Dr. Adriaan/Chapter XXXI
The months drifted by.
"It is strange," said Brauws, "that we haven't heard from Addie lately."
"How long is it since we did?" asked Constance, vaguely.
"Nearly a week."
"Yes, it must be close upon a week."
"His last letters were brighter."
"Do you think the travelling is doing him good?"
"He doesn't travel as another man would. In the three months that he has been away . . ."
"Yes, he will have learnt a good deal that will be useful to him . . . in his profession."
"His letters were cheerful."
"I'm longing badly to see him again. . . . Listen to the wind!"
"That's the autumn coming."
"The summer is past. This is our typical weather. Look, here, out of my window, you can see the clouds coming up over the moor as you never do downstairs, because the trees in the garden hide all the view."
"Up here it reminds me sometimes of the Hague, in the Kerkhoflaan."
"But it's wider, wider . . ."
"And finer."
"There, they're coming up, the clouds. . . . That must be rain. . . . They're all grey and dark purple: I have never seen such purple as in our skies down here."
"You're able to live under them now."
"Now I am. But it took so long . . . that I had to get old first. I'm old now and it's all right now. . . . Look, look: the clouds are drifting along. . . . That means storm . . ."
"For days on end."
"Oh, I am yearning for Addie! . . . How long is it since we saw him? Three months, isn't it? . . . Three months! What an age! . . . We are all yearning for him. . . ."
"His father is counting the days till he returns. . . . Poor Hans!"
"Poor Henri! . . . Even Mamma was asking the other day, where Addie was."
"She always knows him."
"Ernst and Paul can't get on without him."
"And he has an excellent influence on Alex: the boy's doing very well."
"Yes, he's grown so calm and manly . . . latterly."
"Guy's letters are satisfactory, are they not?"
"Yes. It's kind of you, Brauws, to take so much interest . . . in all of us."
"Well, I'm living . . . with you all."
"You belong to us."
"It is like one family."
"Family. . . . Yes, there is such a thing as family. In the old days, I often used to think that it was just a word."
"No, it's there, only . . ."
"Yes, I understand what you mean. . . . Sometimes it does not begin to take shape until we ourselves are no longer young. . . . It was there for Mamma, whereas for us, at that time . . . But for Mamma it was an illusion and . . ."
"For us . . . it is indeed a reality . . ."
"In so far that we think so . . . we old people."
"No, no, it is so."
"I am quite willing to believe it is. . . . Yes. . . . Addie ought soon to be home again."
"And then?"
"I think . . . he will stay here."
"And Mathilde?"
"There . . . with the children."
"That is not a solution."
"No, but Addie says . . ."
"That it will have to come . . ."
"Later, of itself."
"I dare say he's right. . . . How is she?"
"Reconciled . . . more reconciled. . . . I saw her the other day."
"Don't leave her to herself."
"No, we are not doing that. . . . It's not her fault. And she is a good mother to her children."
"As you say, it's not her fault."
"Nor Addie's either. It's our fault: Henri's and mine."
"Why?"
"I don't know, I feel it is. It's all our fault. It's still the punishment dragging along."
"No, no!"
"Yes, it is. Our child was doomed not to be happy . . . because of us."
"No."
"You know quite well that you too . . . look on it like that."
"Not entirely. . . . If he had had certain understanding for himself . . ."
"He couldn't, because . . ."
"Hush! Say no more on that subject. . . . There is a knowledge . . . which is so sacred . . . Which of us has that certain understanding for himself? . . . We all just let it come. . . ."
"Look how dark it's growing."
"Here comes the rain."
"It's lashing against the windows."
"Strange that, even in this weather, the house and this room don't seem sombre . . . to me."
"There is an air of so much affection in the house. . . . If Addie would only come! If he would only come now! . . . Tell me, Brauws, what is your opinion? What will be the end of it? Will they ever go back to each other?"
"Possibly . . . later. . . ."
"You can't say it positively?"
"Oh, no!"
"Do you think that she cares for Erzeele?"
"It's difficult to say."
"She doesn't know, herself. Only the other day she told me so herself: she herself doesn't know. . . . Will the children prevent her?"
"Who can say?"
"Is it right . . . that Addie should let things decide themselves?"
"Perfectly right."
"Say that . . . say that again. I sometimes doubt. Is it right that Addie should let things decide themselves?"
"Yes, I am firmly persuaded that it is right."
"Is she . . . strong enough?"
"I think so . . . in that way . . . of course she mustn't sit still, with her hands folded. . . . She will have to find herself."
"Oh, if she could only feel in sympathy with all of us! . . . If she ever comes back, I swear that I shall . . ."
"What?"
"Nothing. I was thinking. . . . Then I begin to hope that she and all of us will feel alike. . . . And, strangely enough, I see that in everything. We all want it. If she comes back, I am almost sure that we shall all . . . do a great deal . . . to make her ours . . ."
"And to make her happy . . ."
"If she comes back. . . . How delightful it would be, if she came back . . . with the children."
"Delightful?"
"I mean . . . yes, I mean delightful. . . . Lives that have once been interlaced . . ."
"Are bad to pull apart. I agree. . . . And Hans?"
"Oh, even he . . . even he will try!"
"Who knows? Perhaps one day it'll be like that."
"For the present, there's nothing to be said."
"No, nothing."
"It's all still mystery and darkness."
"Listen to the rain."
"The sky is black."
"What's the time?"
"Almost dinner-time."
"There goes the bell."
"Shall we go downstairs?"
They went down the dark staircase. The wind howled round the house. The old lady was sitting at the window of the conservatory at the back when Constance and Brauws entered.
"It's blowing hard," she said. "There are great branches falling from the trees in the garden."
"Aren't you too cold in here, Mamma?"
The old woman did not understand; and Constance put a shawl over her shoulders:
"Will you come in, Mamma, when you feel too cold?"
The old woman nodded, without understanding. She remained sitting where she was. She had already had something to eat, with Marietje to wait on her: she never sat down to table with the others.
The second bell rang.
"Come," said Constance.
Paul was there and noticed how miserable Van der Welcke looked:
"What's the matter?" he asked.
Van der Welcke was carving:
"I loathe carving," he said. "Addie always used to do it, or Guy."
"I never learnt how," said Paul, secretly fearing the gravy.
"Give it to me, Hans," said Brauws.
They were silent round the table; the wind howled outside.
"The gas is burning badly," said Constance.
"How nice-looking Mary is growing now that she's down here!" said Paul. "There, you needn't go blushing: your old uncle may surely pay you a compliment."
"Well, Uncle Paul, I'm not as young as all that myself: I'm getting on for thirty."
"And you, Klaasje," said Paul, "you're eating like a grown-up person."
"I do eat nicely now, don't I, Auntie?" said Klaasje, proudly.
Constance nodded to her with a smile.
"Only Gerdy . . . she's not doing well," thought Paul. "How pale she looks! . . . Ah, well! Perhaps it'll all come right later for the poor child. . . . He or another. . . . Love, it's a strange thing: I never felt it."
He felt a shiver pass through him and said:
"It's cold to-day, Constance."
"Yes. We shall start fires to-morrow."
"It's blowing bitterly outside. And what a draught! I'm sure there's a draught in the house! What do you say, Ernst?"
Ernst looked up:
"There's no draught," he said. "I'm quite warm. You people are always feeling things that don't exist."
"Why is it so dark to-day?" asked Adeline, as though waking from a dream.
"The gas is burning badly," said Constance.
"Truitje," said Van der Welcke, "take the key and see that the meter is turned on full."
"Grandmamma was very tired to-day," said Marietje.
"Grandmamma hardly ate anything at all," said Adeletje.
"She's getting very old," said Constance, sadly.
The meal dragged on. They exchanged only an occasional word.
"We're very cosy, among ourselves, like this," said Constance, fondly. "Oh, I wish that Dorine would come and live here too!"
"Nothing will induce her to," said Paul.
"No, I'm afraid not."
A carriage drove up outside, drove through the garden.
"Hark!" said Constance.
"It's Addie!" said Van der Welcke.
"But he never wired!"
Gerdy had got up: she rushed outside, leaving the door open. A cold draught blew in. They all rose. The bell had rung; Truitje opened the door.
"Oh, Addie, Addie!" Gerdy exclaimed. "Is that you? Have you come back at last? We have missed you so frightfully!"
It was he. She flung herself into his arms and embraced him, with a little sob.
They all welcomed him home; they no longer noticed the draught, no longer heard the wind. They hardly ate anything now, hurriedly finishing their dinner.
"Come into the drawing-room," said Constance, "it's warmer there. I don't know why the dining-room should be so chilly."
"We'll set the stove going to-morrow," said Van der Welcke.
His face had brightened up out of recognition.
"Let's see how you're looking, old chap."
He, the father, was so much excited that the tears came to Addie's eyes. The others left the two of them together in the drawing-room with Van der Welcke while in the dimly-lighted dining-room the old woman seemed to be asleep.
"How are you, my boy?"
"Very well indeed, Dad."
"And now . . . you're staying here?"
"Yes, I'm staying . . . with all of you."
"Yes, this is your home. . . . And your wife?"
"We shall see. That will settle itself."
"So . . . there's nothing certain yet . . . about Mathilde?"
"No, nothing certain. . . . I write to her once a month; she writes rather oftener . . . about the children. She's very good to them."
"So . . . no talk of a divorce?"
"No, no talk of that. . . . Perhaps, later, all will come right between us. Perhaps, on the other hand, she will feel that she would sooner be free . . . in spite of the children."
They both thought of Erzeele.
"So you don't know anything yet?"
"No, not yet. It will settle itself. It must settle itself some day."
"You see, my boy, I'm different. In your place, I should have fought a duel with Erzeele. I should have had a divorce . . . if my wife didn't care for me, if she cared for Erzeele."
"Yes, Father, I know, that's you. I'm different."
"You're better."
"No, not better. But, whatever I may be, I am first of all your son."
"You, my son? You're my friend, my pal; always have been."
"And suppose I now wanted to be . . . your son? I have come back feeling very sad and very tired, because I feel that I am much to blame."
"Nothing has happened?"
"No."
"What has happened? Nothing at all. You're too fond of thinking. What you have to do now is to seek your own happiness. Just selfishly."
"Perhaps . . . if I can. Perhaps that will become Mathilde's happiness too. We shall see. But I don't feel certain of myself. I don't know things. And I now feel . . . not your friend and pal but your son, Father. I seem to feel it for the first time."
"You always used to know things."
"For you, Daddie, and for Mamma. But now, now . . ."
"Now you're my son."
"Yes."
"My big boy."
"Father."
Van der Welcke was standing in front of him; Addie was sitting down. And Van der Welcke now took his son's head in his hands.
"Father," said Addie, "I wonder if you realize . . . how devotedly I love you! It's something that I feel only for my parents and for my children, not for any woman."
"You're a funny chap," said Van der Welcke. "But it is not your fault. It is your parents' fault."
"If you only knew," Addie repeated, "how devotedly I love you . . . and Mamma! . . . And all of them here a bit too! . . . If I had my children here, then . . . Perhaps, perhaps they will come back later . . . very much later, with . . . with Mathilde. . . . Look here, if that ever happens, we must all of us . . . behave differently to her."
"Yes, my dear boy."
"Or try to."
"Yes, old fellow, I know what you mean. We'll all do it . . . for your sake."
"You see, she is my wife. I . . . I am to blame for everything. If you will try . . ."
"Yes."
"If she comes back. . . . Perhaps she won't come. . . ."
"Do you want her to?"
"Yes, I do. I can't do without my children . . . like this."
"But you'll see them now and again."
"Yes. So, if she does come back, you promise, Dad . . ."
"That I'll try."
"And, if they will all try, then . . . then I shall be happy."
"Yes, they'll do it, for your sake. But . . ."
"If she comes back, I honestly believe . . . that she will have learnt . . . also to try . . . to like us all a little."
"You mustn't be angry, Addie, that it was not like that at once. She is so different . . . from all of us."
"Yes, it's my fault."
"No, my boy, don't go thinking that and worrying about it."
"No, Father."
"What you've got to do now is to try and be happy among us all . . . to work . . . to pick up your work again, you know."
"Yes, just so."
"And then, gradually, to let things come . . . as you say. . . . Would it upset you very much if she and Erzeele . . ."
"Yes. Because I should then feel my shortcomings towards her still more strongly. . . . And also because of my children."
"Perhaps things will come right, later, my boy."
"Perhaps."
"Take it all calmly now . . . and don't worry. And just do your work here quietly."
"Yes, Father. . . . Oh, I feel that you are my father!"
"Perhaps for the first time! . . . A different part for your old ruffian of a father!"
"You're not an old ruffian, you're . . ."
Addie stood up and embraced his father.
"Don't squeeze the breath out of my body!" said Van der Welcke. "You're strong enough still. And you're looking well too. Your eyes look interested again, even though they're a bit too pensive. And they were always calm. . . . Did you have an interesting time abroad?"
"I saw a great deal of misery . . . but also a great deal of good-will. . . ."
"That's it: do what you can here, just simply, in your own surroundings. Oh, my dear chap, how glad I am that you're back!"
Gerdy looked in at the door:
"May we never come in? . . . Uncle Henri, you're being selfish about Addie! . . ."
"You may come in, dear."
Addie took her hands:
"Will you be strong, Gerdy?"
She sobbed and laughed through her tears:
"I have tried to be all the time, Addie," she whispered. "But for you . . ."
"You know, life isn't all your first suffering."
"No, so you've told me."
"And you must believe it. . . . It will help you. . . . You have such a long future before you."
"Yes. Oh, Addie, Addie, but for you . . ."
"What?"
"I should have died! I have suffered so, I have suffered so!"
"And you see so much suffering around you. . . . But life . . ."
"Isn't all your first suffering . . . as you say."
"And you must believe it."
"Yes, I'll try."
Constance entered:
"Am I to see nothing of my boy this evening?" she asked, banteringly.
He took her in a clinging embrace:
"You've got him home for good now."
She gave a sob:
"My poor child . . . then I haven't lost you?"
"Lost me? Why?"
"A son . . ."
"You've always been afraid . . . of losing me. But you never have lost me."
"No, never. . . . Tell me, dear, am I to blame? I am to blame, am I not?"
"How?"
"About Mathilde."
"No, you're not to blame. . . . But, if she comes back, later, with the children, Mamma, let us try . . ."
"Yes, dear, yes."
"We will, won't we? We must try . . . to bring ourselves into harmony with her as far as possible. . . ."
"Yes, yes, I will try."
"And all of us."
"Yes, all of us."
"That's so, Gerdy, isn't it? We must all . . ."
"What did you say, Addie?"
"I was saying, Gerdy, if Mathilde comes back, later on . . ."
"Yes . . ."
"Would you be willing to try . . . with all of us, with Papa and Mamma, with every one of us . . . to get into harmony with her as far as possible, so that she . . ."
"Yes, oh, Addie, yes! I'll try!"
"You will?"
"Oh, yes! . . . If she comes back, I'll try, Addie, I'll try."
"My dear, listen to it blowing."
"That's our wind, Mamma."
"Yes, always."
Marietje and Adeletje had now gone into the dining-room; Adeline and Emilie came after them.
"Why is it so dark in there?" asked Marietje.
"Grandmamma's taking a nap."
"We must take her to bed," said Constance.
Adeletje turned up the gas.
"Auntie!" cried Marietje, in alarm.
"What is it, dear?"
"Oh, Auntie, Auntie . . . come here!"
Constance came in, with Addie and Gerdy.
"Is Grandmamma . . . is Grandmamma . . .?" stammered Marietje, aghast.
They all looked at the old woman. She was sitting as usual, sitting quietly in her big chair, with her veined and wrinkled hands folded in her black lap. Her head hung back, framed white in her white hair. All knowledge was hers now; and her old mouth smiled because of it, encouragingly. . . .
THE END