It was a sultry summer morning and old Mrs. van Lowe sat at the conservatory-window, crying very quietly. She had been crying incessantly now for two long days. After her first sob in Constance' arms, she had sobbed no more; but since then her tears had flowed continually, salt, stinging tears that burned her wrinkled cheeks. She sat with her hands folded in her lap; and from time to time she nodded her head up and down, while she stared at the leafy garden, over which the stormy sky hung dark and heavy as lead. Now and then she cleared her throat, now and then heaved a deep sigh; and her handkerchief was soaked with the tears that kept on flowing, quietly, out of her smarting eyes. Constant fretting had drawn down the corners of her mouth into two long, sad wrinkles. Oh yes, it was very hard! Trouble . . . always trouble . . . her life had been full of trouble: trouble when Louis and Gertrude had died at Buitenzorg, poor children; what had they not suffered from fever and cholera? Money troubles: an expensive household to be kept up on limited means. Trouble again, terrible trouble with dear Constance; and the heavy trouble of her husband's illness and death: he had never recovered from Constance' disgrace; more trouble over Van Naghel's death, the great change in Bertha and the break-up of the whole household; and now there was this last sore trouble with her son, her poor son, who had gone mad! Oh, if it had only happened a little earlier, when she was younger, she could have borne it, as she had borne the rest, could have accepted it as her natural share, a mother's share of trouble. But she was so old now; and it seemed to her that the supreme trouble was drawing near, a trouble which was coming very late in her life, too late for her to bear it with strength and patience, now that she was growing older and feebler daily; and her only wish had been to see her big family happy together, that great family of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, amongst which she had always rejoiced to live, thankful as she had been for that great blessing. It was as though a presentiment were coming to her from very far, from very far out of those heavy, lowering skies, a presentiment which her nerves, sharpened by age, suddenly not only felt but saw coming like a menace, as old people will suddenly see the truth very clearly, the future: a waning lamp which suddenly flickers up brightly, before dying out in darkness; a bright flicker which suddenly reveals the shadows in the room and in which the portraits grin, with faces that seem to speak . . . before the lamp dies out, before everything is swallowed up in the black darkness! Oh, the awful presentiment which suddenly approached like a spectre out of the leaden clouds, that filled the whole vista before her eyes with grey terrors; the presentiment that this trouble, the greatest of all, was going to strike her most, now, in her old, old age, when she no longer had the strength to endure it, when she would sink under the weight of it! . . . O God, why should it now, why now, fall with such pitiless, crushing weight? Why now? Was it not enough that one of her children . . . had gone mad, surely the most terrible thing that can happen? Was not that enough? What more could be threatening, looming before her, now that she was growing so feeble? See, did not her old hands tremble at the mere thought, was not her whole helpless body shaking, were not the tears flowing until they smarted in the furrows of her wrinkles and until her handkerchief was just a wet rag? What more could there be coming?
"O God, no more, no more!" she prayed, automatically, believing, in her feeble despair, in the great, infinite Omnipotence which is so very, very far removed from us . . . and which she had always worshipped decently, once a week, in church . . . formerly . . . when she still went out. "O God, no more, no more!"
It was greater, the infinite Omnipotence, than what they worshipped in church; it filled everything far and wide, to the utmost limits of her thought; and it terrified and dismayed her: she saw it threatening from afar; and why, why now? Oh, why had it not all come earlier, when she would have had more fortitude, when she would have borne everything as her natural share, a mother's share, of trouble? . . . She would have been so glad just now to grow old peacefully, amongst her wide circle of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. But, alas, there was so much to bear and . . . perhaps there was still more coming!
"O God, no more, no more!" she implored: was it not enough that one of her children . . . had gone mad, surely the most terrible thing that can happen?
She moaned in spirit, then felt a little eased as the rain began to patter heavily on the expectant leaves and the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled and the sky was rent asunder. But the tears kept flowing in spite of her relief that the rain had come at last; and, because of the thunder which filled her fast-aging ears, she did not hear the door open softly, did not hear some one come through the drawing-room and approach the conservatory, did not at once see the slender little figure that stood quietly before her, solicitous not to intrude upon the grief of the weeping old woman.
"Granny," the younger woman said, gently.
The old woman looked up in surprise, blinked her eyes, tried to see through the flowing tears, did not recognize the one who called her granny:
"Eh?" she said, plaintively. "Who is it?"
And the girl did not answer at once, because it had given her a shock to see those silent tears flowing down the cheeks of that lonely old woman. She remained standing quietly, a pretty, almost fragile little figure, like a Dresden-china doll, but a very up-to-date doll, like a sketch by one of the ultra-modern French draughtsmen, with the pointed little face below the elaborately-waved hair under the very large hat, a hat which, in the shape of its crown and the sweep of its feathers represented the very latest extreme of fashion and consequently attracted immediate attention in Holland, in these dignified rooms, while the light tailor-made costume looked too dressy for a summer morning at the Hague and a touch in every accessory—the sun-shade, the tulle boa—proclaimed that the young woman was no longer of the Hague and of Holland, short though the time was since she had run away.
The old woman, still sensitive in all social matters, remained looking at Emilie a little suspiciously, failing to recognize her and at once noticing, just by those touches—the large hat, the tulle boa—the exaggeration that displeased her.
"But who is it?" she repeated, wiping her eyes to see better.
And now the pretty little doll knelt down beside her and said:
"Don't you know me, Granny? It's I . . . Emilie."
"Oh, my child!" cried the old woman, brightening up, glad, delighted. "Is it you, Emilietje? And Granny who didn't know you again ! . . . But then you've got such a big hat on, child. And Eduard: how is he and where is he?"
"But, Granny! . . ."
Under the arm which she had at once put round Emilie, the old woman felt a shudder pass through the dainty little doll, who had knelt down beside her so impulsively and affectionately; but she did not understand:
"Well, where is Eduard?"
"Why, Granny," cried Emilie, "you know that we're divorced!"
The old woman now shuddered in her turn and closed her eyes and sat rigid. What was this? Was she becoming old, like her old sisters Christine and Dorine, who always muddled up all the children, who never knew anything correctly about their big family? What was this? Was she getting confused? And was this the first time that she had utterly forgotten things . . . or had it happened before, that she had doted like an old, old woman?
She opened her eyes sadly and the tears ran down her cheeks:
"Ah, Emilietje, my child, my child . . . don't be cross with Granny! She's growing old, dear. She had forgotten it for a moment. Yes, yes, she had forgotten all about it. . . . Of course, child, you got a divorce. Oh, it's very sad! You oughtn't to have done it so soon, you should have gone on being patient. You see, child, a divorce in a family is always a very sad thing. You know, there was Aunt Constance. . . . Well, she had had a lot of trouble. You had plenty of trouble too. He used to strike you: yes, Granny knows. But you ought not to have let the world know about it. You were quite right not to let him strike you. But you should have shown him, by remaining gentle and dignified, that he was doing wrong. . . . No man strikes a woman, my child, if she preserves her dignity. But you used to lose your temper, child, and stamp your foot and call him names and invite scenes. Yes, yes, Granny knows all about it, Granny remembers everything. Mamma used to say it was all right, but Granny knew, Granny saw that it was far from right. . . . If you had not lost your dignity, child, he would never have dared to strike you. And who knows: you might gradually have made him gentler, have made him respect you . . . and you might still have had a very tolerable life. You see, dear, there's always something, in marriage. It's not as young girls imagine, when they are in love. There are always difficulties: you have to get used to each other, to fall into each other's ways. Do you think that Grandmamma never had any differences with Grandpapa? Oh, there were ever so many . . . and later on even, after years of marriage! How often didn't Grandmamma and Grandpapa differ about poor Aunt Constance ! . . . And Mamma and Papa: do you think they always agreed? . . . Temper, Emilie, is a thing we all have in our family, but one has to keep it under. A woman must preserve her dignity towards her husband. What a pity, what a pity it was! . . . Well, child, and where are you living now? Not with Mamma at Baarn, I know."
"I'm living in Paris, Granny, with Henri."
"What do you say? In Paris? Are you living in Paris? With Henri? Well, you see, Henri too—yes, Granny isn't quite in her dotage yet—leaving Leiden like that! For shame! Why not have finished his college course and gone to India? . . . And what do you do there, in Paris? It's very nice, for the two of you to be together; but it's not natural, Emilietje. Yes, I remember now: they told me you were living in Paris. I had heard it before. But that's no sort of life: to go running through the bit of money which your poor father left you, in Paris! What will people say! For shame! . . . No, Grandmamma isn't pleased with you. Instead of remaining quietly with your husband . . . instead of Henri's quietly finishing his time at the university! What does it all mean, what you and he have done?"
The old woman rejected Emilie's caresses:
"No, child, don't kiss me; Granny is vexed; she doesn't want to be kissed. . . . The family isn't what it was. It is a grandeur déchue, child, a regular grandeur déchue. The Van Lowes were something once. There was never much money, but we didn't care about money and we always managed. But the family used to count . . . in India, at the Hague. Which of you will ever have a career like your Grandpapa's, like your Papa's? No, we shall never see another governor-general in the family, nor yet a cabinet-minister. It's a grandeur déchue, a grandeur déchue. . . . Ah, child, Granny has too much trouble to bear, too much trouble in her old age! Your Papa's death was a great blow to Granny; Mamma has changed so much since, changed so much. And Granny never sees Mamma now, never. Otto and Frances, once in a way, and dear Louise; but the rest of you are all scattered, you are all independent of one another. Oh, it is so nice to keep together, one big family together! Why need Mamma have gone to Baarn? There's nothing but rich tradespeople there, not our class at all. . . . And now—have you heard, dear?—poor Uncle Ernst . . . Yes, child . . . it's quite true: isn't it sad, poor fellow? And hasn't Granny really too much to bear in her old age? . . . Dear Aunt Constance is taking him to Nunspeet to-day: ah, where should we have been without Aunt Constance? . . . Addie now is a great consolation to Granny. He is a dear, clever boy; and he works hard; and he will enter the diplomatic service: he is the hope of the family. Yes, yes, I know, Frans is doing well; but Henri, Emilietje, has done the wrong thing, going to Paris . . . with you. . . . No, child, don't kiss Granny; she's vexed. . . . And Karel isn't behaving at all well, so Uncle van Naghel says. They don't always tell Granny; but Granny hears, when they think she's deaf and whisper things to one another. Ah, child, it would be better if Granny died! She's getting too old, dear, she's getting too old. . . . She could have borne all this trouble once, but she can't do it now, Emilietje, she can't bear it now. . . ."
And the old woman sobbed quietly; the tears flowed without ceasing. She now let Emilietje embrace her passionately; and she listened to all the caressing words with which her granddaughter overwhelmed her.
Constance entered; and Mamma knew her at once:
"Connie! Connie! Have you taken him there? Have you come back?"
Constance, surprised at seeing Emilie, first kissed her and then said:
"Yes, Mamma, I've taken Ernst down, with Dr. van der Ouwe and Dr. Reeuws. He was quite quiet. We had reserved a coupé-compartment; and he travelled down with us very nicely. He did not speak; and he held my hand the whole time. He pities me, I don't know why. . . . Mamma, don't cry: he's really quiet; and he is very comfortable there. He has a pleasant room, with a bright outlook; Dr. van der Heuvel and his wife are kind, homely people. He will not be by himself: he has his meals with the other patients. It is hard on him to have to do without his books and curios. He misses his books particularly; but the doctor does not want him to read. And he must walk . . ."
"But walk, Connie, walk? Alone? How can he walk? All alone, on that enormous heath? He'll lose his way, he's not responsible, he'll step into a ditch and be drowned!"
"No, Mamma, we shall look after him."
"How do you mean, child?"
"It will soon be Addie's holidays: Addie and I are going to Nunspeet and we shall be with Ernst."
"Oh, how kind of you, Connie! . . . But I shall miss you."
"I shall come and see you regularly, Mamma: Nunspeet is not far."
"Oh, child, child, what should I do without you? Thank God, dear, that you returned to us at last! . . . And what will your husband do without his boy?"
"He will come down occasionally. And he is going away for a holiday with Van Vreeswijck. . . . I only came back to tell you that Ernst is all right. I'm going back to Nunspeet this afternoon. And from there I shall look Bertha up, at Baarn."
"I'm going to Mamma's too," said Emilie, softly.
When they saw that the old woman was tired, Constance and Emilie rose:
"We must go, Mamma. . . ."
"Yes, child. But don't leave me too long alone. When shall I see you again?"
"In three days."
"So long?"
"The others will come and see you: Aunt Lot, Dorine, Adolphine. . . ."
"Yes, but I am too much alone. I can't understand it: I never used to be alone. I don't like being alone. I'm not accustomed to it. What do all of you do? . . ."
"Suppose you took Dorine to live with you, Mamma? . . ."
"No, no . . . not to live with me, not to live with me. Every one should be free. But they might come and see me sometimes. I never see Adeline's children now. . . ."
"Why, Mamma, I know they were here two days ago!"
"No, no, it's longer . . . it's longer than that. I never see your boy either."
"I'll send him this afternoon."
"Yes, do. Why are we all so separated now? It never used to be like that, never. . . . Well, good-bye, dear. Will you send Addie? Will you come yourself soon?"
"You must wait a day or two."
"Yes, very well, stay with poor Ernst. You are doing a good work. And tell Adeline too that she is neglecting me and that I never see the children now, never. . . ."
They both kissed the old woman. When their mother and grandmother was alone, she nodded her head up and down, looked out at the rain; and the tears ran down her cheeks, without stopping . . . without stopping. . . .
Emilie had a cab waiting:
"I'll drive you home, Auntie."
They stepped in.
"It's months since we saw you, child."
"Yes, Auntie. I've come straight from Paris. I'm going to see Mamma at Baarn."
"And then?"
"I shall go back to Paris. I'm living there now . . . I intended to come and see you too, Auntie."
"Come in then, dear, and stay to lunch."
"I should like to, Auntie."
They got out at the villa in the Kerkhoflaan. Emilie dismissed the fly. Indoors, she removed her hat, took off the tulle boa, lost something of her exaggerated smartness. . . .
"We have an hour left before lunch, Emilie," said Constance. "Come up to my bedroom. I want to talk to you."
They went upstairs; Constance shut the door:
"Tell me, Emilie . . . how are you living, in Paris? . . ."
"With Henri, Auntie."
"With Henri . . . but why, Emilie? Why keep your brother from his work? . . ."
"I don't, Auntie. He doesn't want to do that sort of work. He wants to be free; and so do I."
"Free . . . in what way?"
"We don't feel ourselves suited . . . to Dutch life. . . ."
"But why not?"
"I don't know: an exotic drop of blood in our veins, perhaps. Try to understand, Auntie . . . you have lived abroad a long time yourself. Holland is so narrow . . . and I . . . I have suffered too much in Holland."
"Dear, I suffered . . . away from my country; and I longed for my country when I had not seen it for years."
"You will understand all the same. Auntie, do understand. I can't possibly live in Holland again; nor Henri either."
"How do you live there? Tell me."
"We are both living on the money we had left us."
"I know how much that is. There were heavy debts. You did not receive much: not enough to dress as you are dressed. . . . Emilie, if you care for me at all, tell me everything frankly. I am not inquisitive, but I am fond of you, fond of all of you; and I take an interest in all of you. You can't live on the money you came into from your father."
"I work, Auntie."
"In Paris? What at? What do you do?"
"I paint. I paint fans . . . and screens. You know I have a bit of a gift that way. I paint them with a good deal of chic. People in Holland wouldn't care for the way I do them. But in Paris I sell them for twenty francs, fifty francs: my screens fetch a hundred francs. I turn them out in half an hour. They have something about them, I don't know what: chic, I suppose, that's all. But I sell them: they are quite nice."
"I see nothing against that, child."
"I've been very lucky with them, Auntie. I've brought a screen with me for Granny . . . one for you too . . . and a fan for Aunt Lot. . . . They're presents: I knock them off in a moment. It's not art exactly, but chic rather, actual chic. . . ."
And her delicate little fingers outlined a delicate gesture of sheer twentieth-century artisticity. Constance had to laugh in spite of herself.
"And Henri?" asked Constance.
Emilie suddenly turned very red:
"What do you mean?"
"What does Henri do?"
"He does . . ."
"Nothing? . . ."
"No. He does something. But don't ask me to tell you."
"Why can't you tell me?"
"You wouldn't understand. Henri is making money, a lot of money."
"What at?"
"I can't tell you, Auntie. It's not my secret, you see: it's his."
"Is it a secret?"
"Yes, it's a secret."
"Then I won't ask."
"It's a secret . . . to the others. Perhaps not . . . to you."
She was burning to let it out.
"I don't ask you to tell me, Emilie."
"I'll tell you . . . if you promise me not to tell anybody else . . . not a soul! Henri is . . . a clown!"
"Emilie! No!"
"Yes, he's a clown."
"No! . . . No!"
Emilie gave a loud, shrill laugh:
"You see, you refuse to believe it! I should have done better not to tell you. You can't understand it. If you saw him as a clown, you would. He is splendid, he is unique. He is not a vulgar clown, not a dummer August. He is simply magnificent. He has turned the art of the clown into something really artistic, something all his own. He makes the audience laugh and cry as he pleases. He invents his own scenes, designs his own dresses, or else I design them for him. He has a way of making up. . . . He has discovered the melancholy side of the clown: he's sublime in that. . . . He has one turn in the circus with quite fifty butterflies flitting on wires all round him . . . he tries to catch them and can't . . . and, when he does that turn, the people begin by laughing and end by crying. You see, it's symbolical. . . . Really, you ought to go to Paris to see him. He's so good, so artistic. . . . He does a lot of exercises, to keep himself supple. He looks much better than when he was racketing about at Leiden. He's very good-looking and he knows it: he never makes up ugly. A modern sculptor wants to make a statue of him: very fanciful, you know; something art-nouveau; in that part, with the butterflies all round him. He is always being asked to sit to artists. . . . You would never have thought it of him, Auntie. Here, he was just the ordinary undergraduate, racketing about, blewing his money. . . . I was always fond of him. The moment he got to Paris, he understood that he must do something, show what he was made of, strike out a line for himself; and it came to him with a flash: he would be a clown! But a very, very fine clown, something quite new, not one of your vulgar clowns! He makes heaps of money, I don't know how much. . . . And that's how we live, Auntie: free and independent of everything and everybody. . . . Auntie, you look shocked. But you mustn't blame us! Here, I was unhappy, so was he; there, we are happy, happy together. I am fond of him and he of me. I don't know what it is, but we can't live without each other. In Paris, the people think that we are lovers; they won't believe that we are brother and sister. And there you are: we're happy and we don't care what horrible things they say about us in Holland. Do you think I've come back to Holland for any other reason than to see Grandmother, you, Mamma, Otto? I longed to see you; I have no feeling for the others. I am sorry for Uncle Ernst. But I want to lead a free life, independent of Holland, of the family . . . and I had to make it independent of my husband, whom I married in mistake . . . and who beat me and ill-treated me! We want to live, Auntie, and not merely exist!"
But Constance did not know what to say and shut her eyes as if she had been struck in the face. She turned pale. They wanted to live, not merely to exist! Was it for her to blame them, for her, who herself, very late, when she was quite old—too late and too old—had felt the need to live and not merely to exist? But . . . had they really found their life in what they now considered their life? Did she not now know that the real life is not for one's self, but for others? Did she not know it even though she had never reached the radiant cities of the new life which had shone far off on those unattainable horizons? Had she not guessed that it was there; and had she herself not seemed very small when she had had to leave out of her reckoning the man who had become so dear to her that she was able to forget everything for his sake, even her son, the comfort of her existence, if not of her life? Was not she herself small and had she the right to condemn, merely because she was older and therefore saw the purest truths gleam at times out of some shimmering mist of self-deception? No, she did not condemn . . . but that did not prevent her from being shocked. She could understand now . . . and yet the rooted prejudice was there. She was willing to accept their new, fresh, free happiness in a life without conventional bonds; and yet those bonds bound herself, despite her new powers of understanding. She understood; and yet she felt a shudder at those who did not tread the beaten path, the smooth track of their decent respectability. Did not a vague suggestion of tragedy show dimly at the far ends of the new roads? Could they possibly persevere? And what would be the result of so unconventional a view of life? Was anything but convention possible for people such as all of them? Were they not born for it, trained for it? She herself had found new roads that led up to cities of light, but she had not trodden those roads. These . . . were these new roads leading up to cities of light? Or was it merely wantonness, youthful levity, turning aside from the smooth tracks, the beaten paths? . . .
"Emilie," she said, "if what you tell me is true, don't tell any one else, don't talk about it! If Grandmamma heard, it would hurt her so much! And Mamma too!"
"No, Auntie, I won't; besides, it is a great secret . . . a secret from the family, from all our friends. I have mentioned it to nobody but you; and I shall mention it to nobody. But come, Auntie, it's not so bad as all that: you look quite upset! We have different ideas from our parents. We can't help it. Who's to blame?"
"When I think, dear, of your house, as it used to be!"
"And now Henri is a clown . . . and I paint fans for my living!"
She gave a loud, shrill, almost triumphant laugh, followed by a laugh that sounded sadder:
"Poor Grandmamma!" she said. "Poor Grandmother! She called our family a grandeur déchue. And she is right, from her point of view. I am very sorry for her. I found her sitting there so melancholy, so forlorn; and the tears were running down her cheeks. . . . Auntie, you're a darling; I feel that you are better than I. But I can't live here. Your trouble made you want to come back. Mine made me want to get away. You felt that there were bonds that drew you here. I felt, on the contrary, that I must throw off every bond. My life began with a mistake."
"So did mine."
"Is it always like that?"
"Often . . . often. . . ."
"Don't we know ourselves, then . . . when we begin to live? . . ."
"No, every truth comes to us later, much later. . . ."
"Then you don't think that I know my truth?"
"No, Emilie."
"You are not pleased with me?"
"Pleased, child? It is not for me to judge you. All I say is, take care. Don't play with your life. Don't waste it. Our life is a very serious thing; and you treat it as . . ."
"As what, Auntie?"
"An artistic caprice."
"How well you have put it, Auntie! I never thought of that, never said it. An artistic caprice! Henri too: an art-nouveau caprice? Why not?"
"Oh, no, Emilie . . . take care!"
"Auntie, we are so small. We don't make any difference. What do people like us matter, women like us, girls such as I was? Nothing. Nothing. Why make tragedies of our lives? Why not rather make them into something fanciful, something fanciful and artistic?" And she made a painter's gesture with her fore-finger and thumb. "When we are dead, it's finished. . . . What do we matter, that we should be tragic? That is all very well for heroes and heroines . . . but not for us. I will not have my life a tragedy. I started with a mistake. Since then, I have conquered my life and given it a definite aim. Do try and see, Auntie. . . ."
"I see, Emilie. But you forget . . ."
"What?"
"The bonds . . ."
"Which I unloose . . ."
"Which you cannot unloose."
"Yes, I can."
"No."
"Yes."
"No. You'll see, later, when you're older."
"I sha'n't grow old, Auntie."
"Oh, child, what do you know, what do you know? How can you tell what you will become, how tragic your life may easily become, if you don't think of it more seriously . . . more seriously?"
She rose: an irresistible impulse made her embrace the girl passionately.
Emilie gave a start:
"What are you thinking of, Auntie? . . . What do you mean? . . ."
But what was the use of saying anything now of her presentiment, when presentiments always deceive? Constance said nothing more; she did not know indeed what more to say; she merely stared in front of her, strangely, vaguely; and what had shone for a moment was gone.
And she looked deep into Emilie's eyes and saw there only a vision: Paris, a circus, a clown, butterflies, quite fifty or more. . . .
The front-door downstairs was opened; there were sounds of footsteps and voices. Ordinary life was beginning again.
"There are Uncle and Addie," said Constance. "Emilie, I'm going to Nunspeet this afternoon."
"I'm going to Otto and Frances after lunch. Let us meet at the station; and I'll go to Nunspeet with you. I want to see Uncle Ernst. And then we'll go to Baarn together."
"Very well, dear. But will you do one thing, to please me?"
"Yes, Auntie."
"Dress a little more simply. Remember that we're in Holland."
Emilie gave a shrill laugh:
"Yes, Auntie. I'll go and buy myself a sailor-hat. All my hats are too exciting for the Hague. The butcher-boys were shouting after me: 'Hat! . . . Hat!' And, at Nunspeet and Baarn, I know the whole village would turn out to look at me!"