but then it was only to a few personal friends, said Bertha, and it was impossible to make other arrangements. Yes, the old woman loved being here, in the house of her eldest daughter; and, though she cared for all her children, because they were her children, she felt more in her element at Bertha’s than in the comfortable, middle-class, selfish house of Karel and Cateau, whom she blamed for having no children; and, though, she also liked Gerrit and Adeline’s younger household, with the children ranging from eight years down to ten months, a troop of fair-haired mites, things were too simple and everyday for her there, did not remind her of her ancient splendours; she could not stand Gerrit sometimes, when he made fun of his old mother for mentioning, quite casually, that she had met the Russian envoy at Bertha’s. And going to Adolphine and Van Saetzema’s always vexed her: it was as though she did not recognize her child in Adolphine, with her badly-arranged, common house and Adolphine so bitter and so envious and jealous of Bertha, especially now that Floortje was engaged and her trousseau, of course, could not be as fine as Emilie’s. Yes, she went to Adolphine’s and discussed the trousseau there also, but she did not care about it: not because it was simple—a trouseau could be very nice in spite of that—but because Adolphine was always so spiteful, with her perpetual “Yes, that’s good enough for us; but, of course, at Bertha’s! . . .” She felt herself a mother to all her children—had she a favourite? She thought not—but she was very fond
