her mind. I have never seen her like it before. And we are all of us, all of us, Con- stance, very, very sorry." " Bertha, those two old women only yelled out at the top of their voices, as deaf people do, what the rest of you thought in your hearts." " Come, Constance, don't be so bitter. You are hard and unjust. I swear that you are mistaken. It is not as you think. Let me show it to you in the future, let me prove it to you . . . and please speak to Van der Welcke and write and tell me a day when we shall find you at home, so that Van Naghel can shake hands with Van der Welcke. He is not a young man, Constance, and your husband is under forty. It's true, Van der Welcke has apolo- gized and Van Naghel appreciates it, but that doesn't prevent him from wishing to shake hands with Van der Welcke." " I'll tell my husband, Bertha. But I don't know that he will think it so necessary to shake hands, any more than I do. We live very quietly now, Bertha, and people, Hague people, no longer concern us. And Van Naghel only wants to shake hands because of people." " And because of the old friendship." " Very well, Bertha," said Constance, coldly, " be- cause of the old friendship : a vague term that says 3 8 THE LATER LIFE very little to me. What I wished for was brotherly and sisterly affection, cordial companionship. That is no longer possible : it was a foolish fancy of mine, which has gone forever. But, as I said, I shall speak to Van der Welcke." They came out into the hall; the maid was wait- ing at the door. It was raining. Bertha's car- riage was outside, had been sent to fetch her. "Shall I drop you on my way, Constance?" " No, thank you, Bertha; the fresh air will do me good; I'd rather walk." And, as she walked, she thought: ** Oh, why did I go on like that to annoy them ? And why didn't I welcome Bertha's visit at once? . . . It's all so small, so petty . . ." And she shrugged her shoulders under her um- brella, laughed at herself a little, because she had shown herself so petty. CHAPTER VI AT Addie's wish, at the little schoolboy's wish, the Van der Welckes responded to Van Naghel's ad- vances and Constance sent a note. The visit was paid and the brothers-in-law shook hands. Van der Welcke himself shrugged his shoulders over the whole business; but Addie was pleased, started going for walks again with Frans and spoke to Karel again at the grammar-school, though he did not much care for him. Two days later, Marianne called in the afternoon, when the rain was coming down in torrents. Constance was at home. The girl stood in the door-way of the drawing-room: " May I come in, Auntie? . . ." " Of course, Marianne, do." " I don't like to : I'm rather wet." " Nonsense, come in ! " And the girl suddenly ran in and threw herself on her knees beside Constance, almost with a scream : " I am so glad, I am so glad ! " she cried. "Why?" " That Uncle wrote to Papa . . . that Papa and Mamma have been here . . . that everything is all right again ... It was so dreadful; it kept- me from sleeping. I kept on thinking about it. It 39 40 THE LATER LIFE was a sort of nightmare, an obsession. Auntie, dear Auntie, is everything all right now? " "Yes, certainly, child." " Really all right? . . . Are you coming to us again . . . and may I come and see you . . . and will you ask me to dinner again soon? Is every- thing all right, really all right? " She snuggled up to her aunt like a child, putting her head against Constance' knees, stroking her hands : " You will ask me again soon, Auntie, won't you ? I love coming to you, I simply love it. I should have missed it so, I can't tell you how much . . ." Her voice broke, as she knelt by Constance' side, and she suddenly burst into tears, sobbing out her words so excitedly that Constance was startled, thinking it almost unnatural, absurd: " I was nearly coming to you before Papa and Mamma had been . . . But I didn't dare ... I was afraid Papa would be angry . . . But I can come now, it's all right now . . ." " Yes, it's all right now . . ." She kissed Marianne. But the door opened and Van der Welcke entered. " How do you do, Uncle ? " He always thought it odd when Marianne called him uncle, just like that: "Is it you, Marianne? . . . Constance, did I leave my Figaro down here ? " THE LATER LIFE 41 "TheFigarof No . . ." He hunted for his paper and then sat down. " Uncle," said Marianne, " I've just been telling Auntie, I'm so glad, I'm so glad that everything's settled." " So am I, Marianne." Outside, the rain came pelting down, lashed by the howling wind. Inside, all was cosiness, with Constance pouring out the tea and telling them about Nice, while Marianne talked about Emilie and Van Raven and how they were not getting on very well together and how Otto and Frances were also beginning to squabble and how Mamma took it all to heart and allowed it to depress her: " I sha'n't get married," she said. " I see no- thing but unhappy marriages around me. I sha'n't get married." Then she started. She had a knack of behaving awkwardly and tactlessly, of saying things which she ought not to say. Van der Welcke looked at her, smiling. To make up for her indiscretion, she was more demonstrative than ever, profuse in exclama- tions of delight: " Oh, Auntie, how glad I am to be with you once more ! . . . I must be off presently in the rain ... I wish I could stay . . ." " But stay and dine," said Van der Welcke. Constance hesitated: she saw that Marianne would like to stop on and she did not know what to 42 THE LATER LIFE do, did not wish to seem ungracious ; and yet . . . " Will you stay to dinner? " she asked. Marianne beamed with joy: " Oh, I should love to, Auntie ! Mamma knows I'm here; she'll understand . . ." Constance was sorry that she had asked her; her nerves were feeling the strain of it all ; but she was determined to control herself, to behave naturally and ordinarily. She could see it plainly: they were too fond of each other I They were in love! Long before, she had seemed to guess it, when she saw them together, at her little dinners. The veriest trifle an intona- tion of voice, a laughing phrase, the passing of a dish of fruit had made her seem to guess it. Then the vague thought that went through her mind, like a little cloud, would vanish at once, leaving not even a shadow behind it. But the cloud had come drifting again and again, brought by a gesture, a glance, a how-do-you-do or good-bye, an appoint- ment for a bicycle ride. On such occasions, the brothers had always gone too so had Addie and there had never been anything that was in the least incorrect; and at the little dinners there was never a joke that went too far, nor an attempt at flirtation, nor the very least resemblance to love- making. And therefore those vague thoughts had al- ways drifted away again, like clouds; and Con- stance would think : THE LATER LIFE 43 "There is nothing, there is nothing. I am mis- taken. I am imagining something that doesn't exist." She had not seen them together for two months; and she knew, had understood from a word dropped here and there, that Van der Welcke had not seen Marianne during those two months which had passed since that Sunday evening. And now, sud- denly, she was struck by it : the shy, almost glad hesi- tation while the girl was standing at the door of Constance' drawing-room; her unconcealed delight at being able to come back to this house; the al- most unnatural joy with which she had sobbed at Constance' knee . . . until Van der Welcke came in, after doubtless recognizing the sound of her voice in his little smoking-room, as transparent as a child, with his clumsy excuse of searching for a newspaper. And now at once she was struck by it : the almost insuppressible affection with which they had greeted each other, with a certain smiling radiance that beamed from them, involuntarily, irresistibly, unconsciously . . . But still Constance thought : " I am mistaken, there is nothing; and I am imagining something that doesn't exist." And the thought passed away, that they were really in love with each other; only this time there remained a faint wonder, a doubt, which had never been there before. And, while she talked about 44 THE LATER LIFE Nice, it struck her that Van der Welcke was still there . . . that he was staying on in her drawing- room, a thing which he never did except when Paul was there, or Gerrit . . . He sat on, without say- ing much; but that happy smile never left his lips . . . Yet she still thought: "I am mistaken; it is only imagination; there is nothing, or at most a little mutual attraction; and what harm is there in that?" But, be this as it might, she, who was so jealous where her son was concerned, now felt not the least shade of jealousy amid her wondering doubts. Yes, it was all gone, any love, passion, sentiment that she had ever entertained for Henri. It was quite dead . . . And, now that he smiled like that, she noticed, with a sort of surprise, how young he was : " He is thirty-eight," she thought, " and looks even younger." As he sat there, calmly, always with the light of a smile on his face, it struck her that he was very young, with a healthy, youthful freshness, and that he had not a wrinkle, not a grey hair in his head . . . His blue eyes were almost the eyes of a child. Even Addie's eyes, though they were like his father's, were more serious, had an older look. . . . And, at the sight of that youthfulness, she thought herself old, even though she was now showing Marianne the pretty photograph from Nice . . . Yes, she felt old; and she was hardly surprised THE LATER LIFE 45 if it was so, if she was not mistaken at that youthfulness in her husband and at his possible love for that young girl . . . Marianne's youth seemed to be nearer to his own youth . . . And sometimes it was so evident that she almost ceased doubting and promised herself to be careful, not to encour- age Marianne, not to invite her any more . . . Unconscious: was it unconscious, thought Con- stance, on their part? Had they ever exchanged a more affectionate word, a pressure of the hand, a glance? Had they already confessed it to each other . . . and to themselves? And a delicate in- tuition told her: " No, they have confessed nothing to each other; no, they have not even confessed anything to them- selves." Perhaps neither of them knew it yet; and, if so, Constance was the only one who knew. She looked at Marianne : the girl was very young, even though she had been out a year or two. She had something of Emilie's fragility, but she was more natural, franker; and that natural frankness showed in her whole attitude : she seemed not to think, but to allow herself to be dragged along by impulse, by senti- ment . . . She looked out with her smile at the pelting rain, nestled deeper in her chair, luxuriously, like a kitten, then suddenly jumped up, poured out a cup of tea for Constance and herself; and, when Van der Welcke begged his wife's leave to smoke a 4 6 THE LATER LIFE cigarette, she sprang up again, struct a match, held the light to him, with a fragile grace of gesture like a little statue. Her pale-brown eyes, with a touch of gold-dust over them, were like chrysolite; and they gazed up enthusiastically and then cast their glance downwards timidly, under the shade of their lids. She was pale, with the anaemic pallor of alabaster, the pallor of our jaded society-girls; and her hands moved feverishly and restlessly, as though the fingers were constantly seeking an object for their butterfly sensitiveness . . . Was it so? Or was it all Constance' imagina- tion? And, amidst her wondering doubts, there came suddenly if it really was so a spasm of jealousy; but not jealousy of her husband's love: jealousy of his youth. She suddenly looked back fifteen years and felt herself grown old, felt him remaining young. Life, real life, for which she sometimes had a vague yearning, while she felt her- self too old for it, after frittering away her days: that life he would perhaps still be able to live, if he met with it. He at least was not too old for it ! It all filled her with a passion of misery and anger ; and then again she thought : " No, there is nothing; and I am imagining all manner of things that do not exist." Addle came home ; and, with the rain pelting out- side, there was a gentle cosiness indoors, at table. Constance was silent, but the others were cheerful. THE LATER LIFE 47 And, when, after tea had been served, the fury out of doors seemed to have subsided, Marianne stood up, almost too unwilling to go away: " It's time for me to go, Auntie . . ." "Shall Addie see you home?" " No, Addie's working," said Van der Welcke. " I'll see Marianne home." Constance said nothing. " Oh, Auntie," said Marianne, " I am so glad that everything's settled ! " She kissed Constance passionately. " Uncle, isn't it a nuisance for you to go all that way with me? " " I wish I had a bicycle for you ! . . ." " Yes, if only we had our tandem here ! " " It's stopped raining; we shall be able to walk." They went, leaving Constance alone. Her eyes were eager to follow them along the street. She could not help herself, softly opened a window, looked out into the damp winter night. She saw them go towards the Bankastraat. They were walking side by side, quite ordinarily. She watched them for a minute or two, until they turned the corner: " No," she said, " there is nothing. Oh, it would be too dreadful!" CHAPTER VII VAN DER WELCKE and Marianne went side by side. " How deliciously fresh it is now," she almost carolled. " The wind has gone down and the air is lovely; and look, how beautiful the sky is with those last black clouds . . . Oh, I think it so ripping, that everything's all right again between you and Papa ! I did feel it so. You know how fond I am of both of you, Aunt Constance and you, and of Ad- die ; and it was all so sad . . . Tell me, does Auntie still feel bitter about it? I expect she does . . . Ah, I understand quite well now . . . that she would have liked to come to our house . . . offi- cially, let me say ! But why not first have spoken to Mamma ... or to me, who am so fond of you? Then we could have seen : we might have thought of something. As it was, Mamma was so startled by that unexpected visit . . . Poor Aunt Constance, she isn't happy ! How sad that you and she aren't hap- pier together! Oh, I could cry about it at times: it seems such a shame! ... A man and woman married . . . and then . . . and then what I so often see ! . . . I oughtn't to have said what I did before dinner, it was stupid of me; but I may speak now, mayn't I? ... Oh, I sha'n't marry, I won't marry! . . . To be married like Otto and Frances, 48 THE LATER LIFE 49 like Emilie and Van Raven : I think it dreadful. Or like you and Auntie: I should think it dreadful. Can't you be happier together? Not even for Ad- die's sake? I wish you could; it would make me so happy. I can't bear it, when you and Auntie quarrel . . . She was sweet and gentle to-night, but so very quiet. She is so nice . . . That was a mad fit of hers, to go abroad so suddenly; but then she had had so much to vex her. Oh, those two old aunts: I could have murdered them! I can hear them now! . . . Poor Auntie! Do try and be a little nice to her . . . Has this been going on be- tween you for years? Don't you love each other any longer? . . . No, I sha'n't marry, I sha'n't marry, I shall never marry." "Come, Marianne: if some one comes along whom you get to love . . ." " No, I shall never marry ... I might ex- pect too much of my husband. I should really want to find something beautiful, some great jcy, in my love . . . and to marry for the sake of marrying, like Frances or Emilie, is a thing I couldn't, couldn't do ... Otto is fonder of Louise than of his wife; and lately Emilie and Henri are inseparable ... In our family there has always been that af- fection between brother and sister. But it is too strong, far too strong. It doesn't make them happy. I've never felt it in that way, fond as I am of my brothers . . . No, I should place the 50 THE LATER LIFE man I love above everybody, above everybody. . . . But I suppose you're laughing ... at my bread- and-butter notions ..." "No, I'm not laughing, Marianne; and, just as you would like to see Aunt Constance and me happy, so I should like to see you happy . . . with a man whom you loved." ' That will never be, Uncle; no, that will never be." "How can you tell?" "Oh, I feel it, I feel it! . . ." " Come, I'll have a bet on it," he said, laugh- ingly. " No, Uncle," she said, with a pained smile, " I won't bet on a thing like that . . ." " I didn't mean to hurt you, Marianne . . ." " I know that . . ." " But you mustn't be so melancholy, at your age. You're so young . . ." " Twenty-one. That's quite old." "Old! Old! What about me?" She laughed: " Oh, you're young ! A man . . ." " Is always young? " 11 Not always. But you are." " A young uncle? " " Yes, a young uncle ... A woman gets old quicker ..." THE LATER LIFE 51 " So, when you're old and I am still young, we shall be about the same age." She laughed: " What a calculation ! No, you're older. But age doesn't go by years." " No. I sometimes have very young wishes. Do you know what I have been longing for since yes- terday, like a baby, like a boy? " " No." " A motor-car." She laughed, with a laugh like little tinkling bells : " A motor-car?" " Wouldn't it be delightful? To go tearing and tearing over fields and roads, through clouds of dust . . ." ' You're becoming poetic 1 " " Yes, it's making me poetic . . ." "And the smell of the petrol? . . . The mask and goggles against the dust? . . . The hideous dress? . . ." " Oh, that's nothing! ... To tear and fly along, faster and faster, at a mad pace . . ." " I have never been in a motor-car . . ." 1 " I have, in Brussels, in a friend's car. There's nothing to come up to it." Her laugh tinkled out again: " Yes, now you're most certainly like a boy! " 1 The period of the novel is about 1901. 52 THE LATER LIFE " I'm so young? " "O young Uncle!" "You oughtn't to call me uncle, Marianne: I'm too young for it." The tinkling bells : " What am I to call you then? " " Anything you like. Not uncle." "Nunkie?" " No, no . . ." " But I can't call you Henri ... or Van der Welcke?" " No, that's too difficult. Better say nothing." The tinkling bells : " Nothing. Very well. . . . But am I to say U or jef " 1 " Say ;>." " But it seems so funny . . . before people ! " " People, people ! You can't always bother about people." "But I have to: I'm a girl!" " Oh, Marianne, people are always a nuisance ! " " A desert island would be the thing." " Yes, a desert island . . ." "With a motor-car . . ." " And just you and me." They both laughed; and her little bells tinkled through his boyish laugh. " What a perfect night ! " 1 Equivalent to