Constance had invited Van Vreeswijck at the last moment and he was engaged, so that Brauws was the only guest. Though Constance usually gave a deal of thought to her little dinners, she received Brauws quite simply, treating him as one of themselves; and Addie dined with them.
"And now tell me what you have been doing all these years?" asked Van der Welcke.
Brauws tried to tell him, but kept on hesitating, as though under a strange compulsion. His father was a manufacturer, owning big iron-works in Overijssel, and still carried on that huge business with Brauws' two elder brothers, who were married to two sisters, the daughters of another manufacturer, owning a cotton-mill in the same district. But Max, who had been a queer boy from a child, had from a child felt repelled by all that factory-life of masters and men, as he saw it around him; and his father, recognizing his exceptional intelligence, had sent him to college, hoping that in this way he would carve out an honourable career for himself among his fellow-men. Max was fond of study and studied long and hard, for the sake of study. At Leiden, he became acquainted with Van Vreeswijck, Van der Welcke and other young sprigs of the aristocracy, who would gladly have admitted him to their club, putting up with him because he had plenty of money to spend and because he was clever and it amused him to help them in their examinations. Van der Welcke and Van Vreeswijck had learnt to value his friendship, but nevertheless lost sight of him afterwards, thinking that he had joined his brothers after all and was managing the factory with them. And, even as they, as youths, had hardly known their friend more than superficially, so they did not know, on leaving Leiden, that Max had not gone to Overijssel—where his father would have liked to marry him to the third daughter of the father-in-law of his two other sons—but to America, to "seek."
"Well, but to seek what?" Van der Welcke asked, failing to understand what a rich youth could want to seek in America, if he did not see some idea, some plan, some object plainly outlined before him.
Brauws now confessed that at the time he scarcely knew what he had gone to seek, in America. He admitted that his father, the iron-master, had hoped that Max would form industrial connections in America which would have benefited the factory. But Max had formed no connections at all.
"Then what did you do?" asked Van der Welcke.
And Brauws smiled his strange, gentle smile, in which there gleamed a touch of irony and compassion—with himself, or the world, or both—a smile which sometimes broke into his big, resonant laugh. He smiled and at last said, very slowly:
"But I hardly dare confess to you, my dear Hans, what I did in America. I don't talk about that time as a rule, because it all sounds so strange, now that I am sitting at table with you and your wife and your son. Perhaps, if I tell you what I did do in America, Mrs. van der Welcke, after the first shock; of surprise, will shudder at having invited such a queer person to her table and probably think me a very bad example for Addie. So don't let's talk about myself or what I did in America."
But Van der Welcke had grown inquisitive:
"No, my dear fellow, you sha'n't get out of it like that. I can't imagine that you did anything in America that Addie mustn't hear about; and in any case he needn't take you for his model. But I'm burning with curiosity and I insist on knowing what you were up to in America. Not lecturing on Peace all the time? . . ."
"No, not even once."
"Well, what then?"
"But, Hans, what's the good of talking about myself to this extent?"
"We're all interested, Mr. Brauws," said Constance. "We certainly are. But, if you would rather not talk about those days, we will not be indiscreet."
"Yes, yes, yes," said Van der Welcke, impatiently. "By Jingo, I will be indiscreet. Max, I must know . . ."
"Well, then," said Max Brauws, very simply and shyly, as though he were making an apology. "At the risk of your wife's never asking me to her house again: I was a porter."
They all three looked at him and did not understand.
"A porter?" asked Van der Welcke.
"A porter?" asked Constance.
"Yes, mevrouw: just a porter and dock-labourer."
"A dock-labourer?" asked Van der Welcke, thinking, from Max Brauws' quiet voice, that he had suddenly gone mad.
"Yes, Hans; and, later on, I worked as a stoker in an iron-works, like my father's."
"As a stoker?" asked Constance.
"Yes, mevrouw, as a stoker in a factory. And then, afterwards, as an engine-driver. And then—but that was very hard work—I was a miner for a short time; but then I fell ill."
"A miner?" asked Van der Welcke, in a blank voice, dazed with astonishment.
And at last, recovering from the astonishment, he burst out:
"Look here, Max, if you want to talk seriously, do; but don't go pulling my leg and making a fool of me to my face. I don't understand a word of what you're saying, unless I'm to suppose that your father was angry with you and gave you no money and that you had to work for your bread, perhaps. But that you were a porter . . ."
"And dock-labourer," said Constance.
"And engine-driver and miner, that I refuse to believe, unless your father . . ."
"My dear Hans, my father used to send me the same allowance that he made me at the university: three hundred guilders a month."
"And . . .?"
"And I used the money . . . for other things; but I lived on my wages, like a labourer, as I really was. You see, you can't understand that; and, as I feared, your wife thinks it horrible to be sitting at table with a man who has been a porter, a dock-labourer and a stoker . . ."
"And a miner," added Van der Welcke.
And he shut his eyes, as though he had received a blow on the head.
"But, mevrouw," said Brauws, with his quiet smile, "my hands, although they are not delicate, have become fit to show again, as you see."
And he showed his hands, big, powerful hands, probably developed by manual labour, but now neither coarse nor hard.
"But can you explain to me," asked Constance, with a little laugh, "why you worked in those various humble capacities?"
"Shall we say, mevrouw, for the sake of being eccentric?" replied Brauws, almost coldly. "And then we will talk no more about myself. Tell me instead about Addie. Hans was saying the other day that his ambition was to enter the diplomatic service . . ."
But a certain constraint seemed involuntarily to make the conversation flag, as though both host and hostess were unable to understand their guest at all, as though some one of another class had actually strayed by accident into their dining-room, into the home of these born aristocrats; and Constance, perceiving this, not only wanted to avoid that constraint, but also a deeper feeling of invincible sympathy made her regret almost unconsciously any misunderstanding or unpleasantness that might arise between that strange man and Henri or herself. This deeper feeling was so faint and unconscious that, at the moment, she saw in it only her wish, as hostess, to make the passing hour as agreeable as possible for her guest; and she did not hear the deeper note in her voice when she said, with that candour and sincerity which at times gave her an exquisitely feminine charm:
"I should be very sorry indeed, Mr. Brauws, if you refused to go on speaking of yourself. You are an old and intimate friend of Henri's; and, now that you two have met again, it would be a pity if you refused to talk about the years when you did not see each other. But I am not speaking only for my husband, who will speak for himself: I am speaking especially for my own sake. When I heard you lecturing on Peace the other day—on something which I had really never thought about, though I had heard the word vaguely mentioned by people now and then—your speech really roused . . . a sort of interest in me; and I listened with keen sympathy; and afterwards I thought about that word. And, now that you tell us that you have been a common workman in America, I am very much interested to know how you came to adopt a life so very different from that of the men in my set; and, if it is not too indiscreet, I should like to ask you, as a favour, to speak about yourself and explain what at present seems so perplexing to me . . ."
The simple, homely meal was finished; and they went into the drawing-room.
"May I stay, Mamma?" asked Addie, who never accompanied them to the drawing-room when there was a stranger present.
She laughed; and Van der Welcke said:
"You see, even my boy is curious."
"Our future diplomatist!" said Brauws, with his quiet smile. "Well, mevrouw, may he stay or not?"
"Of course he may stay!"
"Aren't you afraid that the ideas of . . . a labouring-man will spoil him?"
"Oh, there's no spoiling my boy!" said she, lifting her head high and putting her arm round Addie's shoulder with motherly pride.
"And you don't make him vain, by saying that?"
"There's no making him vain," she continued, boasting a little, like a proud mother.
"So he can stay?" asked Brauws.
"He can stay."
"Well, in that case I shall tell you more about myself."
"Only in that case?"
"You are giving me a proof of confidence and, I might almost say, of sympathy."
Van der Welcke took his friend by the shoulders:
"My dear Max, you pretend that you don't know how to talk to 'ladies' and there you stand, like a typical courtier, paying compliments to my wife. That's all superfluous, you know: here's a cup of coffee; sit down, make yourself at home, choose your own chair; and now, Mr. Miner, tell your Mad Hans how, when you were in America, you went even madder than he."
But Brauws was obviously still seeking subterfuges, as though it were impossible for him to interpret the riddle of his former existence to these people who were entertaining him so kindly; and at last he half managed to escape their pressing curiosity by saying:
"But I can't possibly tell you all that straight away . . . Perhaps later, mevrouw, when I have known you a little longer, I may be able to tell you about that time, so that you may understand it after a fashion."
Constance was disappointed, but she said, with a smile:
"Then I must exercise patience."
"But I exercise no patience," said Van der Welcke. "Tell us now, Max: when you left Leiden, after taking your degree in law, a year before I did—but you were much older than I, an older student who really studied, a rara avis!—what did you do then?"
"I first went back to my father and my brothers, to the factory. And then I took such an aversion to the whole thing, to all that we represented, my father, my brothers and I, that I determined to go and lead an entirely different life. I saw that, though my father and brothers were comparatively good to their workmen, those workmen remained slaves; and we . . ."
He passed his hand over his forehead:
"How can I and why should I talk about all this, my dear Hans?" he said, gently interrupting himself. "You wouldn't understand me; nor you either, mevrouw . . ."
"Why shouldn't we understand you?" asked Constance.
His voice assumed a rough tone that almost frightened her:
"Because both of you, you and Hans, are capitalists—and titled capitalists at that—and because I . . . But I don't want to be rude to my host and hostess."
"Capitalists without capital," said Van der Welcke, laughing.
Brauws shrugged his shoulders:
"There are more of them than you think," he said.
"So really you're among enemies here," said Constance, in her drawing-room voice.
"No," said Van der Welcke, "for he in his turn has deserted to the capitalists, even the titled ones."
"Not quite," said Brauws, quietly, "though I admit that I have been weak."
"I won't press you any more, Mr. Brauws," said Constance; but her voice urged him to continue.
"Don't look upon yourself and Henri as my enemies, mevrouw," said Brauws, earnestly. "Above all things, I should like to see nothing but friendship in this world of ours. But you were asking me about America: well, when I had lived for a short time with my father and my brothers in our big house near the factory, it became too much for me; and I went away, to lead my life just as if I had been born among workmen . . . so as to study them more closely, do you understand? . . . No, you don't understand; and how can I go on? . . ."
"Max, you're being dull. And you're absurd too."
"I'm sorry, Hans, I simply can't talk about myself: you see, I've tried to, two or three times over."
"Then we won't worry you any more," said Constance.
A constraint seemed to have come upon them, a barrier which rose between their words at every moment. Addie, disappointed, left the room quietly. In a little while, Brauws took his leave, awkwardly, almost rudely. Constance and Van der Welcke exchanged a glance when they were alone. Van der Welcke shook his head:
"The fellow's mad," he said. "Always was; but, since he's joined the proletariats in America, he's stark, staring mad. He was so jolly yesterday, coming with that old sewing-machine. He is a good sort, there's something nice about him. But he's quite mad. Vreeswijck is much better company. We won't ask him again: what do you say, Constance? The fellow's really mad; and, besides, he doesn't know how to talk and, when all is said, he was impertinent, with his 'titled capitalists.' Indeed, I ought really to apologize to you for asking such a queer fish to your house."
"He is different from other people," she said, "but I think that, however much he may differ from you, he likes you."
Her husband burst out irritably:
"You women," he exclaimed, "are simply impossible! Who would ever have thought that you could have found a word of excuse for Brauws! Why, I was afraid that you would cover me with reproaches and point out to me that, even though we see nobody, you wouldn't want to receive a socialist friend of mine. But there's no understanding women!"
He was dissatisfied, out of temper, because of Brauws and that spasmodic conversation; and his tone seemed to invite a scene. But Constance raised her eyes to his very calmly and said, so gently and quietly that the voice did not sound like hers to his ears:
"Henri, your friend Brauws is a man and an exceptional man; and that is enough to captivate a woman for a moment."
"Well, you can ask him every day, for all I care."
"I didn't ask him."
"No, I did, of course!"
"Don't let us quarrel, Henri. Mr. Brauws asked himself. But, if you would rather not see any more of him, we won't encourage him again; and then he'll stay away of his own accord . . ."
Her gentle words, which he did not understand, disturbed him greatly; and he went upstairs in a temper, undressed angrily and flung himself on his bed:
"And, upon my word, he'd be upsetting Addie's head next, with those queer notions," he muttered, as he dug his ear viciously into his pillow.