The Twilight of the Souls/Chapter XXVIII
Outside, the snow was falling in great flakes. The parlour-maid had opened the door:
"But your cab isn't here yet, ma'am. . . ."
"It doesn't matter. We'll walk."
"I must say, it's a little absurd of Mamma," said Van der Welcke, on the doorstep. "Must we go to Gerrit's . . . in this weather? And has Addie gone too? . . . Was Mamma as anxious as all that? . . . It's snowing hard, Constance: it's enough to give one one's death, to go out in this weather. . . ."
"Well, then you stay, Henri."
"Do you mean to go in any case?"
"Yes, Mamma wants me to."
"But it's absurd!"
"Perhaps so . . . but she would like it. . . . And we mayn't be able to do things to please her much longer!"
"Then send the cab on to the Bankastraat, when it comes. . . ."
"Very well, sir."
They went. . . .
"Didn't Addie go just now?"
"Yes, a minute or two before we did."
"I don't see him."
"He walks very fast."
"Was Mamma so uneasy?"
"Yes. . . . She was very restless and anxious."
"Have the others gone away as well?"
"Yes, Mamma was tired. . . . All the same, she relies upon us . . . to come back presently for a moment."
"Mamma is becoming a little exacting. . . ."
"She's growing so old. . . . We may as well give her that pleasure . . . of just going."
How much gentler her tone had become! . . . Once, ah, once she would have flared out at him violently for less than this little difference! . . . Now, ah, now, how much gentler everything about her had become! . . .
She stumbled through the snow.
"Take care, Constance. . . . The pavements are slippery. . . . Take my arm."
"No, I can manage."
"Take my arm."
She took his arm. She slipped again; he held her up. He felt that she was trembling.
"Are you cold?"
"No."
"You've got a thick cloak on."
"I'm not cold."
"What are you so nervous about?"
"I don't know. . . ."
"Your nerves have been all wrong for some time. . . . You often cry . . . about nothing."
"Yes. I don't know why. . . . It's nothing. . . . It's the weather. . . ."
"Yes . . . our Dutch climate. . . . Now at last it's something like winter. It's freezing like anything. The snow is crisp underfoot."
She slipped again. He held her up and they walked close together, in the driving snow, which blinded them. . . .
"I must say, it's absurd of Mamma . . . to send us out in this weather. . . ."
She did not answer: she understood that he thought it absurd. The cold took her breath away; and it seemed to her, as she kept on slipping, that they would never reach the Bankastraat. . . . At last they turned the corner of the Nassauplein. And she calculated: not quite ten minutes more; then a moment with Gerrit and Adeline; the cab would fetch them there; then back to Mamma's with Addie . . . to set Mamma's mind at ease. And, as she reckoned it out, she grew calmer and thought, with Henri, that it was certainly rather absurd of Mamma. She planted her feet more firmly; she was now walking more briskly, still holding her husband's arm. . . . Was it the cold or what, that made her keep on trembling with an icy shiver? . . . Now, at last, they were nearing the Bankastraat and Gerrit's house; and it seemed to her as if she had been walking the whole evening through the thick, crisp snow. Suddenly, she stopped:
"Henri," she stammered.
"What?"
"I . . . I daren't . . ."
"What daren't you?"
"I daren't ring."
"Why not?"
"I daren't go in."
"But what's the matter with you?"
"Nothing. . . . I'm frightened. I daren't."
"But, Constance . . ."
"Henri, I'm trembling all over! . . ."
"Are you feeling ill?"
"No . . . I'm frightened. . . ."
"Come, Constance, what are you frightened of? Now that we're there, we may as well ring. What else would you do ? . . . Here's the house."
He rang the bell. . . . They waited; no one came to the door; and the snow beat in their faces.
"But there's a light," he said. "They haven't gone to bed."
"And Addie . . ."
"Yes, Addie must be there."
"Ring again," she said.
He rang the bell. . . . They waited. . . . The house remained silent in the driving snow; but there was a light in nearly every window.
"Oh! . . . Henri!"
He rang the bell.
"Oh! . . . Henri!" she began to sob. "I'm frightened! I'm frightened! . . ."
She felt as if she were sinking into the snow, into a fleecy, bottomless abyss. Her knees knocked together and he saw that she was giving way. He held her up and she fell against him almost swooning. . . . He rang the bell. . . .
The door was opened. It was Addie who opened the door. They entered; Constance staggered as she went. And, in her half-swooning giddiness, she seemed to see the house full of whirling snowflakes, coming through the roof, filling the passage and the rooms; and, amid this strange snow, her son's face appeared to her as the face of a ghost, very white, with the blue flame of his big eyes. . . .
At that moment there came from upstairs a wailing cry, a long-drawn-out shriek, uttered in an agony of despair; and that cry seemed to call to Constance out of Adeline's body through all that night of snow indoors and out.
"Mamma, Papa, hush! . . . Uncle Gerrit . . . Uncle Gerrit is . . . dead. . . . Uncle Gerrit has . . ."
It was snowing, before Constance' giddy eyes, as she went up the stairs, with her husband and her son; it was snowing wildly, a whirl of all-obliterating white; it was snowing all around her. And through it, for the second time, Adeline's long wail of despair rang out loud and shrill. . . .
The rooms upstairs were open. . . . The maids . . . and Marietje in her little nightgown . . . were peeping round the doors, trembling. . . . Gerrit's little room was open . . . and on the floor lay the big body, looking bigger still, stretched out like that . . . and, beside it, beside the big body, on her knees, the wife . . . the small, fair-haired wife. . . . And her wail of despair rang out for the third time.
"Adeline!"
She now looked round, flung up her arms, felt her sister's arms, Constance' arms, around her:
"He's dead! He's dead!"
"No, Adeline . . . perhaps he's fainted."
"He's dead! He's dead! . . . He's cold . . . wet . . . blood . . . feel! . . ."
She uttered a scream of horror, the small, fair-haired wife. And suddenly, drawing herself up, she looked at the sword-rack. . . . Yes, the missing revolver . . . was clutched in his stiff hand.
Van der Welcke and Addie closed the doors. The maids were sobbing outside. But the sound of little voices came; and small fists banged at the closed door:
"Mamma! Mamma! Mamma! . . . Aunt Constance!"
Constance rose, giddy and fainting, not knowing whether to go or stay. . . .
"Constance! Constance!" cried Adeline, calling her back, holding her in her arms.
"Mamma! Mamma! . . . Aunt Constance! Aunt Constance!"
Constance rose to her feet, made a vast effort to overcome that dizzy faintness . . . and, now that the body of the small, fair-haired woman lay moaning upon the body of the dead man, she opened the door. . . . Was every light in the house full on? Why were the maids sobbing like that? Was it real then, was it real? . . . Was this Marietje, clasping her so convulsively, trembling in her little nightgown? . . . Were these Guy and Alex, sleepy still their gentle eyes, cheeky their little mouths? . . . Were these Gerdy—oh, so frightened!—and little Constant? . . .
"Aunt Constance, Aunt Constance!"
She overcame her dizziness, she did not faint:
"Darlings, my darlings, hush! . . . Hush! . . ."
And she led them back to their bedroom. . . . What could she do but embrace them, but press them to her? . . .
"Darlings, my darlings! . . ."
The wail of despair rang out once more. . . . Oh, she must go back to that poor woman! Oh, she had not arms enough, not lives enough! . . . Oh, she must multiply her life tenfold! . . .
"Mamma." It was Addie speaking. "The cab is here. . . . I'm going for Dr. Alsma. One of the maids has gone to another doctor, close by."
"Yes, dear; and then . . . and then go to . . . oh, go to Grandmamma's! She's expecting us! I know for certain that she's expecting us! . . . Stay in here, darlings, don't leave the room, promise me! . . . And, Addie, don't tell her . . . don't tell her anything yet . . . tell her . . . tell her that . . ."
The wail of despair rang out. And there were only two of them, now that Addie was gone, there were only two of them, helpless, she and Henri, in that night of death and snow—as though death were snowing outside, as though death were snowing into the brightly-lit house, with its all-obliterating whiteness, dazzlingly light, dazzlingly white—there were only two of them. . . .