Gerrit made progress every day. He was now so much better that he sat in a big chair, sat dozing until he sank away in the downy abyss and fell asleep in his chair. He was now so much better that he was able to speak a few words to the two women and the doctor and the nurse; and his first question was:
"The children . . . ?"
He had understood that they were not there and that he would not see them just yet.
He was now so much better that he remembered his recent life and asked:
"Pauline . . . ?"
And he saw that they did not understand. Why they did not understand he failed to see, for, when he asked after the children or Mamma, they always understood and answered kindly, telling him that Mamma and the children were well.
Then he asked:
"Your husband, Constance . . . ? Your boy . . . ?"
And Constance answered that they were well.
Then he asked:
"Pauline . . . ?"
And she gave a gentle, smiling nod.
Yes, of course, she understood now, told him that Pauline was well.
Yes, yes, he remembered: Mamma, the children, Pauline. . . . They were as ghosts in his empty memory, looming up and making him ask questions of the women around him. But, apart from that, his memory was one vast emptiness, like an empty universe, now that the beast had vanished into space . . . into nothingness . . . into nothingness. . . .
He had no marrow left: the beast would not eat him up any more. There was no centipede rooting at his carcase now. Lord, Lord, how done he felt, how utterly done for! . . .
He now recognized his doctor:
"Ah, is that you, Alsma?"
"Well, Van Lowe, do you recognize me?"
"Yes, yes. . . . Didn't I recognize you before?"
"No . . . once or twice you didn't know who I was. . . . Well, you'll soon be all right again now. You're getting better every day. . . ."
"Yes, yes . . . but . . ."
"What?"
"I feel very queer . . . damned queer. . . ."
"Yes, you're a bit weak still. . . ."
"A bit weak? . . ."
He gave a grin. He felt his arm, thought it odd that he couldn't find his biceps:
"Where's the thing got to?" he asked. "Is it gone? . . ."
"No, you'll get your strength back all right. . . . It doesn't take long, once you're well again."
"Oh, it doesn't take long?"
"No, you'd be surprised. . . ."
"I say, Alsma, can't I see my children . . . just for once? . . ."
"No, it would tire you a bit. . . . Later on, later on. . . ."
"I say, do you know what's so rotten? I don't know . . . all sorts of things . . . whether I've been dreaming . . . or not. . . ."
"Don't worry about it. That'll all come right . . . bit by bit, bit by bit. . . ."
"A lake full of white-faced mermaids: that's rot, eh? . . . An express-train: was I away, shortly before my illness? I wasn't, was I? . . . The body . . . of a girl: did I see that? . . . A snake-thing, a great wriggling snake-thing: yes, that snake-thing was there all right; I fought the thing. . . . I believe it was all rot . . . except the great snake-thing, which licked me up . . . with its tongue. . . ."
"You mustn't talk so much."
". . . Because I always used to feel that snake-thing inside me . . . always. . . ."
"Come, Van Lowe . . . keep very quiet now . . . and rest . . . rest. . . ."
The sick man sank away, sank away in the downy abyss. . . .
Gerrit made progress every day. He was now so much better that he had walked across the room, on Constance' arm, and just seen his two boys, only for a moment, because he longed for them so:
"The others too," he said.
The next day they brought Marietje and Gerdy and Constant to him; the day after that, the four others. . . . He had now seen them all:
"But for such a short time!" he said.
He recovered slowly. He had seen Van der Welcke and Addie; and, one pale, wintry, sunny day, he had been out for a little while, but the outside world made him giddy. Still he couldn't deny it: he was getting better. He saw his mother; and, when she saw him, she forgot that he had been ill:
"Where have you been, Gerrit? . . ."
"Laid up, Mamma."
"Laid up? . . ." The old woman nodded wisely. "You haven't been ill, have you?"
"Just a little, Mamma. It wasn't very bad. . . ."
And he got better, he made progress. He went out walking, with his wife, with Constance, with Van der Welcke. He went out with his nephew Addie; the outside world no longer made him giddy. On his walks, he recognized brother-officers; one day, he met the hussars:
"Oh, damn it all!" he swore, without knowing why.
It was as though he suddenly saw that he would never again ride, straight-backed, clear-eyed, at the head of his squadron. But it was all rot, seeing that. . . .
Still he was unable to resume his service. He lazed and loafed, as he said. In the evenings, always very early, he sank away into a downy abyss, dropped asleep, heavily. . . .
And he no longer remembered things:
"I say, Constance."
"What is it, Gerrit?"
"When I saw that girl . . . in the cemetery . . . were you there too and did you call me? . . ."
"No, Gerrit. You've been dreaming."
"Oh, did I dream that?"
"Yes."
"No, no."
"Yes, Gerrit, you dreamt it."
Another time, he said to Van der Welcke:
"I say, Van der Welcke."
"What is it, Gerrit?"
"You don't know . . . but I was carrying on with a girl . . . one I knew in the old days. . . . Find out what's become of her, will you?"
"What's her name and where does she hang out?"
He reflected:
"Her name . . . her name's Pauline."
"And where does she live?"
"In . . .in the Frederikstraat."
Van der Welcke made enquiries, but said nothing, next time he came. The sick man remembered, however:
"I say, Van der Welcke."
"Yes, Gerrit?"
"Did you ask about that for me?"
"Yes," Van der Welcke answered, hesitatingly.
"Well?"
"The girl's dead, old chap."
"Did she drown herself?"
"Yes."
"They took the body to the cemetery?"
"Yes."
"Oh, then I wasn't dreaming! You see for yourself. . . . And your wife came and fetched me there. . . ."
"No, no."
"Yes, she did."
"No, no, old chap."
The sick man reflected:
"I no longer know," he said, "what I've lived and what I've dreamed. The confounded snake-thing: that . . . that was real. It had been eating me up . . . eating me up since I was a boy. . . ."
He grew very gloomy and sat for hours and hours, silently, in his chair . . . until he sank into the downy abyss.