# The Twilight of the Souls/Chapter VIII

That evening, in the lane in front of the little hotel, Addie walked arm-in-arm with his mother. The deepening shadows gathered round them, pierced by the bright light of the lamp outside the house.
"Mummy, I want to talk to you. . . ."
They were strolling slowly up and down; and the pressure of his hand urged her gently forward, through the deepening shadows, out of the fierce glow of the lamp and farther along the road, whence, under the starry skies, the meadows receded to remote distances towards the last streak of light on the horizon.
"What about, my boy?"
How old he was for his years and how serious! She felt his hand lying heavy on her arm, like a man's hand; she heard his voice in her ear, full of deep resonance, sounding a little more caressing than usual. He was still a boy, a schoolboy, but that was in years; in his soul she realized him to be a man, her big son; and, though this made her feel very old, it also made her feel calm and contented and safe in the possession of him . . . so long as she did not lose him. . . . And what did he want to talk about now? For he had not spoken ​yet, but was walking on, silently. And, all at once, she began to be curious, wondering what it could be that he wanted to tell her in that suddenly caressing voice, what he wanted to obtain from her. For she felt that he was going to ask her for something, a favour almost, a gift. Because he was leaning on her like that, she felt that something was weighing on his mind, some oppressive anxiety which he would tell her in order to make it lighter to bear. What could be troubling him? What would it be? It could not be money: he was too sensible; he knew exactly how much she could spare. Was he in love? A boy's love-affair? Yes, she was convinced that that was it. She had always said that, when Addie fell in love, it would be once and for all; and she had grown a little afraid for her big son, with that serious heart of his. . . .
"Well, what is it?" she asked; and she added, playfully, "Are you in love?"
He only laughed:
"No, I'm not in love. But still I have something very important to say to you, something that will distress you perhaps, because you always pictured it differently. . . ."
"What is it, Addie?" she asked, feeling a little frightened and bewildered.
"It's this, Mamma," he said, quietly and very calmly. "I can't go into the diplomatic service . . . because I want to be a doctor."
​She was silent, walked on, with his arm in hers; and it seemed to her that new vistas suddenly opened out before her. No, she never thought that he was going to speak to her of his future. It had always been so positively settled, from the very beginning, that her son should take up the life and the career which she had ruined for his father. She had always looked upon it as a vague form of compensation which Addie, her son, would pay to her husband, to his father. She had never imagined that it would be otherwise. It could be done: he bore a distinguished name, he would have money later on and, once he had entered the profession which in their set had always been considered so eminent and honourable and illustrious—the most eminent, honourable and illustrious of all—he would console his father for the ruin of his career and restore to his mother something of her old position in society. . . . She had always, almost unconsciously, looked at it like that. And then there was still a grain of vanity in her, dormant, it was true, of late, but still an eternal, ineradicable germ: the vanity inherent in her, the vanity of thinking that her son would pursue that most eminent, honourable and illustrious career. Now her whole world seemed to be turned upside down: the shock, the surprise, the disappointment made her dizzy; and through it all there came a sudden impulse to say no, no, no, that it was impossible, quite impossible, ​that it would give too much pain to Papa, to herself, to poor old Grandmamma and certainly to his grandparents as well; and, if he insisted, to say to him imperiously, almost in a tone of command, that it was out of the question, out of the question. But for the moment she said nothing; and he said nothing either; and they walked on, along the grey ribbon of the road, which ran on through the meadows fleeing on either side to the last streak of light on the horizon, under the great starry skies. He said nothing, as if he had said all that he had to say, quietly and simply. And she was too much under the influence of that tumult of shock, surprise and disappointment. . . .
"Does it upset you, Mamma?" he asked, at last.
"It comes as a blow, Addie. . . . I never expected it. . . . "
"Can't you understand that I . . . ?"
"Understand? I don't know, Addie. We always thought . . ."
"Yes, I know: you and Papa always thought differently. I understand that it must upset you and that it is a disappointment."
"You had better speak to Papa first. . . ."
"No," he said, calmly and quietly. "I want to speak to you, first, Mamma. You know how fond I am of my father, what chums we are. But I can't speak to him first, because he would not understand. ​And I want to speak to you first, Mamma, because you will understand."
There was something soothing to her vanity in his words, but also something deeper underlying them, which was not at once clear to her; for she knew that he loved his father more than her and yet he wanted to speak to her first. . . .
"You will understand, Mamma, when I tell you. I don't feel in any way cut out for a career in which, no doubt, one can rise very high if one happened to be one of the four or five great men who stand out in it. . . . And even so . . . even if I were one of those four or five—always supposing I had the brains or the genius for it, which I haven't and never shall have—then there would still be something in me which would make me feel that I had missed my vocation, that it was all purposeless, that I had got into the wrong path, into the wrong sort of work. I should always be too simple, Mamma, and too natural, your Dutch boy. . . ."
He turned towards her with a little laugh; and she suddenly pictured him, faultlessly attired, in a white tie and a dress-coat, among the young diplomatists whom she remembered in the old days, in Rome. No, he did not resemble his father as much as all that. . . .
"Whereas the other thing, doctoring, I feel quite different about. It's the only thing which attracts ​me and in which I feel that I shall do well. Let me just tell you what I do feel about it. First of all, there's nothing that interests me more than people . . . and studying them, both their outsides and their insides. That's my head, Mummy. And, as well as that, there's something else, a question of feeling. I feel for nothing so much as for any one who suffers, physically or mentally. And then I get a sort of impulse, which comes to me as naturally as sitting or walking or talking, to help as much as I can. That's how I feel; and I can't tell it you in any other way. It's no use my trying to explain it in a lot of words; I couldn't say more than I have already said. But, just telling it you like this, I do hope that you understand it, Mamma, and that you get the same feeling as I do. . . . And then, Mummy, there's something else, something I hardly dare say to you, because you will perhaps think that I am imagining. . . ."
"Say it, dear. . . ."
"It's this, Mamma: I feel inside me the power of curing people. And I feel that that power is growing. . . ."
His great seriousness startled her.
"But I'm only saying this to you, Mamma; I won't say it to any one else . . . not even to Papa, because I feel that he would not understand. I am only saying it to you; and I shall never say it to any one but you; and I'm only saying it to you as ​a sort of justification for what I mean to do. And, if I'm wrong and it doesn't turn out as I think, then you'll forgive me, won't you? For I'm quite in earnest now."
"My darling. . . ."
"Who can tell me for certain that I am mistaken, Mamma, and that I have not that absolute conviction deep down in my soul? It is a wonderful thing to have an absolute conviction like that about yourself. I would almost say that to be certain about other people . . . is not so wonderful as to be certain about yourself. . . . But still . . . but still . . . I feel that this is my vocation. Who can deny the existence of what I feel so very plainly within me, even though I am sometimes amazed at my own consciousness of it? . . . I know, Mamma, that all this sounds very strange and that I am not talking like a boy of my age. But that is because I am being very, very confidential and letting you know my most private thoughts. . . . It is so calm and peaceful out here this evening, Mamma, and the stars are shining so bright, as if they knew everything for quite certain. I . . . I do not know for certain: I only feel . . . and I wish. And I am telling you my most private thoughts, just freely and in the strictest confidence, so that you may not be unhappy. . . ."
A thrill of tenderness went through her.
"Darling, I am not unhappy."
​"What I have told you . . . is a disappointment."
"A disappointment? . . . Is it a disappointment? I don't think so now, dear. . . . Not after the first shock of hearing it. It's not a disappointment any longer. If there is clearly something inside you which tells you what your vocation is . . . oh, why shouldn't you follow it? So few of us feel clearly about anything. . . . Let's sit here, on the sand, under the trees. . . . So few people feel things clearly. Everything was vague with me . . . until quite late in life, dear. We all cling to small things, to small interests . . . both in our own case and in the case of the small people around us. . . . Do you still remember . . . that friend of ours . . . whom Mamma liked so much? Things weren't clear to him. . . . Darling, if they're clear to you, already, and if you are almost certain that you are not mistaken . . . then obey your vocation. No one has the right to hold you back; and why should I hold you back . . . for small reasons, while much greater things perhaps are urging you on? For small reasons . . . for a touch of vanity, perhaps . . . Ah, you see, darling, I am small. I should have loved to see you, you my own boy, in the diplomatic service. Papa would have been satisfied; and you would perhaps have given me back something of the past. . . . Do you understand? It would not be honest of me if I did ​not confess that I should have been glad to see it. But that is because I still cling to small things . . . while you are urged on by greater things. And, if it is really so, then I am proud of you, proud of you. You see, my darling, there's always that about your mother: her little bit of vanity. She is so glad that you did not inherit it . . . that perhaps she gave you other things—something very small, but the best she had—which may become very great in you, an atom which in you will grow into a world . . . No, I am not disappointed any longer. . . ."
"You see, Mamma, I feel it so clearly when I am alone with Uncle Ernst: not that I can do anything yet, but I am certain that I shall be able to, later. . . . I feel that, if he were to come a fraction of an inch towards me . . . and if I had the power to go another fraction of an inch towards him, we should get near to each other, he and I. . . . It doesn't happen now; but I feel ever so clearly that I am looking for something in him, the secret spot from which I could cure him if . . . if I was older, more advanced and stronger. . . ."
But he pulled himself up:
"Perhaps it's better not to say that."
"Why not, dear?"
"One shouldn't say those very private things. . . . But I wanted to talk quite frankly to you. . . ."
"You have, darling. Don't force your words, if ​they won't come. Just tell me quietly, when talking comes to you more easily. Mamma will try to understand you. Mamma does understand you."
"And you forgive me . . . for the disappointment?"
"It has gone."
"Then what is left?"
"A great sense of peace, dear. It will all be for the very best, I think. Do as you think, go to what calls you."
She leant against him, laid her head on his shoulder. He kissed her. A kindly, health-giving stream seemed to be flowing through her.
"He knows already, he is certain about himself," she thought, looking up at the understanding stars. "He knows his own mind . . . definitely, definitely. O God, let him always know his own mind!"