Marietje sat in Marianne's room staring out at the road. The road, white with dust and sunlight, gleamed through the green of the trees, described a curve and wound round the creeper-clad station, which stood in the shade close by. A train came thundering in, making all the walls of the little villa shake. Each time that a train rumbled past, whether it stopped or steamed through almost without slackening speed, it shook the little villa. . . .
Marietje was bored. She was home for the holidays from her Brussels boarding-school, spending a few weeks at Baarn with Mamma and Marianne, and she was bored. She would rather have stayed at school. Of course madame was a beast, but Brussels at any rate was better fun than Baarn, even for a schoolgirl. . . . She wondered how she would be able to stand a month of it. She had reckoned on an invitation from Uncle and Aunt van Naghel to their beautiful country-place in Overijssel, where she would have cycled and played tennis with her boy cousins; but Uncle had not said a word about it: Uncle wanted her to put in her month with Mamma, at Baarn. Lord, how could Mamma go and live here, in such a house! It would come tumbling down on her head one day, with that everlasting rumble of the trains. She simply could not get away from the rumble of the trains. . . . Marianne said that Mamma did not mind it and that she herself had become so used to the noise that once, when there was an accident at Hilversum and the something p.m. train did not arrive at Baarn, she had woke up because of the unwonted silence! Well, that was a bit stiff, thought Marietje. Still, perhaps the rumble of the trains did keep Mamma and Marianne from going to sleep. For what a life it was, in this little villa at Baarn! Neither Mamma nor Marianne knew anybody; and they saw nobody. They had no carriage; and how can one live in the country without keeping a carriage? Even if it was only a dog-cart, or a governess-car, with a pony; but you must have something. . . . It was a rotten way of living. A brilliant idea of Uncle Adolf's, wasn't it, to insist that she should come and bury herself here for a whole mortal month and bore herself to death with Mamma and Marianne! . . . Karel hadn't come, the brute! Oh no, he had gone to Uncle's. Marietje knew why: because Uncle wanted to keep an eye on him! So she didn't even see her brother. . . . Oh, how dull it all was! . . . Silly little walks to the Beukenkom, to Soestdijk: once in a way, there'd be the excitement of seeing the Queen drive past. But that was over in a flash—whoosh!—and then there was nothing more to see. Well, if she had been the Queen, she would never have come and spent the summer at Soestdijk! . . . A month! She would never live through it. She counted the days. She simply longed to go back to Brussels. Madame had a young nephew who used to make love to her in great secrecy, even leaving notes under her napkin. It was risky, but it was great fun. He wrote so thrillingly. . . . Ah, when you compared the life that awaited her, when she came home for good in eighteen months, with what Emilie and Marianne had had: parties at Court; dances at the Casino, with all the smartest people in the Hague; the grand dinners at home: her sisters had had all that. . . . Pretty frocks too. . . . And she, what would she have? Nothing at all. She'd just go to Baarn, for you might be sure that Uncle and Aunt would never, never ask her to stay with them! And at the Hague . . . who was going to invite her to the Hague? The whole winter at Baarn . . . good Heavens! No, she must absolutely get herself invited to the Hague, once she had left school! Granny had a big house . . . but Granny didn't like people staying with her; Aunt Adolphine: bah, such a crew, she wouldn't go there if she could; Uncle Gerrit: no, he had too many children, she wouldn't care about that and they hadn't a spare-room either; Uncle Karel was no use thinking about. . . . No, there was only Aunt Constance, who never saw anybody, and Uncle and Aunt Ruyvenaer, who had no smart friends, nothing but East-Indian people. . . . Yes, it was an awful nuisance, but she saw no prospect of an invitation. But one thing she did promise herself, to get married as soon as she could . . . and to make a good match while she was about it, some one with lots of money! A nice thing she called it: Papa and Mamma brought you up in luxury and, the moment you began to grow up, they let you eat your heart out at Baarn! She was decent-looking, thank goodness, and her figure was going to be all right . . . and then she would marry a lot of money! You had to be practical: that was the great thing. There were a few rich men left. But she . . . she would show some sense and not behave like Emilie, who had got married by mistake or by accident, so it seemed, and accepted Eduard just as you accept a partner for a waltz. . . . Nor like Marianne either, who had fallen in love with her uncle! No, mark her words, she promised herself that much: since she had been brought up in luxury, now that the luxury was gone, she would see that she married money . . . for money was everything. She wasn't going to trouble about a title or a name: if a rich bounder came and proposed, he'd do. But a fine house, fine clothes . . . and a carriage . . . and jewellery: all that she must have and all that she meant to have; for, without it, life wasn't worth living. To go on vegetating at Baarn, with that incessant rumbling of the trains, which made the walls of the villa shake as if the whole house were going to tumble down on her head: never! She had made up her mind to that: never!
Marianne came into the room, which was her own boudoir, with a conservatory leading into the garden: it was the pleasantest room in the house; the only others on the ground-floor were a small drawing-room and a gloomy dining-room. Marietje, lost in thought, was staring out at the sunny, dusty white road.
"Shall we go for a walk, Marietje?" asked Marianne.
"Beukenkom?" asked Marietje, languidly.
"No, farther than that . . ."
"Soestdijk?"
"No, farther still, through the Overbosch and across the moor, if you like."
"No, thank you: it's too hot and there's too much dust and glare. Can't we hire the pony-cart? Then I'll drive you."
"That mounts up, you know, Marietje; we can't take it every morning."
"Every morning!" growled Marietje. "Listen to you: every morning! . . . Well, then let's stay and look out of the window."
"Why don't you play the piano or do some painting?"
"Thank you for nothing. I can do that at school. I have no accomplishments."
"Then take a book and read."
"Oh, rot! The books that amuse me I'm not allowed to read; and the books I'm allowed to read don't amuse me. It's one of the drawbacks of my awkward age! Why haven't you joined a tennis-club?"
"Yes, I'm sorry I didn't. I'll see that I do next year."
"Next year . . . that's a long way off. You ought to have thought of it before: you knew that you were expecting your sister and that there wouldn't be much for her to do here. But you can't think of anything here, you can't take your eyes off that horrible white road. It hurts your eyes too. . . . My poor child, how can you stand this place . . . after the Hague! Don't you long for the Hague?"
"Not a bit."
"But what do you do here all the winter?"
"Nothing, Marietje."
"Oh, I know! You've grown pi. You go in for good works. Sewing for the poor."
"There are two poor families for whom I make things sometimes."
"There, what did I tell you? I knew it! Well, give us some nighties, in Heaven's name!"
"Oh no, Marietje, never mind about that!"
"Yes, yes, yes, hand over your nighties and let's sew them!"
Marianne had sat down at her work-basket and Marietje, out of sheer boredom, also took up a "nightie." But she did no sewing:
"Just imagine if we wore this sort of thing, Marianne! It would tear my skin. . . . Oh Lord, there's another train! What a row, what an awful row! Aren't you afraid the house will fall in?"
"No."
"Do you like that noise?"
"Yes, one gets used to it."
"You could sleep to it, eh?"
"Yes, it lulls one."
Marietje shrieked with laughter:
"Oh, Marianne, how sentimental . . . you . . . have . . . be-come, as Aunt Cateau would say. . . ."
And, to herself, she thought:
"No, I'm not like that, you know. You won't catch me falling in love with my uncle for nothing. I mean to marry money, lots of money . . ."
But she said nothing, just stared out at the sunny, dusty road. A few people came along from the station.
"There's the rank and fashion of Baarn!" sneered Marietje. "The great sight of the day: three tradesmen and a hunch-backed shop-girl. Uncle Paul would say, three and a half atoms of human wretchedness. . . . Another tradesman and another shop-girl. . . . Two ladies. . . . Look, as I live, two ladies! . . . Goodness me, it's Aunt Constance and . . . and Emilie!"
"Nonsense!"
"Yes, yes, it's Aunt Constance and Emilie! Hurrah!"
And Marietje, in sheer wild ecstasy at the unexpected distraction, threw the "nightie" right up to the ceiling, where it caught in the chandelier, and rushed through the garden down the road. She flung one leg up in the air with delight.
"Auntie! Emilie!" Marianne heard her yelling, quite beside herself.
Marietje embraced her aunt and her sister madly at the gate of the villa, conducted them indoors, thanked them personally for the surprise which they were giving her, for the welcome distraction which their arrival provided. . . .
"And Uncle Ernst?" asked Marianne. "Poor Uncle Ernst! We had a letter from Frances. . . ."
Constance told her how he was getting on at Nunspeet, that he was still rather restless, because he would look all over the house for fettered souls that moaned and implored him to help them.
"Will the delusion never leave him?" asked Marianne, with tears in her eyes. "Auntie, will he never get better?"
"The doctor has every hope that it will not be permanent. . . ."
Marietje had taken possession of Emilie:
"And so you're living in Paris? With Henri? What do you do there, the two of you? Come, let's hear! Aren't you going to ask me to stay? Haven't you a spare-room? Look out: I shall come tearing in from Brussels, suddenly! Just imagine if I did!"
But by this time they had passed through the dining-room into the drawing-room, where they found Bertha. She was sitting at the window; she looked up.
"Here's Aunt Constance, Mamma. And Emilie."
Bertha merely stood up, kissed her sister and her daughter and at once dropped into her chair again. She scarcely seemed surprised at seeing them so unexpectedly. She barely asked after Mamma, after Ernst, after Henri. She seemed rooted to her seat at that window, through which she gazed at the shadows of the trees. She had grown thin, her eyes stared blankly and miserably in front of her and, in her black dress, she gave an impression of weary, listless resignation. She spoke scarcely more than a word or two, as if it were quite natural that Constance and Emilie should be sitting there.
"Henri sends you his best love, Mamma," said Emilie.
Bertha gave a faint smile, just blinked her eyes, as though to say yes, it was very nice of Henri. But she asked no questions.
"I have just come from Ernst, Bertha," said Constance. "I took him to Nunspeet with the doctor. I went down again yesterday, to see him; and, once I had started, I thought I would come and look you up."
"It's nice of you," said Bertha, vaguely, taking Constance' hand. "Is Ernst very bad? We had a letter from Frances."
"The doctor is very hopeful."
"Yes," said Bertha, as if it went without saying, "he's sure to get over it."
And she seemed tired from talking so much and said nothing more.
Presently Marianne, when she was alone with Constance, said:
"You'll stay to lunch, of course, Auntie?"
"Yes, dear, if I may."
"Are you staying for the night?"
"At the hotel."
"I'm sorry that we haven't a spare-room. Emilie can sleep here; then I'll sleep on the sofa. . . . I must just go and see about lunch."
"Don't put yourself out for me, dear."
"No, Auntie, but I must see what there is. You know, with just the three of us, we live very simply."
She flushed; and Constance realized that they had to be careful and that they could not keep the same generous table as in the old days.
They exchanged a sad smile. Suddenly, Marianne flung herself into Constance' arms.
"My darling, how are you yourself?"
"Quite well, Auntie."
"You don't look at all well. My child, how thin you've grown! And how drawn your little face looks! And your poor cheeks: why, they've gone to nothing! . . . Aren't you happy here, dear?"
"Oh yes, Auntie!"
"No, but tell me, honestly: are you happy at Baarn?"
"Yes, Auntie, I am."
"Do you regret the Hague?"
"Regret? . . . No. . . ."
"Still, just a little? . . ."
"No . . . no. . . ."
Her eyes were full of tears; she began to sob on Constance' shoulder:
"Forgive me, Auntie. I oughtn't to break down like this."
"My darling . . . tell me all about it . . ."
"No, Auntie, it's nothing, really. I feel so ashamed, but, as you know, I always let myself go with you . . . because I feel that you do love me . . . a little . . . and that you are not angry with me . . . and that you forgive me. . . ."
"I have nothing to forgive, Marianne. . . ."
"Yes, you have, yes, you have, Auntie. . . . Oh, forgive me, forgive me! Tell me you forgive me! . . ."
"How do you spend your time here, dear?"
"Quietly, Auntie, but I'm quite satisfied. I try to be of some little use . . . to Mamma . . . and others. I have some poor people whom I look after. But I can't do much, I haven't much. . . . In the old days, you know, Mamma used to do a lot of good . . . in between all her rush and worry; and I try to do a little now. But it is hard work . . . and rather thankless work. . . . However, that's all that's left: to live a little for others . . . and do a little for others. But sometimes . . . sometimes I find it too much for me. . . ."
"Poor Marianne!"
"Yes, sometimes it's too much for me. I am so young still . . . and I feel as if I had done with everything, for good and all! . . ."
"No, dear, no. . . . If you only knew! You're a child still, Marianne . . . And life, real life, will come later . . ."
"It will never come for me, Auntie. Oh, forgive me! I feel ashamed of myself. I don't want to talk like this . . . but with you, just with you, because you're fond of me, I can't restrain myself. . . . Oh, tell me that you forgive me, say it, say it!"
"My child, if it does you any good to hear me say so, though I have nothing to forgive, very well, I forgive you."
"Oh, thank you, thank you, Auntie! . . . You are good and kind; you understand."
"Yes, dear, I understand. But the real thing will come later."
"No, nothing will ever come, nothing can come . . ."
"Can't it?"
"No, how could it?"
"If you had the strength and courage not to give in, Marianne, there would be happiness for you in days to come."
"But I have neither courage, Auntie, nor strength. What am I? Nothing. There is a great, big river, which rushes and flows, carrying everything, everything with it, like a deluge. And then there is . . . a tiny twig, a leaf. That's what I am, Auntie. . . . How can I hope to . . . ?"
"You're talking in parables, my child. Shall I do the same?"
"Do, Auntie."
"Come and sit here beside me. Put your head on my shoulder. There. And now listen to my parable. . . . There was once a soul, a very small soul, like yours, Marianne. A very small soul it was, quite an insignificant little soul. It knew nothing about anything, it seemed to be walking blindly, walking in a dream, a child's dream, light and airy and fragile. There was water and there were flowers . . . and there was a far-away light, towards which it moved. As the soul went on, the flowers and the trees disappeared; and in their stead a palace and every sort of pomp and vanity gleamed in front of the small soul. . . . But all that glitter was just as much a dream as the water and the flowers; and the small soul . . . made its second mistake. It walked blindly in that dream of pomp and vanity and thought that it saw all that radiance. It gave itself away, Marianne, gave everything it had to any one who might make it shine still more brilliantly . . . gave away everything it possessed, for nothing . . . for an illusion. And it already felt unhappy, thinking, 'There is nothing more coming; I've had everything now.' It thought that, even before its fate arrived. It saw its fate arrive and could still have avoided it, but did not, remained blind, blind to everything. Its fate swept it along; and it thought, Marianne, that everything was over, over for good and all; that it would wither like a flower, like a twig, like a leaf; and that the river would carry it along with it. And then, Marianne, then something else came, after it had been swept along by fate: there came a great revelation, a vision of rapture, an ecstasy of glory. And the small soul saw that it was that; but its fate forbade it to accept that great happiness, that vision of ecstasy. . . . And once again it thought, 'Now, now, I have really had everything. After that, nothing more can possibly come.' And yet something did come. And, after that revelation, it was no longer a dream, but a reality, as tangible as it could hope to be . . . for such a poor small soul. . . . What came, Marianne, was not so very much; but the small soul does not want much: an atom, a grain of absolute truth and reality; a tiny grain, but all-sufficing. . . . For small souls do not need much. . . . Just an atom, a grain. And of that grain, Marianne, it even communicated a part . . . to others. My child, that is the whole secret: to share your grain, to give, though it be but of your superfluity, to others. But, Marianne, you will have to wait for that grain; it will only come later; and, before you can possess it . . . you must first go through everything . . . you must pass through all that unreality, that vain dreaming . . ."
"And, Auntie, have you the grain?"
"Oh, child, the grain is so small, so small! So tiny, so wee, such a very little grain! But what are we ourselves? And, we being what we are, is not that little tiny grain enough? . . ."
"For happiness . . . some day, later, much later, after long, long years? . . ."
"Happiness? Happiness? . . . Yes, the happiness of knowing, of understanding; the happiness of resignation; the happiness of accepting one's own smallness . . . and of not being angry and bitter because of all the mistakes . . . and of being grateful for what is beautiful and clear and true. . . ."
"Grateful . . ."
"For the great dream. . . . And the happiness of satisfying hunger and thirst . . . with that one, solitary little grain . . . and of no longer yearning for the great, great dream!"
"But yet remaining grateful . . ."
"Yes, grateful that the dream has been vouchsafed to us, that its radiance ever smiled upon us. . . ."
"But, Auntie, suppose it was no dream . . . but the very bread of life!"
"My child, who can tell you now what is the only bread of life? Now, you are only hungry for your dream . . . and, later, much later . . ."
"Have I hungered then . . . after nothing?"
"Perhaps."
"After nothing? Oh no!"
"Who can tell?"
"Auntie, is every one of life's parables so cruel in its worldly wisdom? Do they all teach that the great dream is nothing and the little grain, which comes so late, everything? . . ."
"I fear so, child."
"Oh, Auntie, it's all words . . . soft, gentle words! . . . I understand you: it is your own story, your parable. But, until now, mine . . . is nothing but the river . . . and the leaf. . . ."
"And later perhaps there will come . . . the tiny treasure, the grain. . . ."
Then they were silent; and Constance thought:
"Every soul must first go through that, must have its dream. . . . Not until very late does it find the grain . . . for itself. What another communicates to it never satisfies its hunger as does its own grain . . . the grain it has found for itself . . ."