# The Later Life/Chapter XXV

In these days, when Constance felt herself becoming so strangely young and alive—she who for so long believed that she had never, never lived—she was compelled to step outside that life dominated purely by feeling. Van Vreeswijck came to her one evening and sat talking for hours. She liked him; she valued him as a good friend who, notwithstanding that he really belonged to the most insufferable section of the Court set, had shown that he was not too much afraid of degrading himself by associating with Van der Welcke, with her or even with Brauws, though he loudly and sweepingly condemned Brauws' views. She, in her new pride of life, looked down upon him, with a kindly contempt, as one of the little people in the narrow little circle, a humming-top spinning around itself and around other humming-tops, just another figure in the merry-go-round which they represented to her, all of them; but she valued his unaffected friendship and, though she thought him anything but a great soul, she did not think him a base or evil soul. And so she spoke to him sympathetically that evening and promised to help him.
She promised; and yet it was exceedingly difficult. A new honesty had sprung up in her, making her hesitate to whom to turn first. She had meant to ​speak to Van der Welcke the next morning, in quite an ordinary way. But, when she saw him for a moment before he went out, he seemed to her to be suppressing some secret grief deep down in himself: his blue boyish eyes were overcast, his mouth half-sulking, as on rainy days when he was not able to go cycling; and yet it was fine now, a fine autumn day, and he came down in his cycling-suit, fetched his bicycle, said that he was going a long way, that he would perhaps not be back for lunch. She suspected in him a craving to get away, as fast as possible and as far as possible, and to deaden with that wild speed the pain of his gnawing grief. But, in the soft glow of her new youth, which illuminated everything within her and around her, she had not the heart to tell him what she was going to do, what she had promised to do, though in her secret self she thought it dishonest not to tell him straight out. So she said nothing, let him go. She looked after him for a moment, watched the angry curve of his shoulders, as he pedalled desperately, in his mad craving to get away, far away.
She sighed, felt sorry for him, she no longer knew why or wherefore . . . But she had promised Van Vreeswijck; and perhaps, she thought, it would be best so. She went out therefore, took the tram to the Bezuidenhout, rang at Bertha's door, found her at home. In the hall, the removers' men were busy packing china and glass in big cases. Louise and ​Frans were going from room to room with a list in their hands, making notes of the furniture which Mamma would want at Baarn. The little villa had been taken.
Constance found Bertha upstairs in Van Naghel's study. She was sitting at an open window in the large room with its dark, heavy furniture, gazing into the garden, with her hands in her lap. She seemed calmer than she had been the other evening, at Mamma's. She sat there in her black dress, her face old and drawn, but calmer now; and her eyes never left the garden, a town garden full of rose-trees and fragrant in the late summer air. But all around her the room was gloomy and deadly and desolate. The book-cases were empty: the books had been taken out and divided among the boys. Only the large bronze inkstand remained on the writing-table. The furniture stood stiff, formal, stripped, unused, lifeless, as though awaiting the day of the sale. The bare walls showed the marks of the etchings and family-portraits that had been taken down.
Bertha rose when Constance entered; she kissed her and sat down again at once, sinking into her chair and folding her hands in her lap. And Constance asked if she could have a moment's serious conversation with her. A shade of weariness passed over Bertha's face, as if to convey that she had had so many serious conversations lately and would rather ​go on gazing into the garden. She lifted her eyes almost sorrowfully from the riot of roses, turned them on Constance, asked what it was about. And Constance began to tell her: Van Vreeswijck had been with her for a long time the evening before and had told her that he had loved Marianne for so long, so long . . .
Bertha was interested for a moment, seemed to wake from a dream:
"Van Vreeswijck?" she asked.
Constance went on. He had never said a word to Marianne, because he feared, was almost certain, indeed, that she did not care for him. Had it not been mentioned that they were moving to Baarn, he would perhaps not have ventured to speak even now. But this threatened change had suddenly compelled him to open his heart . . . to her, to Constance. And he had begged Constance to ask Bertha, to ask Marianne herself if he might hope . . . perhaps later . . .
"Van Vreeswijck?"
Bertha repeated. Two months ago, though she had never been a match-making mother, she would have welcomed this proposal, would have rejoiced at it: Van Vreeswijck was a man of good family, belonged to their own circle and to the Court set, had a little money; not very young, perhaps, but a good-looking, pleasant, well-bred fellow. But now she did not know, showed little or no interest after that ​momentary flicker and went on dully, with her hands lying motionless on her black dress:
"Well, I have nothing against it, Constance. If Marianne likes the idea, I do too."
Her voice sounded as if she were withdrawing herself from everything, including her children's interests. She sat there, just blankly staring, leaving everything to them. Louise and Frans went through the house looking out the furniture for which there would be room at Baarn. Constance heard their voices on the stairs:
"So," Louise was saying, "we have, in addition to the furniture in Mamma's bedroom, in Marianne's and mine, enough for one spare-room; then there's the piano, from the drawing-room, and the china-cabinet . . ."
"Isn't the china-cabinet ever so much too big . . . for those small rooms down there?"
"Yes, perhaps . . . Perhaps we had better leave the china-cabinet . . ."
Bertha heard as well as Constance: perhaps Louise and Frans were speaking loudly in the passage on purpose. Bertha, however, did not stir: her eyes remained vague, her hands lifeless. It was obviously a matter of supreme indifference to her whether they took the china-cabinet with them or not . . .
And, as she did not speak at all, Constance was obliged to ask:
​"Would you mind, Bertha, if I just spoke to Marianne?"
"Very well," said Bertha, "do."
"Now? Here?"
"Yes," said Bertha.
Constance rose, opened the door.
"So that's two more tables . . . two sofas," Frans counted, making notes on his list.
"Louise," said Constance, at the door, "would you ask Marianne to come here a moment?"
She sat down again by her sister, affectionately, took her hand, brimming over with pity for the tired woman whom she had always looked upon as an ever capable, busy woman of the world, now exhausted with all the thousand cares of her life and smitten by the sudden blow that had befallen her. And Constance' heart beat anxiously in dread of what was coming: she trembled, felt her eyes become wet . . .
Marianne entered, pale, almost diaphanous; and her black blouse made her look a frail little figure of mourning, slender and drooping. For the thing which she could not conceal in her innermost self was no longer a light shining from her, visible to all: it was now a cloud around her, still visible, but as a shadow of grief, whereas but lately it had been a glow of happiness. Constance at once drew her to her, kissed her, held her to her. And she could not find words. Bertha did not speak.
​"Marianne . . ." Constance began.
"Are you angry, Aunt Constance?"
"No, darling, why . . ."
"Yes, you are angry with me."
"Why, Marianne!"
"Yes, you are different. I have seen it for some time; there's something, I know . . ."
It was no longer the joyous, playful, almost mischievous voice in which she had said this before. It now sounded rather like a cry of fear, because it, "that," seemed so obvious that every one was bound to see it, that Aunt Constance herself must needs see it . . . and be angry.
"Really, Marianne, I am not angry. But I wanted to speak to you alone . . ."
"Oh, then you are angry!" she said, passionately, almost hiding herself in Constance' arms. "Don't be angry!" she said, almost entreatingly. "Do tell me that you will try . . . not to be angry with me!"
She betrayed herself almost entirely, incapable of keeping back that which had once shone from her and which now nearly threatened to sob itself from her. Constance could find no words.
"We shall soon be going away, Auntie!" said Marianne, her features wrung with grief. "And then you will not see me any more . . . and then . . . then perhaps you will never have any reason to be angry with me again . . ."
And then, all at once, she gave a sob, an ​irresistible sob, jarring every nerve with a shock that seemed to leave her rigid. She shut her eyes, buried her face in Constance' shoulder and remained lying like this, after that one convulsive sob, motionless, pale, as though she were dying, as though devastated with sorrow. Bertha, opposite her, stared at her vaguely, with her hands lying helplessly on her black dress.
And Constance could find no words. Time after time she thought of mentioning Van Vreeswijck's name, time after time the name died away on her lips. She gently urged Marianne to control herself, assuring her that she was not angry, had never been angry. And for a moment, thinking of herself, she felt afraid.
If love could be now gladness and now mourning, as it had been and was in this suffering, love-stricken child, should it not be the same with her—that gladness and oh, perhaps later, O God, that mourning!—with her, the middle-aged woman, who felt herself growing younger and a new life coursing through her: at first, in the soft spring flush of a girl's dreams; now in the summer glory of a woman's—a young woman's—love? But there was a mirror opposite her; and she saw Marianne grief-smitten, shaken with sobs . . . and in herself she saw nothing! She seemed to have the power to hide her happiness in her secret self: her agony—O God!—she would also hide later in her secret ​self. She saw nothing in herself. And she knew that nobody saw it in her. It remained secretly, mysteriously hidden. Adolphine, Cateau, the Ruyvenaers, all of them talked about her husband and Marianne: she knew it; but she also knew that they never talked about herself and Brauws . . . though she had now known him for months, though he was the friend of the house and came to their house almost daily. He was a friend of Van der Welcke's, he was a friend of the house and a very well-known man; and that was all. It was not visible to anybody, to anybody . . .
Oh, was it not strange? That this same feeling, which she bore in her innermost self, unseen by any, should shine within her as a sun, while with Marianne it had shone out, for all the world to see, as an illicit joy . . . and was now streaming forth from her, in a convulsive sob, as an illicit sorrow. What she, the woman, hid within her the child could not hide within her, as though her soul were too slight for it, so slight that it had glowed through her soul as through alabaster and now flowed from it as from alabaster . . . Oh, was it not strange, was it not strange? After all, she did not hide it intentionally, for she, the middle-aged woman had never, in her new young life, thought of the people outside . . . in connection with her reviving youth! But it was so, it was so, beyond a doubt . . . And it made her feel strong: it seemed to her a grace ​that had been accorded her, this power to live and go on living a new life deep in her secret self, invisible to the people outside, this power to live and love . . .
She felt grateful: something sang in her like a hymn of thanksgiving; but she was filled with compassion for Marianne. The girl, despite Constance' cheering words, still lay motionless against her shoulder, with closed eyes, as though dead. Constance now gently forced her to rise, led her away without a word . . . while Bertha remained sitting, just followed them both with her dull, indifferent eyes, then looked out at the roses in the garden, her hands lying helplessly in her black lap.
Constance opened the door, led the girl into the drawing-room. The carpet had been taken up, the curtains taken down; the furniture stood cold and lifeless on the bare boards.
"Marianne, darling, do listen to me now!" Constance forced herself to say, in a firmer voice. "I am not angry and I wanted to speak to you . . . and I have something to ask you . . . But first tell me: do you believe that I care for you and that anything I say and ask comes from nothing but my love for you?"
Marianne opened her eyes:
"Yes, Auntie."
"Well, then," said Constance, "Van Vreeswijck . . ."
​But Marianne suddenly drew herself up where they were sitting—she with Constance' arms around her—nervous, terrified, at once knowing, understanding:
"No, Auntie, no!" she almost screamed.
"Marianne! . . ."
"No, Auntie, oh, no, no, no! I can't do it, I can't do it!"
And she threw herself back, sobbed out her words, as though she no longer dared fling herself into Constance' arms.
"Marianne, he is very fond of you . . . and he is such a good fellow. . . ."
"Oh, Auntie, no, no, no! . . . No, no, Auntie, no! . . . I can't do it!"
Constance was silent. Then she said:
"So, it's no, darling?"
"No, Auntie, no, no! . . . I don't care for him, I can never, never care for him! Oh, no, no, it is cruel of you, if you ask that of me, if you want to force me into it! . . . I don't care for him . . . There is . . . there is some one else . . ."
She was silent, stared before her like a madwoman, with the same fixed stare as her mother. And suddenly she became very still, accepting her anguish, and said, gently, with a heart-rending smile:
"No, Auntie . . . no. I would rather go . . . with Mamma and Louise . . . to Baarn. We shall live very pleasantly there . . . cosily, the three of ​us together . . . Marietje will join us later, from her boarding-school . . . Karel . . ."
She tried to utter just a word of interest in her mother, sisters and brothers, but her indifferent, dead voice belied her. There was nothing in her but what had once shone from her, what was now trying to sob from her . . .
Constance clasped her in her arms:
"My child!"
"No, Auntie, you will tell him, won't you? . . . Tell him that I am sorry . . . but . . . but that I don't care for him . . . I care . . . I care for some one else . . ."
And now, without speaking a word, raising her beseeching, tear-filled eyes to her aunt's, she said to Constance, without speaking a word, told her only with her beseeching glance, told her that she loved . . . that she loved Uncle Henri . . . and that she couldn't help it; that she knew it was very wrong of her; that she begged her aunt to forgive her and implored her please not to be angry; that she entreated only to be allowed to suffer and sob about it; but that for the rest she hoped for nothing more from life, nothing, nothing; that she would go quietly to Baarn, with her mother and sisters, and try to manage to live there and pine away silently in her grief . . .
And Constance, as she held her in her arms, thought:
​"Living . . . Living . . . This child . . . this poor child . . . is living early; and, if I have begun to live late . . . O God, O God, must I also suffer as she is doing . . . must I also suffer some day . . . soon, perhaps . . . if one cannot have life without suffering? . . ."