# Small Souls/Chapter XIX

In the same nervous mood in which she had been all day, Constance hurried, after dinner, to the Bezuidenhout, taking the tram along the Scheveningsche Weg and another to the Plein. When she rang at the Van Naghels’, she thought it strange that there was no light in the hall, as she knew, from Addie, that they were at home that evening. The butler, who opened the door, said that he did not know whether mevrouw could see her, as mevrouw was not feeling well.
She waited in the drawing-room, where the butler hurriedly turned on the light before going to say that she was there. All round the big room were the faded and withered flower-baskets and bouquets of Emilie’s wedding, the frail flowers shrivelled and brown and decayed, while the broad white ribbons still hung in silvery folds around them. The room had evidently not been touched since the wedding-breakfast: the dust lay thick on the furniture; and the chairs still stood as though the room had just been left by a multitude of guests. . . . Constance waited some time; then she heard footsteps. Marianne came in, looking pale and untidy:
“We are so sorry, Auntie, to have kept you waiting. Mamma is very tired and has an awful head-ache and is lying down in her room.”
“Then I won’t disturb her.” ​“But Mamma asked if you would come upstairs.”
She followed Constance to Bertha’s bedroom. Constance was astonished at the almost deathly stillness in that great house, which, on the three or four occasions that she had entered it, she had never seen other than full of movement, life, all sorts of little interests which together made up a bustling existence. There was no draught on the top floor, where Frances had her apartments; there were no doors slamming; she saw no maids, no baboe, no children: everything was quiet, deadly quiet. And, when she entered Bertha’s room, it looked to her, in the subdued light, like a sick-room.
“I have come to see how you are.”
Bertha put out her hand, silently. Then she said:
“That is nice of you. I am very tired and I have a head-ache.”
“I shall not stay long.”
“Yes, do stay. I don’t mind you.”
Bertha and Constance were now alone. And it struck Constance that a disconsolate sadness distorted Bertha’s features and that she looked very old, now that her hair, with its grey patches, was down.
“All this rush has been too much for you.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Bertha, vaguely. “There’s always plenty of rush here.”
“Still, it’s just as well that you’re taking a rest.”
“Yes.”
They were silent and there was no sound save the ticking of the clock. Then Constance stooped and kissed Bertha on the forehead: ​“I wanted badly to see you this evening,” she said. “Addie was out with Henri and he told me that Henri was so depressed. And so I came round.”
“Henri?” said Bertha, vaguely. “I don’t think so; he seemed all right.”
“But Addie said . . .”
“What?”
“That he was so depressed.”
“Really? I didn’t notice it.”
“Well, perhaps Addie was mistaken,” said Constance, gently. “Come, I’ve seen you now, Bertha, and perhaps it’s better that I should go and let you rest.”
And she stooped again to kiss Bertha good-bye. But Bertha caught her by the hand:
“Do stay with me!” she said, hesitatingly.
“I am really afraid of disturbing you.”
“No, please stay!” said Bertha. “I think it’s nice of you to have come. You mustn’t think me indifferent; but what’s the use of talking? If one doesn’t talk, everything is so much simpler. Words always mean so much. . . . Don’t think me cold, Constance. I’m like that, you see: I never talk, to anybody. I prefer to withdraw into myself, when there’s anything the matter with me. But there’s nothing wrong now, I’m only a little tired. . . . Of course, I feel rather sad at Emilie’s going. But we must hope that she will be happy. Eduard is not a bad fellow; and why should Emilie have accepted him, if she didn’t care for him? . . . Do ​stay and talk to me. Tell me about yourself. It is the first time that we have had a real talk . . .”
“For years.”
“Yes, for years. And much has happened, Constance; but it all belongs to the past now.”
“Yes, but the past remains so long. Properly speaking, it never goes, it is always the past.”
“Constance, it is twenty years since we saw each other.”
“Twenty years. Papa has been dead fourteen years. It was my fault that he died.”
“No, Constance.”
“Yes, it was. You needn’t mind: it was my fault. I know you all think so and I feel it myself. It was my fault. I can never forget that. I can never forgive myself that.”
“Hush, Constance. Really, it’s such a long time, such a very long time ago.”
“But it will always remain . . . a murder.”
“You have the future before you now. There’s your son. . . .”
“Yes, there’s my son. But it has come to this, that I am not living for him, but he for me.”
“That is wrong.”
“Yes, it’s wrong. And my whole life is wrong, everything has gone wrong in my life. Oh, Bertha, I can’t tell you how I yearned for Holland and for you all, how I yearned to be no longer alone, alone with my boy! Now, perhaps it will be different: among all of you, I feel at home once more. At home: do you know what that means? If I had ​remained away, things would never have come right. Now perhaps I can still hope: I really don’t know. . . .”
“Alone with your boy? Why don’t you speak of your husband?”
“No, not my husband.”
“Why not?”
“No, no. We only endure each other, for Addie’s sake.”
“Constance, don’t forget . . .”
“What? . . .”
“What he did for you, what his people did.”
“Oh, if only I had never accepted that sacrifice! If only I had gone right away, alone, somewhere far away! And then never come back to you all. . . . For, as it is, it was possible, after fifteen years; but then it would have been impossible. . . . To be grateful, to be grateful all the time, while all the time I am full of bitterness: I can’t do it. I can’t be grateful when I feel so bitter.”
“But, Constance, you’re back now and we are all glad to have you back.”
“Bertha, I don’t know if you mean what you say. I do know that I am happy to be back, in Holland, among you all. But I also know that, in twenty years, people drift far apart; and perhaps I, who had become a stranger, was not wise to come back to all of you, to want to be a sister to you again.”
“Perhaps we shall have to get used to one another, Constance, as sisters; but you always remained ​a daughter to Mamma; and I am very glad for Mamma’s sake.”
“Yes, I feel that, that you all tolerate me for Mamma’s sake. It is nice of you, but it is not quite what I should have wished.”
“But, Constance, all that will come later. I am convinced that soon you will feel no longer a stranger. But don’t be impatient; and let us get used to one another again. . . . And there is this too, that every one has his own interests in life; and it is a pity, but there is not always time to feel for another and to think of another. That is very strange, but it’s true. Just think, it is two months since you came back to Holland; and this is the first time that we have had a chance of talking to each other. I have only once been to see you at your house. And all this is not from heartlessness, but because one has no time.”
“Yes, Bertha, I know; and I am not reproaching you; and you’ve been very busy with the wedding. . . .”
“And, when it’s not a wedding, it’s something else. It is always like that, Constance. And sometimes I ask myself, why: why do we do it? Why have all this fuss, all this bustle, all this excitement? . . . There is a reason for it all: our children’s happiness lies in that direction. We do everything for our children, that’s what it comes to. Van Naghel’s being in the Cabinet, my giving dinners: the reason is always, though one doesn’t always realize it, for the children, for their happiness. ​But, then, Constance, then we ought to have our reward and see our children happy. In return for all our trouble and worry, for all this rushing about and weariness, for all the money we spend, we do want to see our children just a little happy. And then, oh, when I”—her eyes filled with tears—“when I see Otto and Frances: Otto discontented and Frances ill; Louise sad because of Otto, whom she is so fond of; Emilie married now—but how married, poor thing, and why?—and Marianne all nerves and not knowing what she wants; and Henri too so melancholy: then I say to myself, ‘Why have we all these children, for whom we live and think and contrive? And wouldn’t it be better not to have them? And isn’t it better to have as little as possible in one’s life and to make that life as small and simple and quiet as possible, once we have to live? Oh, Constance, all this aimlessness and uselessness amid which people like ourselves, women in our position, our environment, our set, turn and turn like humming-tops or fools: isn’t it enough sometimes to tempt one to run away from it all and to go and sit on a mountain somewhere and look out over the sea? Women like ourselves marry as young girls, knowing nothing and having only a vague presentiment of our lives, that they will be like the lives of our mothers before us; and all that futility seems most important, until, one fine day, we find that we have grown old and tired and have lived for nothing at all: for visits, dresses, dinners, things which we thought were necessary, all sorts of interests among ​which we were born and brought up and grew old and which we cannot escape and which are worth nothing, nothing, nothing! And then, when we think that we have lived for our children and slaved and schemed and contrived for them, then it all comes to nothing, nothing, nothing; and not one of them is happy. . . .’ You see, Constance, I have talked to you now; but what’s the good of it? Why say all that I have said? You’ll go away presently and think, ‘What a fit of depression Bertha had!’ And that is all it was: a fit of depression. For, when I have had a couple of days’ rest, why, then life will go on as before: I shall have two charwomen in at once; the whole house has to be done, after the wedding and because of the spring-cleaning. Well, then, was it really worth while to speak out? Oh, no, talking leads to so little; and it’s best simply to do all the little duties that fall to one’s share.”
“I am very glad though, Bertha, that you have let yourself go. I did not know you thought like that; I myself have sometimes thought so, even though my life was not so busy as yours. But, in Brussels, I too sometimes thought, ‘Well, yes, I am living for Addie: but, if he were not here, he would not have his own troubles in the future; and I should not need to go on living!’”
“And perhaps there are hundreds who think like that, in our class.”
“Isn’t it the same in every class?”
“Perhaps life is hopeless for everybody. And yet, when I am rested, to-morrow or the day after, ​and when my head-ache is gone, I shall start all this work over again.”
They were silent, hand in hand; for a moment they had found each other again, were like two sisters. Then Bertha went on:
“When I lie here like this, with my head-aches, I always think of my children. . . . Yes, it was nice of you to come, Connie. Was Addie out with Henri, did you say? Isn’t it morbid of Henri to be so melancholy? But my children are so dependent on one another, almost more than on their parents. Otto and Louise are always together; and then Frances is jealous. The two boys at Leiden are always together; and Henri was always with his sisters too; and Marianne misses Emilie. And still, notwithstanding that feeling for one another, notwithstanding that we do everything for them, notwithstanding that all our thoughts are for them, notwithstanding all we spend on them and for them, my children are not happy. Not one of them has received—what shall I say?—the gift of happiness. It is strange; it is as if life lay heavy upon all of them and as if they were too small, too weak to bear the burden of it. Tell me, Constance, what is your boy like?”
“I don’t think he is like that.”
“But then he is old for his years, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but he is very sensible.”
“Yes, he is a little man.”
“He is strong, in mind as well as in body. I was going to say that he is just as though he were not ​little. He works entirely to please himself. And he is a comfort, to both of us. He is a strange child. He is not a child.”
“And what is he going to be?”
“He will probably go into the diplomatic service.”
She spoke the words and saw, in a flash, before her eyes, Rome, De Staffelaer, all her vain past. And, in that half-darkened room, in that hour of absolute sincerity, she asked herself whether that career would spell happiness for her son.
“Will Van der Welcke like that? . . .”
“Yes, but Addie must decide for himself. We shall not force him.”
There was a knock at the door; and Henri put his head into the room:
“May I come in, Mamma?”
“Yes, what is it? Here’s Aunt Constance.”
“How are you, Aunt? I came to see how you are, Mamma.”
The undergraduate was a tall boy of just twenty, with a pale, gentle face and dressed with the ultra-smartness of a youth who is “in the swim” at Leiden.
“Pretty well, my boy.”
“I shall go back to Leiden to-morrow, Mamma.”
“Oh?”
“Yes; and I shall probably not be home for some time. I mean to work hard. . . .”
“That’s right.”
“There’s really nothing else to do but work. It’s ​so slow here, Auntie, now that Emilie’s gone. Otto’s all right, with Louise. She missed him badly, while he was in India. Funny brothers and sisters, aren’t we? So exaggerated. . . . Well, Mamma, I’ll say good-bye: I shall start the first thing in the morning.”
He said good-bye and went away pulling himself together, putting a good face on his grief. Bertha began to weep softly.
A maid knocked at the door:
“Master van der Welcke, mevrouw.”
“Addie’s come to fetch me.”
“Ask Master van der Welcke to come upstairs,” said Bertha.
The boy came in. He remained near the door; in the half-dark room, he stood small but erect, like a little man:
“I have come to fetch you, Mamma.”
The two sisters looked at him, smiling. Bertha had it on her lips to say that it was not right for Addie to go about the streets alone, but she said nothing when the boy went up to his mother. He looked capable of protecting her and himself against anything, though he was only thirteen: against the dark night and against life that bore down so heavily upon their small souls.
And a melancholy jealousy welled up in Bertha, while Constance was kissing her good-bye:
“Don’t be too bitter, Constance,” she whispered, “and cherish, cherish that boy of yours. . . .”