# Small Souls/Chapter XXXVIII

It was the middle of November; and Constance remembered that Bertha’s second at-home day was on the third Tuesday of the month. The next number of the Dwarskijker was due in a day or two; and this, although she did not mention it again, left her practically no peace throughout that week, in her terror of printed words of spite and malevolence. And, as if to redeem her promise to Van der Welcke, she said that afternoon, at lunch, that she was going to Bertha’s, as it was Bertha’s day. He at once grasped her intention and, to tell the truth, was surprised that she had not given up her plan of pushing herself. He had rather imagined that the idea came to her in the nervous excitement produced by their conversation, but that she would not take it seriously after the excitement was past. He remembered that the family always looked upon those receptions at the Van Naghels’ as something very official: Mamma van Lowe went to them once in a way; and Uncle and Aunt Ruyvenaer, although quite out of their element, used to put in an appearance once every winter, because they had done so at first, by mistake, and now did not exactly know how to stay away; but none of the other relations ever went. In the eyes of the family, those reception-days always retained a certain official importance and aristocratic exclusiveness; and Cateau, for instance, would say, ​very solemnly, to Karel that this was Ber-tha’s day, with a certain respect for that day on which the upper two and three of the Hague sometimes put in an appearance, while Gerrit always joked about the inaccessible grandeur of those reception-days of her excellency his sister, as he called her in chaff. . . .
Van der Welcke had it on his lips to ask Constance if Bertha knew that she was coming, or if Constance had at least mentioned her intention to Mamma van Lowe. But he did not feel in the mood to provoke a discussion; and in any case Constance would do as she chose. It was raining; he heard her tell the maid to order a carriage; and, as he was staying at home, to bore himself in Addie’s absence in his little smoking-room, smoking cigarette on cigarette, he saw his wife step into the brougham at four o’clock and was struck with the elegance of her dress. He shrugged his shoulders, in gloomy disapproval; he was in a bad temper these days; he too was permanently upset by that rotten libel, that confounded rag, against which he had been helpless. He threw himself on his sofa again and smoked and smoked, could not make up his mind to dress and go to the Plaats, was almost unconsciously avoiding his friends.
Constance felt very calm, but had retained a certain bitterness all this time. The thought just occurred to her how Bertha would take her visit; but, even though the family treated the question differently, she meant to show Bertha that she considered it an obvious thing to call on her at-home day. ​When her brougham stopped, she saw a couple of carriages waiting; the door was opened by the parlour-maid, even before she had rung; the butler, recognizing her, bowed, preceded her up the stairs, opened the door wide and announced her:
“Mrs. van der Welcke. . . .”
Constance entered the drawing-room, where a few people, mostly ladies, were moving in the semi-darkness. But it was not so dark that she did not at once notice that Marianne looked at her in surprise, with such spontaneous, unconcealed surprise that it gave her something of a shock. She shook hands with Marianne with an easy smile and went up to Bertha; and Bertha also, as she very plainly noticed, was surprised and blinked her eyes as she rose. And Bertha, woman of the world though she was and accustomed to treat all manner of difficult drawing-room situations, seemed uncomfortable as she welcomed her sister:
“Constance.”
She said it almost inaudibly and hesitated a moment whether to introduce her to a lady sitting beside her. But it was only for a moment; and then Bertha said, with her usual voice of the rather tired hostess, who performed her social duties because she had to:
“Mrs. van Eilenburgh; my sister, Mrs. van der Welcke.”
Constance bowed, calmly and indifferently, said a word or two. Bertha mentioned a couple of more names; and Constance made a casual remark here ​and there, coolly and calmly. But she was really dismayed, for the first lady to whom Bertha had introduced her was mistress of the robes to the Queen and a niece of De Staffelaer’s. She had already been reflecting that it would be her duty to write to Mrs. van Eilenburgh, to send her word officially of her wish to be presented; and she had also reflected that the mistress of the robes was De Staffelaer’s niece. But the fact that the first lady to whom Bertha introduced her should be a blood-relation of the husband from whom she was divorced made her shiver superstitiously. She did not show this, however, and, without taking any great trouble to make herself amiable or sociable, she remained sitting where she was, so that Marianne now came up to her:
“How nice of you, Auntie, to look in on Mamma’s day.”
“She doesn’t mean a word of it,” thought Constance.
But it was awkwardness and astonishment, rather than insincerity, that made Marianne speak as she did. She could never have imagined that Aunt Constance should call on those at-home days, any more than the other aunts and uncles did, because their respective acquaintances were so entirely different.
“We were so busy in the spring, getting settled,” said Constance, very calmly. “You remember, the furniture had to come from Brussels. But this autumn I thought I would pay my respects to Mamma. After all, I can’t go on ignoring Mamma and only ​seeing her when she is in her bedroom with a head-ache!”
Marianne’s surprise increased. Aunt Constance said this so calmly, so very calmly, as though it were quite a matter of course that she should call on an at-home day. And Marianne could not refrain from saying:
“Yes, it’s very nice of you to come. For, you see, the aunts never come: Aunt Adeline never and Aunt Cateau never and Aunt Ruyvenaer only very seldom.”
“Oh, really?” asked Constance, innocently. “Don’t they ever come?”
“Auntie Ruyvenaer just once in a way; but the other aunts never.”
“Oh? Don’t they?” asked Constance, putting on an air of great surprise and rather playing with Marianne’s bewilderment.
“Didn’t you know?”
“No, I didn’t know. But I don’t call that very civil of the aunts. It’s different with the uncles: men are not expected to pay visits. But I’m surprised at the two aunts, Marianne.”
Marianne did not know what to say. She was not accustomed to weigh her words or to think that another might say things which she did not really mean. Nervously constituted as she was, she had something candid about her, something honest and frank.
“Well, I shall tell them,” said Constance, with a laugh, “that they owe the same politeness to a sister as to any one else.” ​“Oh, Auntie, I don’t think Aunt Adeline or Aunt Cateau or Aunt Adolphine would care to come!” said Marianne, not doubting Constance’ good faith for a moment.
“Oh, wouldn’t they?” said Constance, coolly. “Yes, I suppose Aunt Adeline is always so busy with the children. And Aunt Cateau . . . .”
She did not complete her sentence, for two men, knowing that she was Mrs. van Naghel’s sister, were asking to be introduced to her.
She did not want to stay long; and, in a minute or two, she rose and moved towards Bertha to say good-bye. Mrs. van Eilenburgh, however, was taking leave at the same instant; and Constance waited for a couple of seconds. And, in those two seconds, she noticed, very plainly, that Mrs. van Eilenburgh deliberately turned her back on her, as if to avoid her, saying good-bye to Bertha and giving Constance no opportunity of bowing. It was no more than a hardly perceptible movement and, in any other case, might have been a natural oversight; but, at this moment, Constance felt that it was done deliberately, with the intention of wounding. She gave an ironical smile, with a laugh in her eyes and tightened lips, and thought:
“She is De Staffelaer’s niece. I shall meet plenty more of his nephews and nieces. . . .”
She was now able to take leave of Bertha.
“Good-bye, Bertha.”
“Good-bye, Constance, so nice of you . . .”
Constance, for a moment, looked Bertha straight ​in the eyes. She said nothing, she did nothing but that: merely looked into Bertha’s eyes while still holding her hand. And, for a moment, they looked into each other’s souls.
There were no more callers; the rest of the room was talking busily; and Bertha just had the opportunity to say something that forced its way to her lips:
“Constance, that article . . .”
“Yes? . . .”
“Van Naghel is very much upset by it.”
Constance shrugged her shoulders.
“Have you heard about it?”
“Yes, I found a copy of it in my letter-box. It’s one of those libels . . .”
“It’s terrible.”
“It’s beneath us to let ourselves be worried by a thing like that.”
“Yes, but . . . it’s most unpleasant . . . for Van Naghel. . . .”
“It’s not particularly pleasant for me either, but . . .”
And she shrugged her shoulders again, refusing to admit how she had suffered under it, trembling in all her nerves at those printed words of scandal. But she understood that Bertha also had been suffering all these days under that shower of mud, which clung to you, however lofty your attitude of contemptuous indifference might be. And Bertha found another moment in which to say:
“Constance . . .” ​“Yes? . . .”
“Mrs. van Eilenburgh . . . is a niece . . .”
“Yes, I know.”
“I am sorry . . . that you should just have happened to meet her.”
Constance once more shrugged her shoulders:
“Why?”
And she looked Bertha full in the face:
“Why?” she repeated. “There are things, Bertha, which I intend to treat as the past. I don’t know if others will always look upon them as the present. If you wish to be a sister for me, in deed as well as in name, help me. Do you understand what I mean? I am determined to treat what happened years ago as the past. I’ve made up my mind to it, in spite of the fact that our friends, I believe, take pleasure in still looking upon the past as the present. It’s a great compliment to me, no doubt, but, alas, I can’t accept it: I am fully fifteen years older now; and I am determined to make those fifteen years count. Do you understand me?”
“I think I understand you, Constance.”
“And you don’t approve. You also want me never to grow old and never to bring my fifteen years into account.”
“Ssh, Constance! There’s some one coming in at the door . . .”
“Don’t be afraid: I’ve finished. Good-bye, Bertha; and help me, if you can. . . .”
She pressed her hand. Bertha was on thorns. ​As she went out, Constance heard the butler announcing:
“Mr. and Mrs. van den Heuvel Steyn.”
She gave a start; she knew the name: friends of De Staffelaer’s; Van den Heuvel Steyn had a post at Court. Suddenly, she saw herself, years ago, as a young girl, calling on those people with De Staffelaer. She had not seen them for years, had not heard of them for years.
She passed them and saw that they had become old, very old, those friends of De Staffelaer’s, two very old people. They looked at her too; and there was fury in their eyes, as though they were both surprised—that old lady and that old gentleman—to find Mrs. van der Welcke in any drawing-room which they entered, even though she were a hundred times the sister of the colonial secretary’s wife. Their eyes crossed like swords; and Constance passed them very haughtily, looking over their heads and pretending not to recognize them. She shivered in the hall. It was pouring with rain. The butler called her carriage.
“It will be difficult,” she thought, tired out with this one quarter-of-an-hour’s visit. “But it is for my son. I must go through with it. . . .”