# Dr. Adriaan/Chapter IX

It was raining on the morning when Adolphine alighted at Zeist-Driebergen and hurried to the tram which was on the point of leaving. She looked very weary and lean, with bitter lines round her thin, spiteful lips and a reproach in her sharp eyes; and suddenly she reflected that she was sorry that she had not put on a better cloak.
"Conductor, will you stop at Baron van der Welcke's villa, please?"
"We don't pass the villa, ma'am, but it's quite close to the road."
"Then will you tell me where to get out?"
The conductor promised; and Adolphine suddenly became very uncertain of herself. All those years, all the years that Constance had been living at Driebergen, she had never been once to look them up: really out of anger, because they had stolen Mamma, because Mamma had gone to live with them. In all those years, she had never seen her mother, had seen Constance only once and again, at Baarn, after Bertha's death; at the Hague, casually, exchanging a few words with her when they met, by accident, at Aunt Lot's; and Addie also she had seen but very seldom. She was sorry for it now, it looked so strange, to arrive like this, all of a sudden; and then she had not announced her coming, because she disliked writing the letter. . . . If only Constance wasn't out, or away, or perhaps gone to Utrecht or Amsterdam for a day's shopping . . . which was possible. . . . She was ​coming quite like a stranger; and her heart was thumping; and she was almost sorry now that she had taken this step. There were plenty of other doctors besides Addie, who was still such an inexperienced boy, and yet . . . and yet . . . In her unstrung condition, the tears came to her eyes and she felt overcome with her sorrow, with all the bitterness of the last few melancholy years. It was all very sad at home: Van Saetzema, retired on a pension and now ailing . . . with cancer in the stomach; the boys—Jaap in the Indian Civil, Chris in the army, Piet a midshipman—never writing home, now that they no longer needed the paternal house; Caroline soured by not marrying; and the youngest, Marietje, so weak lately, so queer, that Adolphine did not know what to do with her! Added to all this, because, notwithstanding her economy, they had lived on too lavish a scale in her striving after Hague grandeur, they had run into debt and were now living in a small house, really vegetating, without seeing a spark of grandeur gleaming before their eyes. It was all over, there was nothing left for them: it was all loneliness and dying off . . . relations and friends; there was no family circle left at the Hague and it seemed as though such family-circle as had survived was now united—how strange!—in Van der Welcke and Constance' house at Driebergen. . . . Adolphine had long cherished a wonderful jealousy at this, as though, after Van Naghel's death and Bertha's, it ought to be her house which the family, however greatly dispersed, would look upon as the family-house. . . . It was not that she was hospitable by nature, but her vanity was injured; and to satisfy this she would not have objected even to taking Mamma to live with her, however doting and tiresome Mamma might have become. But there had never been any ​question of that. No, Mamma had at once gone to Constance; and Adolphine could feel, by the way in which Paul, Dorine, the Ruyvenaers and even Karel and Cateau spoke, that they all, with varying degrees of affection, looked upon Van der Welcke's house at Driebergen as still remaining the family-centre! A nice state of affairs! Adolphine was angry now, because she never succeeded in anything, because she never had succeeded. . . . And now she had actually set out for Driebergen, with the very object of asking those two, Constance and Van der Welcke, to do her a favour, though she refused as yet to picture it so clearly as such. . . .
She was very nervous when the conductor, at a halt, told her to get down, showed her a road, pointed to a house distantly visible between the bare, dripping trees. The great block loomed massive-grey through the black boughs; the outline of the long, straight roof stood out harsh and unwelcoming against the grey winter sky. It was only the fancy of overstrung nerves; but in the windows of the front, with their reflecting panes and blinds half down, Adolphine seemed to feel reserve, repellence, pride, grudge, refusal. . . . It all shot very quickly through her, made her hesitate to go on . . . and yet, now that she had come so far, now that she was approaching the gate of the front-garden, she realized that it was too late, that she must go on, round the beds with the straw-wrapped roses; and she rang at the great gloomy front-door. She rang shyly, too softly; the bell did not sound; and she stood waiting under her dripping umbrella. Her heart was beating as she pulled a second time, rather harder, in spite of herself. . . . Truitje now opened the door and she recognized her as the maid, the same maid, for whom Constance had rung, years and years ago, in the Kerkhoflaan, to show ​her the door, after their last private interview. She was surprised to see the girl, looking older, but still recognizable; and, because her thoughts were carried back to so many years ago, the sight gave her such a sense of hesitation that she could hardly speak, especially as Truitje, equally surprised, was also staring her in the eyes. Adolphine felt that she was going to stammer, now that she had to open her lips; but there was no way out of it; the question must be put:
"Is . . .is me-mevrouw . . . is mevrouw at home?"
"Yes, ma'am . . . mevrouw's at home."
Adolphine had entered trembling; and the maid closed the door behind her and took her wet umbrella from her. Standing on the mat, she saw the long hall before her, with the brown doors, the antique cabinet, the portraits and engravings. It gave her the impression of a very sober and serious Dutch house, but an impression, too, of reserve, repellence, pride, grudge and refusal. . . . And, with her eyes anxiously fixed on the open oak door at the end of the hall, she stammered once more almost imploringly, with an irresolution in her voice which she could not overcome:
"I'm not . . . I'm not disturbing her?"
"Not at all, ma'am: pray come in."
Then the door of the drawing-room opened and Constance herself stood before her:
"Adolphine!"
There was surprise in her voice, if not gladness: surprise at finding Adolphine there, Adolphine whom she had never seen at Driebergen, whom she had never seen lately, for the matter of that, except once or twice, casually, at the Hague or Baarn . . . when poor Bertha had died.
"Adolphine!"
​"I've come to see how you are getting on, Constance . . . you and . . . and Mamma. . . ."
Adolphine's voice wavered, jerkily, beseechingly, uncertain of itself; and it was so strange for Constance to see Adolphine, to hear her uttering such words, in so hesitating a voice, that she was put out for a moment and could not frame a phrase of welcome, could not even make a show of cordiality. But she saw that the door at the end of the hall stood ajar; and she said to Truitje, almost angrily:
"Truitje, why is that door open again? You know I want it shut."
"It opens sometimes with the draught, ma'am," replied the maid.
Truitje closed the door and went back to the kitchen; and the two sisters were left alone.
"Come in, Adolphine."
"I'm not disturbing you?"
"Of course not. I'm glad to see you again."
She forced a note of geniality into her voice.
"We haven't met for years," said Adolphine, in hesitating excuse.
"Not for ever so long. I go to the Hague so seldom. Here's Mamma."
The old woman was in the conservatory, gazing out of the window.
"Mamma!" said Adolphine, with emotion. "Mamma!"
She went nearer:
"Good-morning, Mamma. . . ."
The old woman looked at her vacantly:
"It's windy," she said. "The garden is full of big branches. . . ."
"Mamma," said Constance, "here's Adolphine come to see you."
The old woman did not recognize her daughter. ​She looked at Adolphine vacantly and indifferently. Then she said:
"It's not right for Gertrude to run about in the garden when it's so windy. . . . There are big branches falling from the trees."
"No, Mamma, I'll go and fetch her in."
"Gertrude?" asked Adolphine.
"She means our poor Klaasje," whispered Constance.
"But doesn't Mamma know me?"
"Not . . . just now. She'll recognize you presently. . . . Mamma, don't you know Phine?"
"Phine?" repeated the old lady.
"Adolphine, Mamma. Look, she's come to give you a kiss."
"She's dead," said the old woman . . .
"Mamma! Adolphine dead? Look, she's here!"
The old lady shook her head:
"She's dead," she said, unshakably. "She died . . . years ago."
Adolphine turned her head away and began to sob.
"She'll recognize you presently," said Constance, gently, consoling her. "She's sure to know you presently. Adolphine, I'm so glad to see you."
But Adolphine was sobbing violently:
"Mamma doesn't . . . know me!"
"My dear, she hasn't seen you for so long. I know she'll recognize you later on. . . . You're staying to lunch, of course. . . ."
"I . . . should like to. . . . Constance, I've come to . . ."
"Yes?"
"To ask something. . . . But presently, not now . . . I'm too much upset. . . ."
"Let me help you off with your things."
​"I'm dreadfully wet . . . it's raining so. . . ."
"You've chosen a bad day."
"I didn't want to wait any longer."
"Tell me, what is it, what can I do for you?"
"I can't tell you yet."
Gerdy peeped round the open door:
"Is that Aunt Adolphine?"
"Yes," said Constance.
Marietje and Adeletje followed:
"Is that . . . Aunt Adolphine?"
They came in and shook hands.
"Is Klaasje out in the garden?" asked Constance.
"I saw her running about just now."
"You have a busy household . . . Constance," said Adolphine, waveringly.
"Yes," said Constance, smiling, "and yet I should miss them if they weren't there. All my daughters . . . and my boys."
The girls stood round her: Gerdy, looking very handsome; Adeletje, weak and pale; and Marietje, tall, lank and plain.
"And then you've got . . . Emilie . . . and Adeline," said Adolphine, counting them shyly.
"Yes," said Constance. "We all keep together now. . . . Children, Aunt Adolphine's staying to lunch."
Something in her words seemed to ask the girls to leave her alone with Adolphine. In the conservatory, the old woman sat gazing up at the clouds, which came sailing along big and grey, and she heard nothing, paid no attention.
"Adolphine," said Constance, when they were alone once more, "we have a moment before lunch. Come upstairs to my room, then we sha'n't be disturbed."
She put out her hand. Adolphine took it; and ​Constance led her sister almost mechanically through the passages and up the stairs.
"It's a gloomy house," said Adolphine, with a shiver at the sight of the oak doors.
"Yes, it is rather gloomy. . . . Fortunately, it's large; there's plenty of space."
"Really?" asked Adolphine, growing interested. "Have you many rooms?"
"Oh, a great many! . . . When the old man was alive, they were all empty. Now they are nearly all full."
"Nearly all?"
"Very nearly. . . . This is my own sitting-room."
They went in.
"It's the furniture from your drawing-room at the Hague," said Adolphine.
"Yes. I can imagine myself at the Hague here."
"Do you like the Hague?"
"I'd rather live there than here. But Henri and Addie are attached to the house: it's their family house."
"They are fine, big rooms," said Adolphine, in humble praise. "I'm living in a very small house now."
"Ah, but there are so few of you!"
"That's true."
"How's your husband?"
"He's not very grand . . . Marietje neither."
"Isn't she well?"
"No. She's very full of nerves. I consulted Dr. Berens, to ease my mind."
"What does he say?"
"He . . . he suggested that . . ."
"That what, Adolphine?"
"He said . . . that Addie was beginning to make such a name . . . as a nerve-specialist. He ​advised me to go to Addie . . . and talk to him about Marietje. Perhaps one day, when he comes to the Hague, he might see Marietje. . . . Do you think he could be persuaded to, Constance?"
"Certainly, Adolphine. Of course he will, gladly."
"I hear such good accounts of him . . . as a doctor."
"Yes, he is getting a very big practice."
"And making a lot of money. . . ."
"Well, not so very much, I believe."
"Ah, perhaps he's right, as a young doctor, to be reasonable in his charges! . . . You see, Constance, that . . . that's really why I came down."
"You were quite right, Adolphine. Addie will be home presently and then you can talk to him yourself. . . . Poor Marietje: I'm sorry she's so ill. How old is she now?"
"Twenty-six."
"I remember: she's a year younger than Addie."
"Who would have thought, Constance, that you would come and live here . . . with Mamma . . . and Adeline . . . and the children? . . . But Mamma always liked you best. I should have been glad to have Mamma with me . . . but it's better as it is; our house is so tiny. . . . Does Addie come to the Hague often? Would he be able to treat Marietje regularly?"
"He would go specially."
"He hypnotizes, doesn't he?"
"Very often, I believe."
"Do you like that?"
"Addie often gets very remarkable results."
"I don't very much fancy it. I shouldn't like him to hypnotize Marietje. But, if it's essential . . ."
The gong sounded.
"Is that for lunch?"
​"Yes. Will you come?"
Van der Welcke and Addie were downstairs. They had just come in, but had heard from the girls that Aunt Adolphine was there; and Van der Welcke welcomed her conventionally. Oh, what fights they had had in the old days! But so many years had passed since those bygone times; and what did a pressure of the hand and a kind word cost? He had acquired a certain genial earnestness in his big house, filled with his wife's family. He would have missed them, all those big children . . . even though Guy and Gerdy were the only cheerful ones. . . . But those two were the sunshine of the house; and the others still clung to him with sympathy: their gratitude created a sympathetic atmosphere round Uncle Henri. . . .
At the long luncheon-table, Marietje cut the bread-and-butter. Granny did not sit at the table; and Mathilde came down very late. No one had told her that Aunt Adolphine was there and she stood amazed in the doorway before bringing herself to offer a non-committal greeting. She was aloof in her manner, thought Adolphine, middle-class, put on airs as she sat down. It was striking how her personality failed to blend with that of the others, as though she remained a stranger among them. In the grey winter morning, hovering sullenly along the dark walls of the dining-room, she was a fresh, handsome woman; her full face was the colour of milk and roses; her lines swelled with health. Gerdy, beside her, was nothing more than a pretty little smiling thing; Marietje and Adeletje were very plain: Marietje so lank and yellow; Adeletje looking quite old with her sickly face. Klaasje was very tiresome, ate uncouthly and sat beside Constance, who kept on gently reproving her and cut up her bread-and-butter for her as though she were a baby. ​Guy carved the cold beef. All of them were silently wondering what Aunt Adolphine had come down for and their conversation sounded constrained; but Van der Welcke talked nonsense calmly with Guy and Gerdy. Adolphine, to keep the pot boiling, talked about the Hague: Uncle and Aunt Ruyvenaer and the girls had returned to India ever so long ago and were not coming back to Holland, now that Uncle and Aunt were older and preferred to live in Java; Louise was living with Otto and Frances; Frances always had something or other the matter with her; and Louise looked after the house and Hugo and Ottelientje, who were now thirteen and fourteen. Then there were Karel and Cateau, Ernst, Dorine, Paul. . . .
"We don't see much of one another nowadays," said Adolphine, sadly. "Ah, Mamma's Sunday evenings! They were very pleasant, say what you like. We didn't always agree, perhaps, but still . . ."
She started, became confused, pecked awkwardly at her food. She felt that the illusion of an united family—Mamma's great illusion in the old days—was quite dispelled; and, older, more melancholy and still bitter as she was, she felt sad about it, sad about something which possibly she had never valued but which she now missed. And she could not help feeling acute envy that Constance was living in so big a house and harbouring so many relations; and suddenly she asked, sharply:
"Your house is rather damp, isn't it, Van der Welcke?"
"Well, it's mostly on the ground-floor," said Van der Welcke, good-humouredly. "And we've had a lot of rain."
"One's feet get so chilly."
"Guy, give Auntie a footstool."
​Guy fetched a stool; Adolphine let him push it under her feet.
"There are so many trees round the house," she said. "That's what makes it gloomy and chilly. You should have them thinned out. . . . It must be very lonely, living here."
"Don't you see the others regularly?" asked Constance, trying to change the subject.
"No. Karel and Cateau pay me a visit now and again. It's not much of a pleasure to anyone: it's never more than a visit!" said Adolphine, criticizing her brother and sister-in-law and forgetting that, in the old days, she herself never honoured Constance and Van der Welcke with more than a "visit." And she went on, "Paul one never sees; nor Dorine; and Ernst . . . you know he has not been very well lately?"
Constance gave a start:
"No, I didn't know. I saw him only three weeks ago. . . . I wish he would come and live here, at Driebergen, say in a nice, bright room at a good boarding-house. I really think the country life would do him good and he probably feels rather lonely at the Hague. . . . But he wouldn't do it. . . . He's been living all these years in the same room and seems so much attached to that room that he simply can't leave it . . . and yet he is never satisfied with the landlady and her brother. That brother is his constant bugbear. . . . And yet I thought that he was living quietly enough. . . . Is he still always calm, however self-absorbed he may be? You say he hasn't been well lately?"
"Well, he's not as bad as he was—how long ago is it?—ten or eleven years ago."
"Eleven years."
"He's not like that. But he looks very queer at times . . . and . . ."
​"I'll go to the Hague to-morrow and look him up," said Constance, with decision.
"My dear!" said Adolphine, in an aggrieved tone. "I assure you that he's nothing out of the way. Besides, we are there . . . if anything should happen."
"He's living by himself too much. I've thought it for a long time. And I reproach myself . . ."
"I've seen Uncle Ernst once or twice lately, Mamma," said Addie, to calm her. "He was just as usual; no worse. I pressed him then to come and live at Driebergen. He refused . . . but he was quite calm about it."
"He has not been calm the last few days," said Adolphine."
"I shall go to the Hague to-morrow," Constance repeated, tremulously.
"Would you like me to go?" asked Addie.
"Really, Constance," Adolphine resumed, in a superior tone of mock moderation, "you needn't get into such a fluster. If there should be anything wrong . . . we're there . . . and Karel . . . and Dorine and Paul. You can leave Ernst to us quite safely. It's just as though we didn't count!"
"It's not that, Adolphine . . . but . . ."
"But what?"
"You don't trouble about him . . . and I feel remorseful that I myself, lately. . . . But I am very busy . . . and . . ."
"Busy?" echoed Adolphine, in amazement. "Here, at Driebergen?"
The atmosphere of the room was filled with a sudden tremor of nerves becoming too highly strung; the girls looked anxiously at Aunt Constance. She felt, she realized that she was losing control of herself and made an effort to keep calm. ​But her eyes and lips trembled. She saw, however, the concern overcasting the features of all of them—except Mathilde—and she now mastered herself entirely, though the tremor remained, very deep down within her.
"Yes," she replied, in a gentler voice, "we are really rather busy here . . . all sorts of things, you know. Of course, Adolphine, it is comforting to feel that you are all there . . . at the Hague . . . in case anything should happen to Ernst."
The tension was relaxed, the luncheon ended quietly; only Adolphine said:
"Is this home-made jelly? . . . Why do you have it made so sweet, Constance?"
In her secret heart she thought the sweet jelly delicious.
"Aunt Adolphine wants to talk to you, Addie," said Constance, when the meal was over.
Adolphine now felt very humble. Yes, she would like to talk to Addie; and she went out with him alone.
"She's come about Marietje," said Constance, when Adolphine and Addie had left the room.
"But why didn't she write," asked Van der Welcke, "instead of coming down?"
Suddenly the sound of Adolphine's sobbing reached their ears from the next room.
"Is Marietje really bad, Auntie?" asked the girls.
And they sat expectantly. The voices of Adolphine and Addie sounded one against the other from behind the folding-doors. They listened in spite of themselves.
"She must certainly change her present environment," said Addie.
Adolphine sobbed:
​"That's what our doctor said . . . and . . . and Dr. Berens of the hospital," she hiccoughed through her tears.
Constance did not want to listen any more; but, though she had controlled herself just now, her nerves were still on edge. Pretending that she was waiting for Adolphine, she went through the drawing-room and sat down beside the old lady in the conservatory.
"Yes, yes," mumbled Mrs. van Lowe. "If it goes on raining like this . . . we shall have floods again . . . just as we did last year."
Before her staring eyes she saw the tropical floods of Java.
Half an hour later, Adolphine and Addie came to look for Constance. Adolphine was suffering under the influence of great emotion, with red eyes which she kept on wiping. Constance went up to her:
"Adolphine, dear," she said, "you must have confidence in Addie."
Motherly pride mingled with the pity in her voice.
"I have, Constance," said Adolphine. "Only . . ."
"Only what?"
"What am I to do with the child? Change of environment, our doctor said. So did Dr. Berens, of the hospital. And yet we're very nice to her. . . . Why this change of environment? And where's she to go to? . . . I haven't the money to . . . to take her to the country for any length of time. . . . In this season too . . . in the autumn! . . . What . . . what am I to do with the child?"
"I was thinking . . ." said Addie.
He looked at his mother.
​"Well?"
"If you and Papa approved . . . I could observe and treat her best here."
Constance suddenly stiffened.
"I don't know, Addie," she said. "I don't know that Papa would agree to that."
How tactless it was of him to say this in Adolphine's presence! She regretted that she had not told Adolphine, before lunch, in her sitting-room, that the house was full, quite full. But he continued, quietly:
"I should like to ask Papa. Marietje could have Guy's room and Guy the little room next to it."
"That's too small for Guy. You must remember, he's got work to do."
He was conscious of the reluctance in her words. Nevertheless he said:
"Guy could do his work in my study. I am never there in the mornings."
"No, no," said Adolphine, joining in. "No, Addie, it wouldn't do. Your mother's busy enough as it is. . . ."
"It's not that I'm so busy," said Constance, "but . . ."
"Well, Mamma?"
"Our weekly books, you know. . . ."
He had never known his mother so hard or so cruel. And he now said:
"Of course, Mamma, if you think it can't be done . . . I'll see what I can do for Aunt Adolphine . . . somewhere in the neighbourhood. Perhaps Marietje could go and live in a family at Zeist."
"Do you think you know some one there?" asked Adolphine, mournfully.
But suddenly Constance felt very yielding. She ​became so yielding because Addie had said this; all her hardness and cruelty melted away in remorse at her last words; and she said:
"Addie . . . go upstairs and . . . and ask Papa. . . ."
Adolphine looked up with wonder in her red eyes. She was struck that Constance was altering so suddenly in tone, from reluctance to assent; and she was also struck that Constance did not apparently wish to decide and that she was leaving the decision to Van der Welcke.
Addie went upstairs at once. The sisters remained silent and alone; the old lady was sitting in the conservatory.
"Oh, Constance!" said Adolphine. "Do you think that Van der Welcke . . .?" She did not complete her question, but went on, "Yes, I suppose your weekly books are very expensive?"
"They are heavy," said Constance. "You understand it's . . ."
"What?"
"It's my husband's money . . . spent on my relations."
"But Gerrit's children have something."
Constance shrugged her shoulders:
"You know exactly how much they have. A couple of thousand guilders apiece."
"Well, that's something."
"We keep it for them . . . and don't touch it."
"Really?" said Adolphine, in surprise. "But then there's Mamma."
"Mamma?"
"Yes, you have her money too," said Adolphine, looking Constance in the eyes.
Constance returned the look:
"My dear Adolphine," she said, gently, "as ​Mamma is not fit to attend to her affairs, her money is in the hands of our solicitor at the Hague; and he controls it for her."
"And the income . . .?"
"It's invested. We get none of Mamma's money. Surely you knew that?"
"No, I didn't."
"The books can be seen at the solicitor's by any of the brothers and sisters."
"Why do you do that?"
"Because we don't want to touch Mamma's money."
"But why not? She's living with you!"
"We want to avoid unpleasantness with any of the brothers or sisters."
"But which of us would create any unpleasantness?" asked Adolphine, very humbly.
"By our way . . . there's no question of any unpleasantness."
"Yes," said Adolphine. "Still, I thought . . ."
"That we received all the interest on Mamma's money?"
"Yes. The money's lying there quite useless."
"There will be all the more for her grandchildren later on."
"Yes," said Adolphine, greatly surprised, remembering her long conversations during those many years with Saetzema, Karel and Cateau . . . because Van der Welcke and Constance at Driebergen were quietly taking Mamma's money for themselves. "I wonder the solicitor never told us!"
"I thought you knew all about it."
"No," said Adolphine, humbly, and did not add that the solicitor had once told Karel, but that they had all refused to believe it. "So Mamma . . . is really living at your expense!"
​Constance smiled:
"Her needs are so small . . . poor Mamma!"
"But you keep a special maid for her?"
"Yes, that's the only thing."
"Still, it makes everything dearer, in food . . . and taxes."
"Yes," said Constance, calmly.
She heard Van der Welcke and Addie come down the stairs; they entered the room. And it was strange to see the father and son together: Van der Welcke with his irrepressibly young, bright face and his boyish eyes, though his hair was turning grey and he was becoming a little stout from his sedentary life; and Addie beside him, with his serious directness of mind, like a very elderly young man, his grey eyes filled with thought and care.
"Addie tells me Marietje's not at all well," said Van der Welcke, by way of preamble.
Adolphine gave a great sob that shook her whole body; she nodded and began to cry.
"Well," said Van der Welcke, who was always moved by tears, "if Addie would like to have her here . . . to keep her under better observation, you know . . . let her come, Adolphine, by all means. We'll find a bed for her somewhere. It's the family hospital, after all! . . ."
And, when Adolphine began to sob violently, he added, with a little pat on the shoulder:
"Come, cheer up and hope for the best. . . . Addie's sure to make her all right again."