stay and talk to me. Tell me about yourself. It is the first time that we have had a real talk . . .”
“For years.”
“Yes, for years. And much has happened, Constance; but it all belongs to the past now.”
“Yes, but the past remains so long. Properly speaking, it never goes, it is always the past.”
“Constance, it is twenty years since we saw each other.”
“Twenty years. Papa has been dead fourteen years. It was my fault that he died.”
“No, Constance.”
“Yes, it was. You needn’t mind: it was my fault. I know you all think so and I feel it myself. It was my fault. I can never forget that. I can never forgive myself that.”
“Hush, Constance. Really, it’s such a long time, such a very long time ago.”
“But it will always remain . . . a murder.”
“You have the future before you now. There’s your son. . . .”
“Yes, there’s my son. But it has come to this, that I am not living for him, but he for me.”
“That is wrong.”
“Yes, it’s wrong. And my whole life is wrong, everything has gone wrong in my life. Oh, Bertha, I can’t tell you how I yearned for Holland and for you all, how I yearned to be no longer alone, alone with my boy! Now, perhaps it will be different: among all of you, I feel at home once more. At home: do you know what that means? If I had re-
