It was a steadily grey and rainy winter. A winter without frost, but with endless, endless rains, with a firmament of everlasting clouds hanging over the small, murky town, over the flooded streets, through which the gloomy people hurried under the little roofs of their umbrellas, clouds so preternaturally big and heavy that everything seemed to cower beneath their menace, as though the end of the world were slowly approaching. Black-grey were those everlasting clouds; and it seemed as if they cast the shadow of their menace from the first hour of the day; and so short were the days that it was as though it were eternal night and as though the sun had lost itself very far away, circled from the small human world, circled very far behind the immeasurable world of the clouds and the endless firmaments. And, lashing, ever lashing, the whips of the rain beat down, wielded by the angry winds. Gloom and menace hung over the shuddering town and over the shuddering souls of the people. There were but few days of light around them.
The old grandmother sat gloomily at her window, nodding her head understandingly but reproachfully, because old age had not come in the nice and peaceful way which she had always, peacefully, hoped. The shadows of old age had gathered around her like a dark, dreary twilight, were already gathering closer and closer because she saw that, however hard she had tried, she had not been able to keep around her all that she loved. Was the supreme sorrow not coming nearer? . . . Just as the shadows were gathering around her, so they had already gathered around Bertha, over at Baarn, far away, too far for her, an old woman, to reach her; and, in a sudden flash of clairvoyance, she saw—though no one had ever told her—Bertha sitting at a window, listlessly, with her hands in her lap, saw her sitting and staring, even as she herself stared and sat. In a flash of clairvoyance she saw Karel and Cateau and Adolphine's little tribe far, far away from her, even though they lived in the same town and came regularly on Sunday evenings. Far away from her she saw Paul and Dorine. Very far away from her she saw her poor Ernst, whom she knew to be mad; and her old head nodded in understanding but yet in protest against the cruelty of life, which brought old age to her in such a sad guise and made it gather so darkly and menacingly around her loneliness. . . . Yes, there was Constance, there was Gerrit: she felt these two to be closest to her; but, though they were closer, it grew black around her, black under the black skies, with the glimpses of light, the flashes of clairvoyance, in the midst of them. . . . She saw—though no one had told her—a pale, thin girl, Marianne, pining away by Bertha's side. . . . She saw—though no one knew it—Emilie and Henri toiling in Paris, struggling with life, which came towards them hideous and horrible, bringing with it poverty, which they had never known. She saw it so clearly that she almost felt like speaking of it. . . . But, because they would not have believed her, she remained silent, enduring all that gloomy life even as the town endured the black skies and the lashing of the rain. . . .
And yonder, far away, too far for her, she saw a woman, old like herself, dying. She saw her dying and by her bedside she saw Constance and she saw Addie. She saw it so clearly, between her eyes and the rain-streaks, as though flung upon the screen of the rain, that she felt like speaking of it, like crying it out. . . . But, because they would not have believed her, she remained silent, enduring all that gloomy life even as the town endured the black skies.
Then things grew dull around her and she saw nothing more; and the nodding head fell asleep upon her breast; and she sat sleeping, a black, silent figure, while the rain tapped as though with fingers—which would not tap her awake—at the panes of the conservatory-window at which she used to sit. . . .
For hours she would sit thus alone in the shadow of her day and the shadow of her soul; and, when any of her children or friends called, they would find her in low spirits.
"Mamma, don't you feel lonely like this?" Adolphine asked, one afternoon. "We should all like to see you take a companion."
The old woman shook her head irritably:
"A companion? What for? Certainly not."
"Or have Dorine to live with you."
"Dorine? Living with me? No, no, I won't have her in the house with me. Why should I?"
"You're so lonely; and, though you've had the servants a long time, somebody . . . to sit with you, you know . . ."
"Somebody sitting with me all day long? No, no. . . ."
"We should like to see it, Mamma."
"Well, you won't see it."
And the old woman remained obstinate.
Another afternoon, Adeline said:
"Mamma dear, Constance asked me to tell you that she won't be able to see you for a day or two."
"And why not? What's the matter with Constance?"
"Nothing, Mamma dear, but she's been sent for to Driebergen. . . ."
"To Driebergen? . . ."
"Yes, dear. Old Mrs. van der Welcke hasn't been quite so well lately. . . ."
"Is she dead?"
"No, no, Mamma. . . . She's only a little un-well. . . ."
The old woman nodded her head comprehendingly. She had already seen Constance standing yonder by the dying woman's sickbed, but she did not say so . . . because Adeline would have refused to believe it. . . .
Another afternoon, Cateau said:
"Mam-ma . . . it's ve-ry sad, but old Mrs. Friese-teijn. . . ."
"Oh, I haven't seen her . . . for ever so long; and. . . ."
"Yes. And it's ve-ry sad, Mam-ma, because she was a friend of yours. And, Mam-ma, peo-ple are saying that she's ill and that she won't last very long."
The old woman nodded knowingly:
"Yes, I knew about it," she said.
"Oh?" said Cateau, round-eyed. "Has somebody told you? . . ."
"No, but . . ."
The old lady had seen her, had seen her old friend dying; and she nearly committed herself, nearly betrayed herself to Cateau.
"What?" asked Cateau.
"I suspected it," said the old lady. "When you are old, old people die round you. . . ."
"Mam-ma, we should ve-ry much like . . ."
"What?"
"Adolph-ine would like it . . . and so would Ka-rel."
"What?"
"If you would take a compan-ion to live with you."
"No, no, I don't want a companion."
"Or Do-rine. She's ve-ry nice too. . . ."
"No, no. Not Dorine either."
And the old woman remained obstinate. . . . The old people were dying around her; she was constantly hearing of contemporaries who had gone before her. Her old family-doctor was dead, the man who had brought all her children into the world, in Java; now an old friend was gone; the next to go would be Henri's old mother, who had been unkind to Constance and none the less had sent for Constance to come to her. . . . Who else was gone? She couldn't remember them all: her brain was sometimes very hazy; and then she forgot names and people, just as the old sisters always forgot and muddled things. She did not want to muddle things; but she could not help forgetting.
"So I sha'n't see Constance for quite a long time?" she said to Cateau.
"Con-stance?"
"Yes, you said she was going to Driebergen."
"No, Mam-ma, I never men-tioned Con-stance."
The old woman nodded her understanding nod. Nevertheless she no longer remembered who it was that had told her about Constance; but she preferred not to ask. . . .
And she thought it over, for hours. . . .