# Old People and the Things that Pass/Chapter XVIII
## CHAPTER XVIII

INA D'HERBOURG was waiting for them in the little house of her son-in-law and daughter, Frits and Lily van Wely: Frits, a callow little officer; Lily, a laughing, fair-haired little mother, up again pluckily after her confinement. There were the two children, Stefanus a year and Antoinetje a fortnight old; the monthly nurse, fat and pompous; the maid-of-all-work busy with the little boy; the twelve-o'clock lunch not cleaned away yet; a bustle of youth and young life: one child crowing, the other screaming, the nurse hushing it and filling the whole house with her swelling figure. The maid let the milk catch, opened a window; there was a draught; and Ina cried:
"Jansje, what a draught you're making! Shut the window, shut the window, here are Uncle and Aunt! ..."
And Jansje, who knew that Uncle Anton and Aunt Stefanie were godfather and godmother, flew to the door, leaving the milk to boil over, forgetting to close the window, with the result that the old people were received amidst a cold hurricane which made Aunt Stefanie, whose throat was already irritated by Anton's smoke, cough still more and mumble:
"It's not the thing, a draught like this; such a draught! "
The fire which Jansje had lighted in the little drawing-room had gone out again; and Lily and Frits, wishing above all to make things pleasant for the old people, now brought them back again to the dining-room, where Jansje, in her eagerness to clear the table, dropped and broke a plate, whereupon exclamations from Jansje and reproaches from Lily and despairing glances of Ina at her son-in-law Frits. No, Lily did not get that slovenliness from her, for she took after the IJsselmondes and they were correct; Lily got it from the Derckszes. But Frits now understood that he must be very civil to Uncle Anton, whom he detested, while Lily, whom Uncle Anton always kissed at very great length, loathed him, felt sick at the sight of him, for Lily also had to make up to Uncle Anton, that being Mamma's orders. She had married Frits without any money; but the young couple had very soon perceived that money was not to be despised; and the only two from whom there was a trifle to be expected were Aunt Stefanie and Uncle Anton.
The old man, after being dragged there by his sister against his will, had recovered his good temper thanks to the lingering kiss which he had given Lily and, with his fists like clods upon his knees, sat chuckling and nodding in admiration when Nurse held up the yelling brat to him. And, though he was jealous of young, vigorous people, he found an emotion in his jealousy, found young, vigorous people pleasant to look at and considered that that virile little Frits, that callow, stiff little officer, might well make a good husband to his wife. He nodded at Lily and then at Frits, to convey that he understood them, and Lily and Frits smiled back vacuously. They did not understand him, but that didn't matter: he guessed that they were still very much in love, even though they had two brats; and he also guessed that they were keen on his bit of money. Well, they were quite right from their point of view; only he couldn't stand Ina, because, ever since D'Herbourg had helped him in his trouble with the little laundry-girl, she treated him with a kindly condescension, as the influential niece who had saved her imprudent uncle from that soesah. He grinned, seeing through all that coaxing pretence and chuckling to himself that it was all wasted, because he had no intention of leaving them his bit of money. But he knew better than to let this out to Stefanie or any of them; on the contrary, amid all the pretty things that were said to him, he gloated over the gin-and-bitters which Frits so attentively set before him, after helping him off—he wasn't feeling cold now, was he?—with his great-coat. He thought the whole farce most diverting and laughed pleasantly and benevolently, with the air of a good, kind uncle who was so fond of the children, while he thought to himself:
"They sha'n't get one cent!"
And he chuckled so deliciously at the thought that he was quite pleased to give the fat monthly nurse a couple of guilders. They were all taken in—Aunt Stefanie, Ina and the young couple—when they saw Uncle behaving so good-naturedly and so generously; they looked upon him as hooked; and he left them in the illusion, which he so cleverly saw through. What the devil, he thought, in a dull, gathering rage, did he care about those young people? Hadn't they enough with their youth and their two vigorous bodies, that they must go coveting his few thousand guilders? And what did he care about that brat which they had christened Antoinette after him? He had a horror of newborn children, though he had sometimes thought children very nice when they were just a few years older. Things misted before his eyes, but he mastered himself in his dull rage and in his slimy thoughts and behaved benevolently and genially as the well-off uncle and godfather who was going to leave all his money to the brat.
"And Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor arrived yesterday," said Ina d'Herbourg, with a suppressed sigh, for she looked upon the Indian relations as unpresentable. "We said we'd call on them together to-day, didn't we, Aunt Stefanie? "
"That'll save her a cab-fare," thought Anton Dercksz.
"Yes," said Lily, "we might as well be going on, don't you think so, Uncle?"
"Certainly, dear."
"Frits'll come on presently, won't you, after barracks? I'll just go and get on my things. I do think it so nice of you, Uncle Anton, to come and have a look at the baby. I had begun to despair of your ever coming, for you had promised me so long...."
"You see Uncle always keeps his promises, dear...."
He said it with the appearance of kindliness, put out his hand as she passed, drew her to him and, as though under the softening influence of the visit, gave her another long, lingering kiss. She shuddered and hurried away. In the passage she met her husband, buckling on his sword.
"Don't let that filthy old scoundrel kiss you like that!" hissed Frits, furiously.
"How can I help it? The brute makes me sick! ..."
He went out, slamming the front-door, thinking that his young happiness was already being defiled because they were hard up and had to besmirch themselves in consequence. Ina, Uncle and Aunt waited in the dining-room until Lily was ready.
"Uncle Daan must be very comfortably off," said Ina, with glittering eyes. "Papa, who is bound to know, always refuses to talk about money and wouldn't say how much he thought Uncle Daan had...."
"And how much would you say it was?" asked Aunt Stefanie.
"Oh, Aunt," said Ina, with a well-bred glance of her weary eyes, "I never speak or think about money and I really don't know how rich Uncle Daan is ... but still I believe he is worth seven hundred thousand guilders. What makes them come to Holland so suddenly, in the winter? Business, Papa said; and he ought to know. But, as you know, Papa never says much and never talks about business or money. But I've been wondering to myself, could Uncle Daan have lost all his money? And mark my words: if so, Papa will have him on his hands."
For Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor, who were unpresentably Indian, had children of their own; there were no expectations therefore from that quarter; and Ina hated them with a profound hatred and, jealous of their wealth, spoke as much ill of them as she dared.
"Should you say so?" asked Aunt Stefanie.
"They've always been in business together," said Ina, "so, if Uncle Daan has lost his money, Papa is sure to have him on his hands."
"But, if he's worth seven hundred thousand guilders?" asked Anton Dercksz.
"Yes, in that case," said Ina, covetously. "But perhaps he hasn't seven hundred thousand. I don't know. I never talk about money; and what other people have is le moindre de mes soucis."
Lily came down, looking the sweetest of little fair-haired women in her fur boa; and the four of them went to the cab, while Jansje created a fresh draught by opening the door too wide.
And Ina insisted that Uncle Anton should sit in the front seat, beside Aunt Stefanie, and she and Lily with their backs to the horse, while Uncle Anton, with pretended gallantry, tried to resign the place of honour to her, though he was glad that she did not accept it. All that family was only a tie, which bound you without doing you the least good. There was that old bird of a Stefanie, who had dragged him from his reading, his warm room, his pipe, his Suetonius and his pleasant reverie, first to look at a brat to whom he wasn't going to leave a cent and next to call at an hotel on a brother who chose to come from India to Holland in December. All such unnecessary things; and what thousands of them you did in your life! There were times when you simply couldn't be your own master.... He indemnified himself by pressing his knees against Lily's and feeling the warmth of her fresh young body. His eyes grew misty.
The cab stopped at the big pension where Uncle Daan was accustomed to stay when he came home from India. They were at once shown in to Aunt Floor, who had seen them through the window; a baboe was standing at the door of the room.
"Come inn! Come insside!" cried Aunt Floor, in a bass voice and accentuating her consonants. "How d'ye do, Stefanie? How d'ye do, Anton? And how d'ye do, Ina ... and you, little Lily: allah, two childr-r-ren alr-r-ready, that little thing!"
Aunt Floor had not got up to receive them; she was lying on a sofa and a second baboe was massaging her huge, fat legs. The girl's hands glided to and fro beneath her mistress' dressing-gown.
"Caughtt cold!" said Aunt Floor, angrily, as though the others could help it, after renewed words of welcome on their part and enquiries after the voyage. "Caughtt cold in the train from Paris. I assur-r-re you, I'm as stiff as a boar-r-rd. What came over Dhaan, to want to come to Gholland at thiss time of year, I cannott make out...."
"Why didn't you stay behind in India, Aunt?" asked Ina, well-bred and weary-eyed.
"Not likely! I ssee myself letting Dhaan gho alone! No, dear, we're man and wife and where Uncle Dhaan ghoes I gho. Old people like us belong to one another.... Dhaan is with Gharold now, in the other room: your Papa arrived a moment agho, Ina. Those two are talking bissiness of course. I asked Dhaan, 'Dhaan, what on ear-r-rth do you want to gho to Gholland for?' 'Bissiness!' says Dhaan. Nothing but bissiness, bissiness. I don't understand it: you can always wr-r-rite about bissiness. Year after year that confounded bissiness; and nothing ghoes r-r-right: we're as poor as r-r-rats. ... There, Saripa, soeda, that's enough: I'm as stiff as a boar-r-rd all the same."
The two baboes left the room; the anthracite-stove glowed like an oven, red behind its little mica doors. Aunt Floor had drawn herself up with a deep sigh and was now sitting: her fat, yellow face, with the Chinese slanting eyes, loomed like a full moon from out of the hair, still black, which went back, smooth and flat, to a large kondé; and there was something of a mandarin about her as she sat, with her legs wide apart in the flannel dressing-gown and her fat, swollen little hands on her round knees, just as Anton Dercksz often used to sit. Her sunken breast hung like the bosom of a tepèkong in two billows on her stomach's formidable curve; and those rounded lines gave her an idol-like dignity, as she now sat erect, with her stiff, angry mandarin-face. From the long lobes of her ears hung a pair of enormous brilliants, which gleamed round her with startling brightness and did not seem to belong to her attire—the loose flannel bag—so much as to her own being, like a jewel set in an idol. She was not more than sixty; she was the same age as Ottilie Steyn de Weert.
"And is old Mamma well? ... It's nice of you to have come," she said, remembering that she had not yet said anything amiable to her relations.
Her gelatinous mass now shook more genially on the sofa, while around her sat Stefanie, with her wrinkled witch-face; Anton, who recollected Floor forty years ago, when she was still a strapping young nonna, a nonna with Chinese blood in her veins, which gave her an exotic attraction for the men; Ina d'Herbourg, very Dutch and correct, blinking her eyes with a well-bred air; and the fair-haired little wife, Lily.
"Why dhoesn't Dhaan come?" exclaimed Aunt Floor. "Lily, gho and see what's become of your gr-r-randpapa and your uncle."
"I'll go, Aunt," said Ina d'Herbourg. "You stay here, dear. She mustn't walk about much yet, Aunt."
And Ina, who was curious to see the rooms which Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor occupied, rose and went through Aunt's bedroom, with a quick glance at the trunks. One of the baboes was busy hanging up dresses in a wardrobe.
"Where are the gentlemen, baboe?"
"In the study, njonja."
The baboe pointed the way to Ina through the conservatory. Well, they were handsome and no doubt expensive rooms. Ina knew that the pension was not a cheap one; and Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor would hardly be poor as "r-r-rats." So Uncle had his own bedroom and a study besides. Papa was with him now and they were doubtless talking business, for they were jointly interested in various undertakings. At home Papa never talked about business, vouchsafed no information, to Ina's great despair.... She heard their voices. And she was thinking of creeping up quietly through the conservatory—who knew but that she might overhear some detail which would tell her of the state of Uncle Daan's fortune?—from sheer innocent curiosity, when she suddenly stopped with a start. For she had heard Uncle Daan's voice, which had not changed during the five years since she had seen Uncle, exclaim:
"Harold, have you known it all this time?"
"Ssh!" she heard, in her father's voice.
And Uncle Daan repeated, in a whisper:
"Have you known it all this time?"
"Don't speak so loud," said Harold Dercksz, in a hushed tone. "I thought I heard somebody...."
"No, it's the baboe clearing up ... and she doesn't understand Dutch...."
"Speak low for all that, Daan," said Harold Dercksz. "Yes, I've known it all this time!"
"All the time?"
"Yes, sixty years."
"I never ... I never knew it."
"Speak low, speak low! And is she dead now?"
"Yes, she's dead."
"What did you say her name was?"
"Ma-Boeten."
"That's it: Ma-Boeten. I was a child of thirteen. She was Mamma's maid and used to look after me too."
"It was her children who began to molest me. She told her son about it: he is a mantri in the rent-office."
"Yes."
"He's a damned villain. I gave him money."
"That was right.... But, you see, Daan, it's so long ago now."
"Yes, it's a very long time ago."
"Don't speak about it to Floor."
"No, never, never. That's why it's just as well she came with me. If she had stayed at Tegal, that damned villain might have ... Yes, it's certainly a very long time ago."
"And it's passing.... It's passing....: A little longer and ..."
"Yes, then it will all be past.... But to think that you, Harold, should have known it all this time!"
"Not so loud, not so loud! I hear something in the conservatory...."
It was Ina's dress rustling. She had heard with a beating heart, tortured with curiosity. And she had not understood a word, but she remembered the name of the dead baboe, Ma-Boeten.
She now deliberately rustled the silk of her skirt, pretended to have just come through the conservatory, threw open the doors, stood on the threshold:
"Uncle Daan! Uncle Daan!"
She saw the two old men sitting, her father and his brother. They were seventy-three and seventy. They had not yet been able to recover their ordinary expression and relax the tense dismay of their old faces, which had gazed with blinded eyes into the distant past. Ina thought them both looking ghastly. What had they been talking about? What was it that they were hiding? What had Papa known for sixty years? What had Uncle Daan only known for such a short time? ... And she felt a shiver going along her, as of something clammy that went trailing by.
"I've come to look for you, Uncle Daan!" she exclaimed, with an affectation of cordiality. "Welcome to Holland, Uncle, welcome! You're not lucky with the weather: it's bleak and cold. You must have been very cold in the train. Poor Aunt Floor is as stiff as a board.... Uncle Anton is there too and Aunt Stefanie; and my Lily came along with us. I'm not interrupting you ... in your business?"
Uncle Daan kissed her, answered her in bluff, genial words. He was short, lean, bent, tanned, Indian in his clothes; a thin grey tuft of hair and the cut of his profile gave him a look of a parrot; and, thanks to this bird-like aspect, he resembled his sister Stefanie. Like her, he had quick, beady eyes, which still trembled with consternation, because of what he had been discussing with his brother Harold. He clawed a few papers together, crammed them into a portfolio, to give the impression that he and Harold had been talking business, and said that they were coming. They went back with Ina to the sitting-room and greetings were exchanged between Uncle Daan and those who had come to welcome him.
"Aunt Floor knows nothing," thought Ina, remembering how Aunt had just spoken about her coming to Holland.
Why had they come? What was the matter? What was it that Papa had known for sixty years and Uncle Daan for only such a short time? Was that why he had come to Holland? Had it anything to do with money: a legacy to which they were entitled? ... Yes, that was it, a legacy: perhaps they would still become very rich. Did Aunt Stefanie know about it? Uncle Anton? Aunt Ottilie? Grandmamma? Mr. Takma? ... What was it? And, if it was a legacy, how much? ... She was burning with curiosity, while she remained correct, even more correct than she was by nature, in contrast with the Indian unconstraint of Uncle Daan—in his slippers—and the Chinese tepèkong that was Aunt Floor, with her bosom billowing down upon her round stomach. She was burning with curiosity, while her eyes glanced wearily, while she made well-bred efforts to conceal her eager longing to find out. And stories were told that did not interest her. Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor talked about their children: Marinus, who was manager of a big sugar-factory and lived near Tegal, with a large family of his own; Jeanne—"Shaan," as Aunt called her—the wife of the resident of Cheribon; Dolf unmarried, a magistrate. She, Ina d'Herbourg, did not care a jot about the cousins, male or female, would rather never see them: they were such an Indian crew; and she just made herself pleasant, condescendingly, but not too much so, pretending to be interested in the stories of Clara, Marinus' daughter, who was lately married, and Emile, "Shaan's" son, who was so troublesome.
"Yes," said Aunt Floor, "and here we are, in Gholland, in this r-r-rotten pension ... for bissiness, nothing but bissiness ... and yes, kassian, we're still as poor as r-r-rats! What am I to do here for five months? I shall never stand it, if this weather keeps on. Luckily, I've got Tien Deysselman and Door Perelkamp"—these were two old Indian ladies—"and they'll soon look me up. They wr-r-rote to me to bring them some Chinese cards and I've brought twenty packs with me: that'll help me get through the five months...."
And Aunt Floor glared out of her angry old mandarin-face at her husband, "Dhaan."
No, thought Ina, Aunt Floor did not know about the legacy. Perhaps it wasn't a legacy. But then what was it? ...
She and Lily went back in the cab that came for Harold; Stefanie drove Anton home in hers. Ina at once went in search of her husband: she must consult somebody and she knew of no one better. She found him in his office:
"Leopold, can I speak to you?" she asked.
"I have a consultation presently," he said, consequentially.
She knew that he was lying, that he had nothing to do. She sat down quietly, without removing her cloak or hat.
"Leopold ..."
She frightened him.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"We must find out why Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor have come to Holland."
"Goodness gracious!" he exclaimed. "Papa's affairs haven't gone wrong, have they?"
"I don't know, I don't think so; but there's something that's brought Uncle Daan over."
"Something? What?"
"I don't know, but there's something: something that Papa has known for sixty years, ever since he was a child of thirteen. Uncle Daan has only known it a little while and apparently has come to Holland to consult Papa."
"How do you know?"
"I know: take it from me that I know. And I know more besides."
"What is that?"
"That Aunt Floor does not know and that Uncle Daan does not mean to tell her. That Grandmamma's old baboe was called Ma-Boeten and that she's dead. That her son is a mantri at Tegal and that Uncle Daan has given him money. That's all I know."
They looked at each other. Both of them were very pale.
"What an incoherent story I" said Leopold d'Herbourg, barrister and solicitor, with a consequential shrug of the shoulders.
Ina, well-bred as usual, cast up her eyes wearily:
"It's very important. I don't know what it is, but it's important and I want to know. Could it have to do with a legacy?"
"A legacy?" echoed D'Herbourg, failing to see.
"Something that's due to us? Could that mantri know things which, if Uncle Daan gave him money ..."
"Perhaps," said D'Herbourg, "it has to do with money which Papa and Uncle Daan owe ..."
This time, Ina turned very pale:
"No," she exclaimed, "that would be ..."
"You can never tell. The best thing is not to talk about it. Besides, Papa won't let anything out, in any case."
But Ina's curiosity was too much for her. She nodded her head in her well-bred way, under the white bird of paradise in her hat:
"I must know," she said.
"How will you find out?"
"You might speak to Papa, ask him what's depressing him...."
"What's depressing him? But I've never known him to be anything but depressed, during all the twenty-three years that we've been married. Papa never talks to me; he even employs another solicitor for his business, as you know."
"Then I will ask Papa."
"That won't be any good."
"I must know," said Ina, rising. "I don't see a legacy in it, after what you've said. Oh dear, oh dear, who knows what it can be? Money perhaps which ..."
"It's certainly money."
"Which Papa and Uncle Daan ...."
"May have to repay, if ..."
"Do you think so?"
"They do so much business in common. That leads to all sorts of complications. And it won't be the first time that men who do a great deal of business ... "
"Yes, I understand."
"Perhaps it's better not to mix yourself up in it at all. You would do wiser to be careful. You never know what hornets' nest you're bringing about your ears."
"It happened sixty years ago. It dates sixty years back. What an immense time!" said Ina, hypnotized by the thought.
"That's certainly very long ago. The whole thing is out of date!" said D'Herbourg, pretending to be indifferent, though inwardly alarmed.
"No," said Ina, shaking the white bird of paradise, "it's something that is not yet past. It can't be. But Papa hoped that, before very long ..."
"What?"
"It would be past."
They both looked very pale:
"Ina, Ina, do be careful!" said D'Herbourg. "You don't know what you're meddling with!"
"No!" she said, like a woman in a trance.
She must know, she was determined to know. She resolved to speak to her father that evening.