Dr. Adriaan/Chapter XXX
Addie returned to the Hague that evening; and seldom had he felt so heavy and listless, as if he knew nothing for himself. No, he knew nothing, nothing more for his poor self, as if he, as he grew older, daily lost more and more of the knowledge that is sacredly imparted for a man's own soul, like a far-lighting lamp casts its rays over the paths of his own destiny that lie dimly in the future. . . . Though he knew for others so often and so surely, for himself he knew nothing nowadays, nothing. Once he had known himself to be a dual personality; to-day he no longer knew which of the two he was. He felt like a prematurely old and decrepit young man, prematurely old and decrepit because life had become serious for him too early and opened out to him too early, so that he had fathomed it through and through: prematurely old and decrepit because his own life later had not trembled in the pure balance of his own twin forces of soul. He had felt fettered to the one; and it drew him down, while the other had not the power to lift him up to the height of pure self-realization. . . .
He walked home from the station, late in the evening. He dragged himself along, his step was heavy and slow; over the dark masses of the Wood hung a sultry, pearl-grey summer night; the houses in the Bezuidenhout faded away white in the evening silence. Light rain-clouds dreamed in the sky: it would doubtless rain to-morrow; and far behind them lurked the threatening summer storm. For the present the evening sombreness drifted on as though in hushed expectation. Everything was still: the trees, the houses, the clouds. There was hardly anyone about; a last tram came rumbling out of the distance, from Scheveningen; and its bell seemed to ring through the space of the evening, very far behind him.
He walked on, dragged himself along past the houses. He was tired out, as he was every time that he practised hypnotism; in addition to this, it always broke his heart to leave Driebergen. How united he was with everybody and everything there! The house was his father's and his; the family was his mother's and his. As the child of his two parents, he felt at home there, in that great sombre house. But he no longer lived there, no longer worked there. In the crudely-bright, small, motley-painted house towards which he was wending, his wife awaited him; and he would find his children.
Healthy children, a healthy wife: he had all that. What he had longed for, in his anxiety at what he saw in his mother's family, he now possessed: a healthy wife and healthy children. How they both of them loved the children; how united they were, where the children were concerned! All their difference arose from a spiritual misunderstanding, because at first they had not known. . . . Know? Did he know now? Did he know that he ought never to have taken a wife like Mathilde? Did he not know that it was his fault?
There was nothing else for him to do than to continue the sacrifice, all his life long; but the sacrifice was very heavy: living and working in contradiction to his impulses, in a sphere that was not his. It was this that made him ill and prematurely old. He saw no future before him. The sacrifice was killing something deep down in himself.
He felt a sudden rebellion: it was not a man's business to sacrifice himself like that. What was done was done. Mathilde must accommodate herself somehow. He would tell her that it wouldn't do, that the Hague was killing him, that he must go back to the house out there, to the village, to the district where he was of use and able to work. She would have to go with him.
But he saw her, as a sacrificial victim, offered up for a faith which she did not share, because of his mistake in life. No, no, he could never do it, could never tell her that the Hague was killing him, that she must accommodate herself and make the best of things. It was for him, for him to make the best of things: if he wished to remain in any sense just, he must continue to sacrifice himself, though it wore him to death.
How sombre and joyless it all was! How grey it all was, far and wide around him, like the very night that hung pearl-white close by and, farther away, dug itself into abysses of threatening darkness!
As he drew nearer home, his feet lagged more heavily. And suddenly, before turning down the street in which he lived, he dropped on to a bench and remained sitting as though paralyzed, with his head in his hand.
How hard and heavy it was for him, to have to go back like that to his own house! Oh, to remain sitting, just sitting like that until he had attained certain knowledge! He closed his eyes.
He felt himself conquered, overcome. . . . Suddenly, as in a dream, voices struck upon his ear; and he seemed to recognize the voices. He rose mechanically and, past the houses, along the silent pavement, saw approaching the dark figures of two people walking slowly, a man and a woman. Their voices sounded clearly, though he could not catch the words; he recognized the leisurely forms. It was Johan Erzeele and Mathilde.
They did not see him. They walked on very slowly and Addie followed behind them. Johan seemed to be persistently pleading, Mathilde seemed to be refusing something. Addie's heart beat fearfully as he followed after them; and a jealousy suddenly flared up amid his dull dejection. Was she not his wife, was she not his wife? And why, lately, was she always looking for Johan and he for her? Was it not always so: always these tennis-parties together, always meeting at friends' houses where he, Addie, never went? . . . Where were they coming from now? Where had they been? Was he bringing her home? How intimate their conversation sounded, how sad almost! Had they grown fond of each other, in a dangerous increasing friendship?
He followed them unobserved, almost glad to have surprised them, suspicious in his jealous grief. Did not he still love his wife, notwithstanding their deep-seated differences? . . . He slackened his pace and followed very slowly. . . . After his first access of jealousy, he seemed rather to feel a certain curiosity to observe in silence, to make a diagnosis. His nature got the upper hand of him, the nature of one who is born to heal and who, before healing, diagnoses the disease. Yes, jealousy still smouldered within him; but he felt even more distinctly the craving for knowledge. Did he not still love Mathilde? . . . Ah, but was she indispensable to his life?
That suddenly became clear to him: indispensable to his life she was not. . . . His children, yes: they belonged to all of them, to all of them yonder, in the old house, the old family-house. She, his wife, did not. His children were indispensable to his life: he felt that clearly. Mathilde, Mathilde was not. For Mathilde, as he now walked behind her and Johan, he felt only the curiosity to analyze and classify the nature of the disease, nothing but that. Even the jealousy died away in him, the child of his jealous parents. . . . He continued to follow them. He saw Erzeele put his arm through Mathilde's.
He now quickened his pace slightly. His heels rang on the pavement through the night air, regularly, faster than before. The two in front looked round. They gave a start. He caught them up:
"I seemed to recognize you . . . in the distance," he said, calmly and naturally, while they were unable to speak and Erzeele withdrew his arm.
"I have come from the station."
"I didn't expect you till to-morrow," said Mathilde, faintly, in spite of herself.
"I finished earlier. Emilie is much more peaceful. . . . How are the children?"
"All right."
"Where have you been this evening?"
"I went and had tea at Johan's sister's. . . . Johan was seeing me home."
"But now that Van der Welcke's here . . . to see you home . . ." said Erzeele.
"Not at all," replied Addie. "Come a little way farther."
They walked on, Mathilde between the two men. Addie talked conventionally. They hardly answered. Meanwhile he observed them. His curiosity roused him, gave him a sudden new interest, as though he was treating a case of serious illness.
"I'll say good-bye here," said Erzeele, as they turned down the side-street.
They both shook hands with him and walked home more silently, suddenly dragging their feet.
Addie felt in his pocket for the key:
"It's late," he said, mechanically.
"Getting on for twelve," replied Mathilde, dully.
He saw that her eyes were red with weeping. He said nothing. They went upstairs without speaking. On reaching the nursery, they both crept in for a moment on tip-toe and looked into the little cots. The nurse was sleeping in the next room, with the door open between. They exchanged a smile, because the babies were sleeping so prettily. Then they went to Mathilde's bedroom. Once they had crossed the threshold, it seemed to him as if they were strangers.
"I'm tired," said Mathilde.
"So am I," said Addie.
He kissed her, left her and went to his own bedroom. Through the closed door he could follow her movements, heard her undressing, heard the rustle of her clothes. He sank into a chair and stared in front of him:
"I know," he thought, with his eyes very wide.
"She loves him and he loves her. I . . . I no longer love her. . . . She has never been indispensable to my existence. . . . I made a mistake. I did not know for myself. . . ."
He did not sleep that night. Next morning early he said to Mathilde:
"Tilly, I want to talk to you."
"What about?"
"About ourselves."
She raised her eyebrows impatiently:
"What for?" she asked. "We have had that sort of talk so often. It leads to nothing. It tires me."
"Yes, you're looking tired . . . and ill. You're not happy."
"Oh, never mind my happiness!"
"But what else did we come here for, Tilly, except your happiness?"
"That's true," she said, without interest. "You did it for my sake. It was nice of you."
"But it did no good."
"No, it did no good. And it would be better . . ."
"What?"
"For you to go back to Driebergen, Addie."
"I agree," he said, gently.
She started:
"What do you mean?"
"I was thinking the same thing."
"What?"
"That I ought to go back to Driebergen."
She looked at him in surprise:
"And I?" she asked.
"You remain here . . . with the children."
"I don't understand."
"You stay in the Hague . . . you and the children."
"And you?"
"I'll go down there."
"I don't understand," she repeated.
"I mean what I say, Tilly," he said. "It is better . . ."
"What?"
"That we should separate."
"Separate?"
"Perhaps. For a longer or shorter period."
She stared at him:
"Do you want a divorce?"
"I think so."
She continued to stare at him and choked down her tears:
"Addie, do you no longer love me?"
"No," he said, gently.
She looked deep in his eyes, affronted:
"What do you mean?"
"That I don't love you, any longer, enough to live with you. I beg your pardon, Tilly, if I have spoilt your life, if I have shattered your life. I have spoilt and shattered it. I beg your pardon . . . if you can forgive me."
"Only a little while ago . . . you told me that you cared for me."
"I thought so at the time . . . It seemed to mean so much to me."
"And now?"
"Now I don't."
She rebelled with injured pride:
"Then why did you ask me to marry you?"
"Yes, that was just it."
"Just what?"
"The mistake. . . . Tell me, do you still love me?"
"No," she said, proudly.
"So you see: it's better . . ."
"That we should be divorced."
"Don't you think so yourself?"
"And the children?" she asked.
"That's my punishment," he said, gently. "They will remain with you."
"You entrust them to me?"
"I do."
"Addie!" she cried, with a sob.
"You still love me a little, Tilly . . ."
She only sobbed.
"But not so much as you did," he assured her.
"You are in love with Erzeele."
"Erzeele?"
"Yes."
"He is a friend."
"He may become more . . . later," he forced himself to say, uncleansed as yet of jealousy, because she was still his wife.
"Addie," she said, "I am to blame. If I could only have got accustomed to things, like all of you, at Driebergen . . . I should have been happy."
"Yes, but it is not your fault that you couldn't."
"I don't want a divorce," she said.
"Why not?"
"For my sake . . . and the children's."
"The children's?"
"For their sake especially. No, Addie, I don't want it. Unless . . ."
"What?"
"Unless you want it . . . for your own sake, to be free, to marry somebody else."
"No."
"Then I don't want it either. If you assure me . . ."
"I do assure you."
"Then I don't want it either."
"And Erzeele?"
"No," she said, shaking her head. "It's not as people say."
"What do they say?"
"That he is my lover. He's not that."
"I never supposed he was."
"I value his friendship . . . but I could not be his wife."
"Why not?"
"Because I am your wife."
"Do you feel that?"
"Always."
"My poor child!" he said, in spite of himself.
"Why do you pity me?" she asked, proudly.
"Because I have done you a wrong. Because I am unable to atone."
"You have done me no wrong. We loved each other very much . . . then. At that time . . . I thought I understood you. Now I no longer understand you. You breathe too rarefied an air for me."
"No, it isn't that. But . . ."
"What?"
"Nothing. So, Tilly, you don't want us to be divorced."
She looked at him anxiously:
"No," she entreated.
"Well, dear, then we won't be," he said, gently. "Only . . . our present life . . . is no life at all. So it will be better if . . ."
"If what?"
"If I don't stay with you, if I go away."
"And I?"
"You remain here, in this house, where everything is as you like it. You stay . . . with our children."
"Our . . . our children," she stammered.
"Perhaps later . . ."
"What?"
"Because of our children, we shall come together again . . . when all misunderstanding has disappeared."
"I don't follow you."
"Perhaps you will later. But perhaps also . . . you will become so fond of Erzeele . . . that . . ."
She shook her head, stared before her.
"We never know," said Addie, gently.
"No," she said, pensively. "I know nothing . . . nothing now. I used to think . . . that you knew everything."
"I do sometimes know things . . . for others. I have not known for myself."
"And now?"
"Now I know better . . . for you."
"For me?"
"Yes, now I know, Tilly . . . that it is better for you . . . that I should leave you . . ."
"For good?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps for a long time . . . only . . ."
"And the children? Won't you be longing for them?"
It was more than he could bear; and he said nothing, only nodded yes. Then he said:
"But they will be all right . . . with you, Tilly."
It was more than she could bear either. She fell into a chair, sobbing.
"Don't be unhappy, Tilly," he said. "We must make a change. If we remain as we are, we shall end by hating each other. . . . Don't be unhappy about parting . . . when you reflect . . . that it is really out of the question for us to remain together."
"You are right," she said, coldly. "So . . ."
"You will stay here. You will live here. That is, if you like."
"And you?"
"I? I shall go home."
She felt her jealousy of all of them, out there:
"Yes," he said, gently.
"If you don't love me," she burst out, "they will not need to console you long."
"I shall feel regret . . . because I have spoilt your life . . . and because I sha'n't see the children any more."
"Spoilt my life?" she said, proudly. "You have not done that."
He did not answer.
"The children?" she continued. "Why should you not see them . . . when you want to?"
"Would you allow that?"
"Allow it? They are your children. I have nothing to say in the matter. In fact . . ."
"In fact?"
"I should not think it right . . . if you did not see them often."
"Then I shall come."
"Of course. . . . But to go on living here . . . would be too expensive."
"No, not at all. I . . . I shall want nothing . . . out there. Whatever I make is yours."
"I can't accept it."
"Yes, you can . . . for the children. It's better, Tilly, that everything should remain as it is."
"Very well," she consented. "Only, Addie . . . it's not a solution."
"There can be no solution . . . until you know that you care enough for Johan Erzeele . . ."
"No, no, I don't!"
"That you care enough for Johan Erzeele to . . ."
"I don't know, I don't know . . . and I refuse to discuss it."
"I understand that, Tilly. Then . . . there can be no solution yet, can there? We know nothing about a solution. I am simply giving you back your life, as far as I can, and you are doing the same to me. Later we will see what happens. It will all come of itself. What do we know? We know nothing . . . for ourselves. Knowledge will all come of itself. Do you understand?"
"No."
"You will, later. . . . You will live here, with the children; you will see me hardly at all. I shall not see the children for a time. It will be as though I were on a journey. They are so small: oh, I hope that they won't miss me and that, when they do see me again, they will know me! . . . So you will be alone . . . with the children . . . It may be that you will want me back then, that the former love will return. . . . In my case too, perhaps. . . . We shall see. It will . . . it will all come of itself and we . . . we know nothing. . . . Perhaps, in years to come, we shall be living quietly together again . . . with the children. Or else . . ."
"What?"
"Or else you will be far away from me . . . and will have found your happiness with another."
She put her hands before her eyes:
"I don't see it. . . . I don't know. . . ."
"Now you are being honest. No, you don't know if you will come to care so much as that for Johan. . . . And I . . . I will be honest too! I don't know if I shall ever care for you again. . . . But we must wait, Tilly; and the best thing therefore is to leave each other and . . . and not to talk to each other again until it has come of itself and until we know. . . . You will not be alone in the world; for, if ever I can do anything for you, I will come to you. I shall never forget you."
"Yes, perhaps that will be best," she said, in a dead voice. "I shall try to look at it like that . . . and to live alone . . . with the children. I shall not see Johan again."
"No, no, on the contrary: you must see him."
"Why?"
"So as to know. You will never be weak."
"No, I shall never be that."
"You know how he feels towards you."
"How do you know?"
"I know you do. . . . You know what he feels for you. But you do not know what you feel for him."
"Addie! Oh, Addie!"
"Don't deny it. Be honest. These are the last words, perhaps, that we shall exchange for quite a long time. I am going away now."
"Now?"
"Yes. . . . Write to me when there's any occasion."
"Very well."
"Good-bye, Tilly."
She was silent, sat staring before her, with her hands clasped over her knees. No, she did not understand him, but she could not act otherwise than he wished.
He was gone; and suddenly she felt very lonely. She heard him upstairs packing, rummaging in his cupboards.
And she began to reflect, sadly:
"He acts differently and speaks differently from anybody else. Divorced? Oh, no, I don't want that . . . if he doesn't want it for himself! . . . I . . . at least . . . not yet. . . . No, no, nor ever. . . . Oh, I don't know, I don't know! . . . I am fond of Johan. . . . If I were free now, if I were a girl still. . . . But Addie, the children. . . . I don't know, I don't know. . . . That was why Addie thought it would be well . . . for us not to see each other . . . for a time. How he will miss the children! . . . Oh dear, is he really, really going? Yes, I hear him upstairs . . . packing. . . . What will people say? Not that it matters. We can say that he has to read, quietly, out there . . . at Driebergen. . . . We can tell people something of the kind . . . even if they do understand. . . . I simply can't go back to Driebergen. . . . Oh, how will it work out, how will it all work out? That is just what Addie doesn't know either. . . . Do I? No, Heaven help me, I don't know any more than he does! . . . I am fond of Johan: shall I grow fonder of him, now that I am less fond of Addie? I don't know, I don't know. . . . Oh, if only I hadn't my children! . . . As it is, I could wish, my God, how I could wish, for his sake and the children's, that I knew how to be happy at Driebergen, in that house of theirs, with all of them, and that I could go back to it! Shall I ever go back to it? . . . Shall I be Johan's wife one day, after all? . . . Oh, it is all so dark and uncertain! . . . Addie says a solution will come of itself. . . . We know nothing, he says. . . . Must I let it come as it will? . . . But how will it come? . . . Oh, even Addie, who is so wise, can find no solution! . . . There is . . . there is no solution yet! . . . Will there ever be one? . . . Oh, if I could go back . . . to the house down there! . . . Should I ever be able to? Perhaps years hence! Perhaps never! Who can tell? . . .Is Johan . . . really fond of me? Not only because he admires me . . . not only for that? . . . Oh, that was the only reason why Addie loved me! . . . I know it now, I know it: that was his one idea, to have healthy children. . . . Now we are parted: parted for ever? . . . Or shall we come together again one day? Shall we ever become husband and wife again . . . or not? . . . I do care for Johan. He is so matter-of-fact, so simple: I should have become very happy and simple with him, without all this thinking about things which I can't grasp or feel . . . and which came haunting me down there, at Driebergen, gradually. . . . Oh, if I could only force myself to live there again! . . . But perhaps I never can! Perhaps, in three or four years' time, I shall be Johan's wife . . . and have to give up the children, the poor children, to Addie! . . ."
Now she sobbed, because she did not know. The days and months would drift past slowly and slowly before she knew. . . .
There is a sacred knowledge for ourselves, a knowledge so sacred that we know it only . . . when the future is here. . .