# Small Souls/Chapter XXXIII

It was one morning during the summer holidays that old Mr. van der Welcke said to his wife:
“Why not ask the little boy to come and stay with us?”
There was never much said between the old people, but each understood without words, or from a single word, the thought that was passing in the other’s mind.
Not until the evening did the old lady ask:
“The little boy alone?”
“Yes, alone . . . or with Henri.”
Two days after that, she suggested:
“Oughtn’t we to invite them all three, in that case? Constance as well?”
The old man said nothing and went on reading, as though he had not heard; and his wife did not press for an answer. But, at nightfall, when they sat staring at the dark summer evening outside, old Mr. van der Welcke said:
“No, I don’t like her. Let us ask Henri and Adriaan.”
She said nothing. She was used to obeying her husband’s wishes; and she had brought up Henri also, long ago, to obey his parents’ wishes. And Henri had obediently given up his life, given up himself, at their command, to that woman. Which of the two was more to blame, whether he had been the ​tempter or she the temptress, they did not know, they did not wish to know, because all temptation sprang from the evil one; but Henri was a man; and so the responsibility fell upon him. He being responsible, they had commanded him to sacrifice himself and thus to atone for his sin, in the face of God and man. That was how they had seen it at the time, how they had commanded, how it had come to pass. But he, the father, had lost his son through that command; and the loss always rankled. . . .
“Henri and Adriaan alone,” the old man repeated.
Now that he was repeating his few words, she knew that his will was irrevocable. She was sorry for it: the voices which spoke to her now and then, on nights when the wind blew, had gradually brought her to a gentler mood, as though they had been soothing music to her listening soul. Those voices had told her to go to the Hague; and there she had for the second time seen that woman, the bane of their life as parents, and met that woman’s mother; and it was as though that meeting between mother and mother had been a gentle balm, as gentle and healing as the magic music of the voices, a balm that brought about a softer mood, that caused more to be understood, that caused much to be forgiven, in a gradual approach towards reconciliation, after so many, many dismal years of silent rancour and antagonism. In her, the old woman, the rancour had as it were melted away, since she had read the strange book, since she had heard the voices on gusty nights, ​since she had seen that woman’s mother and known her sadness. In the old woman it was a gentle wish not only for reconciliation, but for some measure of friendship with that woman, the wife of her son, the mother of her grandchild. But she felt that there was no trace of any such wish in her husband’s heart; and, because she could only obey, she said nothing and merely told him wordlessly that she did not think as he thought.
He heard her saying it without words, but he did not give in.
And, when they went to bed, he said:
“I shall write to Henri to-morrow.”
He wrote to ask if Henri and Adriaan would come and spend a week at Driebergen, before Adriaan’s holidays were over. Van der Welcke felt in the laboured words of that old man who was not used to writing that his father was implacable towards Constance. Constance felt it and so did Addie. And, when Addie, offended on his mother’s behalf, said, angrily, that she was being left behind alone, she replied:
“It’s better that you should go with Papa, my boy.”
She thought it advisable for him, the grandson, the heir, not to provoke his grandfather. But she had never spent a week without him before:
“What can I do?” she thought. “He is growing bigger, older; I shall see less of him still as time goes on.”
Yes, he had grown bigger, older; he was now ​fourteen. He was broad; and his voice was so curiously deep sometimes, was changing; but he remained small for his age. The pink childishness of his skin was becoming downy with a sort of blond velvet bloom; and that blond velvet was more clearly defined above his upper lip. But he was still a child in the innocent freshness which, despite his seriousness, wafted from all his being like a perfume.
“I’m going to Driebergen for a week with Papa,” he said to Paul, to Gerrit, to Adeline. “Will you take pity on Mamma, Uncle, while I’m away? Will you, Auntie?”
They promised, smiling. Constance remained calm and peaceful. After those gently happy moods there had come to her, since Addie’s quarrel with Jaap about the nickname and what had happened after the quarrel, a nameless depression that silently gnawed at her heart. She did not speak about it, did not mention it to Addie, nor to Gerrit, nor to Paul. She entombed it in the depth of herself.
Father and son went away; and the grandparents thought that the little boy had grown. The grandmother feared that the children of the villa close by would be too childish, after all, for Adiaan to play with. She said this with an air of disappointment, but also of astonishment and admiration; and, although Henri said that Addie could play very nicely with his Uncle Gerrit’s fair-haired little tribe, even if he was a little paternal with them, yet the old woman sent no message to the villa.
It was beautiful at Driebergen and Zeist; and Van ​der Welcke enjoyed being there. And, as they had brought their bicycles, they went on long expeditions. . . .
When alone with his father, Van der Welcke spoke out more and more. He spoke of the past, humbly, as though once more asking forgiveness of that stern father who to him, the son, seemed almost supernatural in his absolute virtue and stainlessness. He spoke of Rome, he even spoke of De Staffelaer, who was still alive, at his country-place near Haarlem, a man as old as Van der Welcke’s father; he spoke of those last dismal years at Brussels, of how they had both longed for Dutch air and Dutch people, especially for their own families. But he also said that, however glad he might be to see his parents again, he thought that to Constance this renewal of family-ties was often a disappointment. As he talked, he felt himself the boy, the student, the young man of former days, who also had talked much with his father, with his father alone, even as Addie now talked with him. He spoke of his boy and admitted that he worshipped him, that they both worshipped him. The old man, quietly smoking his pipe, listened, taking a new interest in those younger lives, the lives of his son and grandson. The old man felt as though he were rediscovering something of his son, but he also felt him to be very far away from him, without love or fear of God.
Van der Welcke spoke on. . . . And, almost unconsciously, in this confession and avowal of his life and thoughts and feelings, he told how Addie ​had quarrelled and fought with his cousin, told of the talk in their circle and of the distress of his son. He told on, almost unconsciously, of the wavering, the struggle, the helplessness of Constance and himself when they saw their child pining with that distress. And, almost unconsciously, Van der Welcke confessed, quite simply, that he had spoken to his son as to a man and told his son the truth about his parents’ past.
The old man, quietly smoking, had heard him in silence, glad to listen to his son’s voice. What his son had told him to start with was strange to him: thoughts, feelings, experiences of a very strange life, differing wholly from his own. But what his son told him now made him doubt whether he had heard aright:
“What do you say?” he asked, thinking that he must be hard of hearing.
Van der Welcke repeated what he had said.
“You told . . . Adriaan . . . your past? . . . Told him about Rome and De Staffelaer? . . .”
“Yes, without entering into unnecessary details and with due respect for his youth, I told him the truth, the whole truth. The boy was suffering pain, was distressed because he did not know; and now he is suffering no longer.”
The old man shook his head, put down his pipe:
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Or else there’s something wrong with my hearing. You told . . . Adriaan . . .?” ​Van der Welcke repeated it again, smiling a little at his father’s astonishment.
The old man understood that he had heard quite clearly. But he was so much shocked that he could not speak.
And it was only next day that he asked:
“How were you able to tell Adriaan that?”
“Just plainly and simply,” said Van der Welcke.
“Just plainly and simply?” the old man echoed.
And not until that evening did he find more words; then he said:
“No, I can’t understand it. I can’t understand you, Henri. I feel that there is a very, very deep gulf between us. I feel that there is neither love nor fear of God in you, that everything in your life, in your relations with your wife, with your child, lacks a religious tendency. It makes me very sad. I could never have pictured things like that. I at least thought that you would have asked God’s forgiveness daily for the sin you once committed, the sin against yourself, your parents, that woman, her husband, against the world, against God. I never imagined you, Henri, so obdurate, so entirely without repentance, regretting merely your own ruined life and shattered career. I can only pray for you and I will pray for you, every day. Still, I can understand want of faith. But what I can’t understand is that you should—plainly and simply—corrupt the soul of your son, a child of fourteen, by telling him of your sin—plainly and simply—so that he might no longer suffer: those were your words, were ​they not? Now, when I repeat those words to myself and repeat them again and think over them and reflect upon them, I fail to understand them. I do not understand them. I feel that you must be entirely lacking in moral sense, in any idea of duty towards your child, in any fear of God, to be able to act like that, to be able to speak like that to your son, just to spare him suffering—plainly and simply—and I ask myself, ‘Am I dreaming? Where am I? Whom am I speaking to? Is the man opposite me my son, my child, brought up by myself, and is what he is telling me the truth or an illusion?’ And, if that illusion is the truth, Henri, if you are so entirely lost to every sense of moral and parental duty, then I am very, very sorry to hear it and I sit staring into a horrible abyss; and I confess that I do not understand you and that I understand nothing of the world, the times and the people of to-day. . . .”
The old man had spoken slowly, measuring every word.
“Father,” said Henri, “you and I are different; and I can understand that you, an old man, in your great goodness and transcendental sense of duty, cannot understand how I feel and think and act. Still, I do not believe that I have corrupted Addie and I am convinced that it was a good impulse that suggested to Constance and me to tell our child about our past at once and not to wait until he was a year or two older. Tell me if you think that he looks like a child whose imagination has been defiled. Tell me if you do not think, on the contrary, ​that he is a strong-minded boy who suffered from those slanders, when they reached him, simply because he did not know the truth, and who now, knowing the truth, loves both his parents with his clear, candid soul and is no longer in doubt, but knows.”
The old man slowly shook his head with the tall, ivory forehead, while his gnarled hands trembled:
“Henri, you can thank God if your child, whose purity you have put to so severe a test, emerges from that test unstained.”
Van der Welcke was silent, out of respect. He felt himself, notwithstanding his love, so far removed from his father that his heart was wrung and he thought:
“Will Addie ever, ever be so far removed from me? . . .”