Or else Constance would say, after dinner:
“I’m going to Granny’s: will you take me, Addie?”
But he was very just; it was Papa’s turn:
“Mummy, I was out with you this afternoon.”
“Well, what of that?”
“I’m going for a ride with Papa.”
Then she turned pale with jealousy:
“Oh, so you dole out your favours?”
He gave her a kiss, but she pouted, said she would go alone, in the Scheveningen tram, which would take her to Granny’s door. But he drew her down upon his little knees:
“Let’s play at sweethearts first, then.”
“No, let me go.”
But he held her tight and kissed her with very short, quick kisses.
“Let me go, Addie, I insist.”
But he kissed her with a rain of quick little kisses, which tickled her, till she smiled.
“Look pleasant now!”
“No, I won’t!”
“Come, look pleasant!”
“No, I won’t look pleasant!”
But she was laughing, saw that her jealousy was really too silly. . . .
And Van der Welcke, after dinner, was glad that it was his turn. He had come back very gloomy from the Plaats; and Addie had cheered him up during dinner. . . . Sometimes, even, Addie went quite mad. Then he wanted to romp with his father; and Van der Welcke did not object, until Addie discovered a little spot between Papa’s brace-buttons where he was very sensitive and tickled him, furiously, just on that little spot.
“Addie, that’s enough!” Van der Welcke shouted, playing the father, trying to inspire respect.
But Addie, quite mad, caught Papa round the waist, tickled him on that sensitive spot.
“Addie, I’ll give you a thrashing!”
And Van der Welcke squirmed, nervously, ran madly round the room, ran out of the room, followed by his tormentor.
“Addie, if you don’t leave off, you’ll get such a thrashing that you . . .!”
But there was no holding the boy; and Van der Welcke, because of that sensitive spot, lost all his self-respect, cringed, entreated, laughed like a madman when Addie so much as pointed at it.
“Addie, don’t be so silly!” cried Constance from the drawing-room.
Then he rushed to his mother.
“Hullo, are you jealous again? Do you want to play at sweethearts?”
But his father called to him, reproachfully:
“Come, Addie, let us start.”
And Addie ran from one to the other like a little dog and at last landed on his bicycle with a ridiculous jump; and Constance stealthily watched him spurting past Van der Welcke, leaning forward over his handle-bar, pedalling like mad.
Then she felt happy, because he was merry, like a child. . . .
Emilie had been married a day or two, when Addie said, at dinner:
“I went for a walk with Henri van Naghel and his friend Kees Hijdrecht.”
“But, Addie,” said Constance, who was very irritable that day, “why are you always with those boys? Do they really care for going out with you? Why not go to Aunt Adolphine’s boys instead? They are your own age.”
“Well, I can understand that Addie prefers Henri,” Van der Welcke let fall, unfortunately.
“Why?” she asked, immediately up in arms.
He wished to avoid a dispute—he was sometimes more reasonable than she—and he merely said:
“Well, they’re rather rough.”
“It would be a miracle,” she at once began to cavil, “if you ever saw anything good in the Van Saetzemas’ house.”
He looked at her with wide eyes, his fine, young, blue eyes:
“But, Constance . . .”
“Yes, you’re always crabbing Adolphine, her husband, her house, her children. . . .”
“But, Constance, I never mention them. . . .”
“That’s not true!” “I assure you!”
“That is not true, I tell you! Only the other day, you said the house was vulgar; two days ago, you said Van Saetzema looked like a farm-labourer.”
“But you yourself said, at Emilie’s wedding . . .”
“It’s not true: I said nothing. I tell you, once and for all, I won’t have you always crabbing one of my sisters and her household. This time, it is the boys who are rather rough. . . .”
“Oh, perhaps you want to see Addie like them?”
“I think it ridiculous for Addie to be always going about with undergraduates. The Van Saetzema boys are very nice and of his own age.”
“And I think them three unmannerly young blackguards.”
“Henri, I forbid you from this time forward to comment on my family in my presence!”
“Look here, you give your orders to your servants, not to me!”
“I won’t have it, I tell you. . . .”
But he flung down his napkin, rose from his seat, left the room suddenly, in a passion. Addie sat quietly looking before him, playing with his fork.
“Papa has very bad manners! To go throwing down his napkin, slamming the door, like a schoolboy!” she said, fretfully, involuntarily, as though to annoy Addie. But he frowned and said nothing; and she went on, “At least, in my father’s house I was never accustomed to such rudeness!”
Suddenly, he clenched his little fist and banged it on the table till the glasses rang again: “And now you keep quiet about Papa!”
He looked at her severely, with his blue eyes suddenly grown hard and a frown on his forehead.
She started and upset her glass. Then she began to weep, softly.
He let her be, for a few minutes. She cried, sobbed, bit her handkerchief. Then he rose, walked round the table, kissed her very gently.
“You have . . . a nice way . . . of talking . . . to your mother!” she said, between her sobs.
He made no reply.
“A pretty tone to use to your mother!” she went on.
He took her by the chin and lifted up her face:
“For shame! To lose your temper like that!” he scolded. “And to grumble! And mope! And squabble! And upset yourself! And kick up a hullabaloo! Do you call that a pleasant way of dining?”
She buried her face on his breast, in his arms. He stroked her hair:
“Come, Mummy, be sensible, now. It’s nothing.”
“Yes, but Papa mustn’t crab Aunt Adolphine.”
“And you mustn’t crab Papa. What did Papa say, after all?”
“That Aunt Adolphine’s boys . . .”
“Were rough. Do you think they’re girls, then?”
“No.”
“Well, then. . . . What else?” “I don’t approve of your going out with boys so much older than yourself.”
“Then you can tell me so, quietly; but it’s no reason to go quarrelling like that. I can’t eat any more now.”
“Oh, Addie, just when I’ve ordered . . .”
“What?”
“Apple-pudding and wine-sauce.”
“Well, it’ll keep till to-morrow.”
“Do have a little. You know you like it.”
“Yes, but I can’t eat when I see you so cross. It chokes me, here.”
And he pointed to his throat.
“Have just a little bit,” she said, coaxingly.
“If you’re very good.”
“Give me a kiss.”
“But mind you’re very good.”
They laughed together; he gently wiped away her tears:
“You ought to see yourself in the glass,” he added, “with those red eyes of yours!”
He sat down. She rang the bell. The servant brought in the pudding, displayed no particular surprise at finding that meneer had gone.
“Is there any cheese, for Papa?” he asked.
The servant brought the cheese; Addie cut a piece of gruyère, put it on a plate with some butter and biscuits, poured out a glass of wine.
“Addie . . .”
“Wait a minute,” he said.
And he went upstairs with the cheese and the wine. Van der Welcke was sitting glowering in the smoking-room.
“Here’s your cheese and biscuits, Father. You don’t like apple-pudding, do you?”
“Oh, I don’t want anything!”
“Now, don’t be disagreeable. Eat up your cheese.”
“I can’t eat, when Mamma . . .”
“She’s sorry already; she’s all nerves to-day. So don’t talk about it any more.”
“I? I’m not talking!”
“No, but soeda,[1] now, as Aunt Ruyvenaer says. Will you eat your cheese now? Presently, we’ll go for a ride.”
He went away.
“Here I sit, just like a naughty child,” thought Van der Welcke, “with my little plate of cheese and biscuits. That silly boy!”
And he ate up his bit of cheese and laughed. . . .Downstairs, Constance had put a piece of pudding on Addie’s plate. He ate slowly. She looked at him contentedly, because he was enjoying it.
“If you hadn’t fired up like that,” he said, “I’d have told you something, about Henri.”
“What about him?”
“That chap’s going to be ill.”
“Why?”
“He’s so upset at Emilie’s marriage that it’s made him quite unwell. Kees Hijdrecht got angry and said, ‘Are you in love with your sister?’ And then Henri almost began to cry, Leiden man though he is. No, he wasn’t in love, he said, but he had always been with Emilie, with Emilie and Marianne; and now she was married and would be a stranger. He was so bad that we took him home; and then he locked himself in his room and wouldn’t even see Marianne.”
“But, Addie, that’s morbid.”
“I dare say; but it’s true.”
“I must go round to Aunt Bertha’s. Will you take me?”
“No, let me go cycling with Papa. He’s sitting upstairs, eating his cheese for all he’s worth. You’d better tell Truitje to take him up his coffee.”
“But, Addie, what will the girl think when she sees Papa finishing his dinner upstairs?”
“She can think what she likes. It’s your fault. Shall I come and fetch you at Aunt Bertha’s at a quarter to ten?”
She looked at him radiantly, delighted, surprised. And she kissed him passionately:
“My boy, my darling!” she cried, pressing him to her heart.
- ↑ Quiet, that’ll do.