And the melancholy of bygone things seemed to swell on the loud moaning of the wind during the following days, when the rain poured down; the house these days seemed full of the melancholy of bygone things. They were days of shadow and half-light reflected around the old, doting woman in the conservatory; Adeline, the silent, mournful mother; Emilie, a young woman, but broken . . . like all the greyness exuding from human souls that are always living in the past and in the melancholy of that past; and now that Brauws also saw it as a thing of shadows and twilight round Alex—because the boy could never forget the horror of his father's death—he also understood within himself that bygone things are never to be cast off and that they perhaps hang closer in clouds of melancholy, around people under grey skies—the small people under the great skies—than in bright countries of mountains and sunshine and blue sky. And that there were sorrowful things of the soul that slumbered: did he not see it in Addie's knitted brows, in ailing Marietje's dreamy stare, in Mathilde's glances brooding with envy and secret bitterness and malice? Did he not see it in the sudden melancholy moods of Gerdy, usually so cheerful? And did he not understand that in between their young lives there was weaving a woof of feelings that were most human but exceedingly intense, perhaps so intense because the feelings of small souls under big skies can be deeply sorrowful between the brown walls of a house, between the dark curtains of a room, which the grey daylight enters as a tarnish of pain, mingling its tarnish with the reflexion which lingers from former years in dull mirrors, as though all feeling and all life were quiveringly mirrored in the atmosphere amid which life has lived and palpitated?
Brauws was now living at Zeist and he had collected his heap of books around him and lived there quietly, conquered, as he said. But he was with them a great deal and was hardly surprised when, one morning, intending to come for lunch, he heard unknown children's voices in the hall, saw in the hall a young woman whom he did not know at first, heard her say in a very soft voice of melancholy, with a sound in it like a little cracked bell of silvery laughter:
"Don't you recognize me, Mr. Brauws?"
She put out her hand to him:
"Do you mean to say you really don't know me? Aunt Constance, Mr. Brauws doesn't know me; and yet we used to have so many disputes, in the old days!"
"Freule . . . Freule van Naghel . . . Freule Marianne!" Brauws stammered.
"Mrs. van Vreeswijk," said Marianne, correcting him, gently. "And here are my children."
And she showed him a little girl of eight and two boys of seven and six; and he was hardly surprised, but he felt the melancholy of the past rising in the big house when Van der Welcke came down the stairs and said:
"Ah, Marianne! Is that you and the children?"
"Yes, Uncle, we have been to Utrecht to look up Uncle and Aunt van Vreeswijk: they are so fond of the children. . . . Charles may come on this afternoon . . . but he wasn't quite sure."
And, turning to Brauws, she continued, very easily:
"We are living near Arnhem. Won't you come and see us in the summer? Vreeswijk would be very glad, I know."
She spoke quite easily and it was all very prosaic and ordinary when they all sat down round the big table in the dining-room and Marianne quietly chatted on:
"And Marietje—Lord, what a lot of Marietjes we have in the family—our Marietje is soon coming to introduce her young soldier to you."
"Is it settled then?" asked Constance. "I thought Uncle van Naghel didn't approve."
"He's given in," said Marianne, shrugging her shoulders. "But the dear boy hasn't a cent; and we none of us know how they're going to live on his subaltern's pay. And Marietje who always used to swear that she would only marry a rich man! . . . And we have good news from India: Karel is really doing well. . . ."
How prosaic life was! How prosaically it rolled along its steady drab course, thought Brauws, silently to himself, as he looked on while Guy carved the beef in straight, even slices. . . . And, prosaically though it rolled, what a very different life it always became from what any man imagined that his life would be, from the future which he had pictured, from the illusion, high or small, which he had gilded for himself, with his pettily human fancy ever gilding the future according to its pettily human yearning after illusions. . . . Oh, if the illusion had come about which, in the later life reborn out of themselves, he and Constance had conceived, without a word to each other, in a single, brightly glittering moment, oh, if Henri's illusion had come about and that of this young woman, now the little mother of three children, would it all have been better than it now was? Who could tell? Who could tell? . . . And, though the dreamy reflecting upon all this brought back all the melancholy of the past, yet this melancholy contained an assurance that life, as it went on, knew everything better than the people who pictured the future to themselves. . . . There they all were, sitting so simply round the big table at the simple meal for which Constance apologized, saying that Marianne had taken her unawares; and Brauws was but mildly astonished to find that Marianne was married to Van Vreeswijk: he had not heard of it and it was a surprise to him to see her suddenly surrounded by children; he was but mildly astonished to see her and Hans talking together so simply, as uncle and niece, as though there had never been a shred of tenderness between them; he was but mildly astonished when he himself talked to Constance so simply, while he felt depressed about Addie, whose eyes looked so dark and sombre. When Addie was still a child, he had conceived an enthusiasm for him, perceiving in him a certain future which he himself would never achieve. And he had also suffered, because he felt Addie's jealousy for his father's sake, when he, Brauws, used to sit for hours with his mother in the half-dark room, whispering intimate words so quickly understood, so sympathetically felt. . . .
Now the years had passed; sorrow had faded away and sorrow was being born again perhaps, for life cannot exist without sorrow, laid up as an inheritance for one and all; and yet sorrow was so very little and became so small in the measureless life entire. There was nothing for it but to smile, later, much later, at all the disappointment, even that of seeking and not finding and not achieving. . . .
It was very noisy because of the children: the three little Vreeswijks after lunch playing with Jetje and Constant; and, as the girls were staying with the children, Constance, with her arm round Marianne's waist, went upstairs to her own room:
"Let's sit here quietly for a bit," she said.
Marianne smiled: "You've always got your hands full, Auntie."
"I don't know why, dear. . . . We live so quietly here, at Driebergen . . . and yet . . . yet my hands are always full. I do sometimes crave to be quite alone. . . . But the craving never lasts long . . . and it seems impossible. . . . However, it's all right as it is. . . ."
"What awful weather, Auntie! . . . I remember how often it used to rain like this when I came to see you in the Kerkhoflaan. . . . How long ago it is, years and years ago! . . . Here, among all your old knicknacks it looks to me suddenly and strangely as though everything had remained the same . . . and yet changed. Auntie . . . Auntie . . ."
Obeying a sudden impulse, she dropped on her knees beside Constance and seized her hand:
"Do you remember, do you remember? . . . I used to come and see you in this sort of rain and stay on . . . and I could not bear that you should be unhappy with Uncle. . . . And, you know, I talked about it . . . I said tactless things . . . I asked you to try and be happy with Uncle . . . Do you remember, do you remember? . . . And now, Auntie, it appears to me as if a great deal has been changed, though much has remained the same, and as if things had become much better . . . between you and Uncle . . . between you and Uncle Henri. . . ."
"Dear, we have grown older; and everything has become more mellow; and Uncle . . . Uncle is very good."
"Yes, he is good."
"He is just simply good."
"You see that now."
"Yes, I see it now, I admit it."
"Oh, I am so glad! . . . Yes, we have grown old."
"Not you."
"Yes, I too," she said, laughing softly. "I am young, but I am older than my years. . . . And, Auntie, tell me, do you remember before we went to Baern, you came and called one day—we were just busy moving—and you sent for me and asked me . . . you told me . . . that Charles was fond of me . . . and I refused him . . . do you remember, do you remember?"
"I should think I did remember, darling! . . . And now you've got him after all; and it's all for the best, isn't it?"
"Yes, Auntie, we get on very well indeed . . . and I have my children. . . . Do you remember, do you remember how you came to Baern one day? I was very low-spirited; and you took me in your arms and pressed me to you and told me . . . a fairy-tale, about the small souls . . . which passed through vanity . . . to ecstasy. Do you remember? . . . And, when the ecstasy died out . . . then the little soul found a grain . . . a mere grain . . . which was big enough, however, because the soul itself was so small. Do you remember, Auntie, do you remember?"
"Yes, dear, I remember. . . . It was just a few tiny words to console and cheer you a little . . . And now the little soul has found the grain, hasn't it?"
"I think so, Auntie . . . but under . . . under all these small, everyday things . . . a great deal of melancholy remains. . . . Perhaps it's wrong; perhaps it oughtn't to be so. . . ."
"But, if there are things in one's past, if we have lived before, dear, then there is always a certain melancholy and we all have our share of it . . . just because we feel deeply, very deeply perhaps, under our dark skies . . . and because our feeling always remains . . . and our melancholy too. . . ."
"Perhaps so, Auntie. . . . And so it goes on and we drift on. . . . You see, there are good things in life. . . . Tell me, doesn't it occur to you that you have found . . ."
"What?"
"What you came to look for, years ago, in Holland . . . after you had been abroad so long, Auntie, and felt so home-sick for your own country and for warmth . . . the warmth of family-affection. . . . Tell me, Auntie, doesn't it occur to you that you have found it now: the country, our grey, dark country . . . and everything that you used to long for? . . . Are we not all round you: even we, though we live some way off? . . . Are we not all, nearly all of us around you?"
"Yes, dear."
"And are you happy now?"
"Yes, dear."
"I hear something in your voice that contradicts your words. Tell me, what is it?"
"I'm frightened . . . I'm frightened."
"And you have found so much, you have found everything! What . . . what are you frightened of?"
"I'm frightened . . . I feel so anxious. . . ."
"What about?"
"About things . . . that may happen."
"Where?"
"In our house."
"What can happen?"
"Things, sad things."
"Auntie, this is nonsense!"
"I can't help it, dear. . . . I'm frightened . . . I'm frightened. . . ."
"Tell me, Auntie, you don't like the house, do you?"
"It's not that."
"But the house oppresses you."
"No, it's not that, child. . . . Uncle and Addie like the house. . . . And I'm getting used to it. . . ."
"Tell me, Auntie: they say . . ."
"What?"
"That the house is . . ."
She looked at Constance meaningly.
"Darling, darling, it's not that. . . . It's an old house. . . . We never talk of that. . . ."
" But it may be just that that depresses you."
"It did at first . . . but I'm getting used to it. . . . Addie is so very calm and communicates all his calmness to us. . . . What appears inexplicable . . . is perhaps quite simple. . . . But that's not it. . . . I'm frightened . . . frightened of . . ."
"Of what?"
"Of what I fear . . . will happen."
"And what do you fear?"
"Things that I can't put into words . . . some great sorrow."
"Why, Auntie? . . . Why should it happen? . . . And then, if sorrow comes, won't you be strong?"
Constance suddenly gave a sob:
"I shall be weak!"
"Auntie, Auntie, why are you so overwrought?"
"I shall be weak!"
"No, Auntie, you won't. And you mustn't be so frightened. There is nothing but love all around you . . . and they will all of them, all of them help you."
"I am frightened . . . and I shall be very weak. . . ."
"No, Auntie. . . . Oh, Auntie, do stop crying! . . . What are you afraid of? And what could happen now? . . . For whom are you afraid?"
"For Addie . . . for my boy . . . for Mathilde."
"But why, Auntie, why? . . . Oh, don't be so frightened! . . . Everything's all right between them . . . and Addie . . . Addie is so calm, so practical, so simple in his way of acting and thinking. . . ."
"Perhaps. . . . Oh, if he is only strong!"
"Isn't he always?"
"Perhaps he is. . . . Oh, my dear child, I am so frightened! . . ."
"Hush, Auntie, hush! . . . Don't cry any more. . . . Lie still, now; lie still in my arms. . . . Even if we have sorrow to go through, even if we have sad things to experience, even then you should remember that everything . . . that everything comes right again . . . in the end. . . . If we all have our share, why shouldn't they have theirs? . . . And perhaps—who knows?—your anxiety is exaggerated, Auntie . . . because you have been a little overwrought . . . lately."
"It may be that."
"Is it all . . . a little too much for you sometimes?"
"I am so seldom alone."
"I dare say you feel tired sometimes."
"It may be that."
"You mustn't think about it any more. . . . Tell me, Auntie: Gerdy isn't very well. . . ."
"What makes you say that?"
"I thought she looked pale . . . and rather sad."
Constance passed her hand over her forehead:
"Oh, Marianne," she said, "I wish that I could talk it all away, think it all away! . . . But I can't. . . . I'm frightened, I keep on being frightened. . . ."
And she sobbed gently on Marianne's shoulder, while the younger woman knelt beside her.
The rain fell in vertical streaks. The carriage took Marianne and her children to the station through a deluge.