Oh, how the twilight was gathering, oh, how it was gathering around him! It was dark now, quite dark; and the fire on the hearth was dying out in the dark, shadowy room. But what was the use of making it blaze up: did the room not always remain shiveringly cold, however much the fire might glow? What was the use of lighting lamps: was the twilight not deeper and gloomier day by day, whether it were morning or evening? Did not the pale gold of the dawn shimmer more and more vaguely through the dense mist of twilight? . . . A dull, apathetic, feeble man. . . . Had he kept his secret all his life, concealed the real condition of his body and his soul, to become like that? And yet was he not Ernst's brother? Had he not always been Ernst's brother . . . though it had always seemed otherwise? Were they not of the same blood and had not they, the brothers, the same soul, the same darkened soul? Was the darkness not gathering around all of them now, the sombre twilight of their small lives? . . . Would the darkness one day close in upon his own pale-golden dawn: his children, who also shared the same soul? . . . It might be the darkness of old age as it closed in upon Mamma—he could see her as she sat—or it might be the darkness of sorrow and weariness and loneliness, as yonder, round Bertha. Were the shadows not deepening round Paul and Dorine, for all their youth? . . . Had it not been as a night round Ernst, even though he was now stepping out of the dark . . . back into the twilight that surrounded them all? . . . Was it their fault or the fault of their life: the small life of small souls? . . . Did the twilight come from their blood, which grew poorer, or from their life, which grew smaller? . . . Would they never behold through the twilight the vistas, far-reaching as the dawn, where life, when all was said, must be spacious . . . and would they never strive for that? Would his children never strive for that? Would they never send forth the rays of their golden sunlight towards the greater life and would they not grow into great souls? . . . Would the twilight, afterwards, deepen . . . and deepen . . . and deepen . . . around them too . . . until perhaps the very great things of life came thundering and lightening unexpectedly before them, crushing them and blinding them . . . because they had not learnt to see the light? . . .
He tried to remember thoughts of former days . . . but they shot ahead, like winged ironies. He knew only that night was falling, one vast night around all the family, under the grey skies of their winter. He knew only that the light was growing dimmer and dimmer around them, until it became unillumined dusk: the dusk of age; the dusk of sorrow; the dusk of cynical selfishness; the dusk of life without living; all the heavy, sombre twilight that gathered around small souls . . . until with Ernst the dusk had grown into night and the dark dream from which he was now emerging. . . . They called that recovering. . . . They thought that he would recover. . . . Oh, how dark and gloomy were the shadows of the twilight and how heavy was the fate that hung over their small souls, hung over them like a leaden sky, an immensity of leaden skies! . . .
He, yes, he would get better. It might take months yet; and then he would resume his service as a dull, decrepit old man, diseased through and through, from his childhood, under the semblance of muscular strength, until one serious illness was enough to break him and make him dull and old for all the rest of his life. . . . Yes, he would get better. But it would no longer be necessary to raise his voice to a roar, to make his movements rough and blunt, to make a show of strength and force and roughness; for they would now all see through the sad pretence. He would jog along through his small, shadowed life, until the shadows gathered around him . . . as they were now gathering around his mother; and . . . and . . . and his children would never again recognize in him their father of the old days, who used to romp with them and fill the whole house with all the rush of his healthy vitality. . . . It was over, over for the rest of his life. . . .
It was over. In the room which had grown chill and dark, the black thought haunted him, that it was over. It almost made him calm, to know that it was over, that for his children, his nine—did he not remember their golden number correctly?—he could never be other than the shadow of their father of the old days. . . . Oh, would he never again be able to love them, to be a father to them? Could he never do that again? Must he, when cured, remain for all the rest of his life the man conquered by the beast, the man eaten up by the beast, the man broken in the contest with the dragon-beast? Was it so? Was it so? . . .
Why did they leave him in the cold and the dark? Shivers ran down his back—his marrowless back, his bloodless body—like a stream of ice-cold water? Why didn't they make up his fire and why didn't they light his lamp? . . . Did they know that nothing could give him warmth and light?
"Adeline!"
His voice sounded faint and weak. In the next room, which was now dark, nothing stirred. He rose out of his deep chair with difficulty, like an old man. He groped round for the door of the other room. A feeble light still entered from outside. . . . There she sat, there she lay, his wife: she had fallen asleep with weariness and anxiety for him, her arms on the table, her face on her arms. . . . Was it his imagination, or had she really changed? He had not noticed her for weeks, since his illness, had not looked at her, though she had nursed him all the time. . . . Certainly he was very fond of her; but she was doing her duty as his wife. She had borne him his children and she was nursing him now that he was ill. Had he been wrong in thinking like that? Yes, perhaps it had not been right of him. . . . Gad, how she had changed! How different from the young, fresh face that she used to have, the little mother-girl, the little child-mother! Was it the ghostly effect of the faint light or was it so? Was she so pale and thin and tired . . . with anxiety about him, with nursing and looking after him? . . . He felt his heart swelling. He had never loved her as he did now! He bent down and kissed her . . . with a fonder kiss than he had ever given her. She just quivered in her sleep: she was sound asleep. . . . Lord, how tired she was! How pale she was, how thin! She lay broken with worry and weariness, her head in her arms. . . .
"Adeline. . . ."
She did not answer, she slept. . . . He would not wake her; he would ring for the fire and the lamp himself. . . But what was the good? Lamp and fire would make things no brighter around him, now that the great twilight was descending. . . . Oh, the great inexorable, pitiless twilight! Would it fall around him as it had fallen around Ernst . . . around whom it was now slowly clearing? Did the twilight clear again? Or would the shadows around him gradually deepen into darkness, the darkness that was now gathering around his mother? Or would it just remain dim around him, with the same wan light that glimmered around Paul and Dorine? What, what would their twilight be? . . .
The house was very cold and he felt chilly. Was there no fire anywhere? Where were the children? Were Marietje and Adèletje and the two boys not back from school yet? . . . He now heard Gerdy and Constant playing in the room downstairs—the nursery and dining-room—heard them talking together with their dear little voices. . . . Oh, his two sunny-haired darlings! . . . But Gerdy was afraid of him. . . . He was becoming afraid of himself. . . . He was no longer the man he used to be. . . . People now saw him as he was. . . . He could no longer put on that air of brute strength. . . . His voice had lost its blustering force. . . .
He did not know why, but he roamed through the house. . . . It struck him as lonely, dreary and quiet, though the children were playing below. . . . He stood on the stairs and listened. What was that rushing noise in the distance? No, there was no rushing . . . Yes, there was: something came rushing, from outside, to where he stood; something came rushing: a melancholy wind, like a wind out of eternity. . . . An immense eternity; and immense the wind that rushed out of it; and chilly and small and dreary the house; everything so small; he himself so small! . . . He did not know what was coming over him, but he felt frightened . . . frightened, as he had sometimes felt when a child. . . . He was so afraid of that rushing sound that he called out:
"Adeline! . . . Line! . . ."
He waited for her to hear and answer. But she did not hear, she slept. . . . Then he roamed on, shuddering . . . upstairs . . . to his own little room. . . . And it was all so dreary and chill and lonely and the sound of rushing from the immense eternity outside the house was so melancholy that he sank helplessly into a chair and began to sob. . . . He was done for now. . . . He sobbed. . . . His great, emaciated body jolted up and down with his sobs; his lungs panted with his sobs; and, in his great, lean hands, his head sobbed, in despair. . . .
He was done for now. . . . He knew now that he would not get well. . . . He knew now that he ought really to have died . . . and that he had gone on living only because his life had gone on hanging to a thread that had not broken. Would that last thread soon break? Or would his darkened life go on for a long time—he always ill—hanging to that last thread? Would he yet be able to be a father to his children . . . or would he . . . on the contrary . . . become . . . a burden to his dear ones? Was it growing dark, was it growing dark? Was not that eternity rushing along? . . .
He heaved a deep sigh, amid his sobs. His eyes sought along the wall, where a rack of swords and Malay krises hung between prints of race-horses and pretty women. He had a whole collection of those weapons. Some of them had belonged to his father. At Papa's death they had been divided between him and Ernst. . . . Among the krises and swords were two revolvers. . . .
He stared past the swords and krises . . . and his eyes fastened on the revolvers. . . . In among the swords and krises, in among the race-horses and the pretty women whirled all the heads of his children—he did not know if they were portraits or spectres—as they had been, children's heads of six months, one year old, two years old: growing older and bigger, radiating more and more sunlight, his golden dawn of nine bright-haired children? . . . Would he be able to be a father to them, or would he on the contrary become a burden? . . .
It was as if his imagination were digging in a deep pit. In a deep pit his imagination, with hurrying hands, dug up sand. What was it seeking, his rooting imagination? What was it seeking in the deep pit, why was it flinging the sand around him . . . just as Addie once told him that Ernst had dug and flung up sand . . . in the dunes . . . in the dunes at Nunspeet? . . . What! . . . What! . . . Was he going mad too! . . . Was he going mad . . . like Ernst? Was he going mad . . . like Ernst? . . . A cold sweat broke out over his chilly, shivering body. Was he going mad? . . .
"Gerrit! . . . Gerrit!"
A voice sounded very far away through the house, which had suddenly become very deep, very wide, very big.
"Gerrit! . . . Gerrit!"
He could hear the hurrying footsteps on the creaking stairs, but he was powerless to answer.
"Gerrit! . . . Gerrit! . . . Where are you?"
The door opened. It was Adeline, looking for him . . . in the dark:
"Gerrit! . . . Are you here? . . .
Even yet he did not answer.
"Where are you, Gerrit?"
"Here."
"Are you here?"
"Yes."
"Why are you sitting in the dark . . . in the cold? . . . What are you doing here, Gerrit? . . ."
"I . . . I was looking for something."
"For what? . . ."
"I've forgotten."
"Why didn't you ask me?"
She had lit the gas.
"You were asleep."
"Don't be angry, Gerrit. I was tired."
"I'm not angry, dear. I didn't like to disturb you."
"Why didn't you wake me?"
"You were asleep."
"You ought to have waked me."
He put out his arms to her:
"Come here, dear."
She came; he drew her to his knees.
"What is it, Gerrit?"
"Darling . . . Line . . . I believe I'm very . . . very ill."
"You've been ill, Gerrit. You're . . . you're getting better now . . ."
"Do you think so? . . ."
"Oh yes!"
"Line, I believe . . . I'm very . . . very . . . ill."
"Why, do you feel worse? . . . It's so cold in here. Come downstairs. We'll make up the fire."
"No, stay here. . . . Tell me, Line: if I died, would you . . ."
"No, no, Gerrit, I can't bear it!"
"Hush, dear: if I died, would you believe . . . after I am dead . . ."
"Oh, Gerrit, Gerrit!"
"That I have always been very fond of you . . ."
"Gerrit, don't!"
"That I have always been kind to you . . . that I have not neglected you? . . ."
"Oh, you're not going to die, Gerrit! . . . You will get better . . . and you have always, always been kind! . . ."
"Line . . . and all our children . . ."
"Don't, Gerrit!"
"Won't they think . . . if I die . . . that I had no business to die . . . because I ought to have lived and been a father to them? . . ."
"But, Gerrit, you're not going to die!"
"I should like to go on living, Line . . . for you, dear, and for the children. But I fear I'm very ill. . . ."
"Will you see the doctor, Gerrit? . . ."
"No, no. . . . Stay like this, quietly, for a minute, on your husband's knees. . . . Line, Gerdy has become frightened of me. Tell me, Line, are you also frightened of your skeleton of a husband?"
"Gerrit, Gerrit, no! Gerdy isn't frightened . . . and I . . . I'm not frightened. . . ."
"Put your arms round me."
She put her arms right round him. She hugged him, warmed him against herself, while she sat upon his knees:
"I'm not frightened, Gerrit. Why should I be frightened of you? Because you've been ill, because you've grown thin? Aren't you still my husband, whom I love, whom I have always loved? Sha'n't I nurse you till you are yourself again, till you're quite well . . . and strong? . . . Oh, Gerrit, even if it should take weeks . . . months . . . a year! Gerrit, what is a year? In a year's time, you will be yourself again and well . . . and strong . . . and then we shall be happy once more . . . and then our children will grow up. . . ."
"Yes, dear . . . if only it doesn't get dark . . ."
"Gerrit . . ."
"If only it doesn't get so dark! . . . Do you know that it got very dark around Ernst? It's getting lighter around him now . . . but there's some twilight around him still . . . even now. . . . Do you know that it is getting dark around Mamma . . . and that it will get darker and darker? . . . Do you know that the twilight is closing around Bertha . . . and that there's twilight around the others? . . . Line, darling, I'm frightened. I'm frightened . . . when it gets dark. As a child, I remember, I used to be frightened . . . when it grew dark. . . . You've lit the gas now, you see, Line. . . .Is there only one light burning? The flame of a gas-jet . . . and yet . . . and yet it's getting dark. . . ."
"Gerrit, my Gerrit, is the fever returning? Would you like to go to bed?"
"Yes, Line, I want to go to bed. . . . Put your baby to bed, Line . . . it's tired, it's not well. Put it to bed, Line, and tuck the nice, warm clothes round its cold back . . . and promise to stay and sit with it . . . till it's asleep . . . till it's asleep. . . . Put it to bed, Line. . . . And, Line, if your baby . . . if your baby dies . . . if it dies . . . will you promise never . . . to think . . . that it did not love you . . . as much as it ought to? . . ."
She had gently forced him to rise from his chair and she opened the partition-door. He stood in the middle of the little room while she busied herself in the bedroom and lit the gas and then came back for him and helped him undress.
"It's getting dark . . . it's getting dark," he muttered, shivering, while his teeth chattered with the cold.
And he felt that it was not the cold of fever, but a cold in his veins and his spine, because the beast had sucked all his blood and marrow with its voluptuous licks, had eaten him up from the days of his childhood, had devoured him until now, in the twilight, his soul shrank and withered in his body, which had no more sap to feed it. . . .
"It's getting dark," he muttered.