that bottled-up sorrow of a whole afternoon lying heavy on his chest and lungs: that sorrow which he had dragged with Frans and the Hijdrechts to Scheveningen, quietly, without sobbing, amid that bustling crowd of Sunday visitors.
He stood there, aimlessly, dejected, when the door opened and Van der Welcke entered:
“Come, Addie, my boy, tell your father. What is it?”
“Papa,” he began, yearning now, burning to know. . . .
But he could not go on. It was his first sorrow and it was so heavy, so oppressively heavy.
“Come, my lad, what’s the matter?”
“Papa . . .”
“Tell me, come on, tell me.”
“Papa, am I not . . .”
“What, Addie?”
“Papa, am I not your child?”
Van der Welcke looked at him in astonishment:
“What’s that?” he asked and did not understand.
“No, I’m not, am I? Yes, I know now!”
“Look here, Addie, what’s the matter with you?”
“I’m not your child, am I?”
“You’re not my child? What do you mean?”
“I’m the child of an Italian, am I not?”
“Of an Italian?”
“And that’s why they call me the Italian?”
Van der Welcke, in his amazement, did not know
