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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/37770-8.txt b/37770-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c299e80 --- /dev/null +++ b/37770-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4872 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Ecstasy: A Study of Happiness, by Louis Couperus + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Ecstasy: A Study of Happiness + A Novel + +Author: Louis Couperus + +Translator: Alexander Teixeira de Mattos + +Release Date: October 16, 2011 [EBook #37770] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ECSTASY: A STUDY OF HAPPINESS *** + + + + +Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project +Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously +made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + + + + ECSTASY: + A STUDY OF HAPPINESS + A Novel + + + + By + LOUIS COUPERUS + + Author of "Small Souls," "Old People + and the Things that Pass," etc. + + Translated by + Alexander Teixeira de Mattos + + + + New York + Dodd, Mead and Company + 1919 + + + + + + + +TRANSLATOR'S NOTE + + +This delicate story is Louis Couperus' third novel. It appeared in the +original Dutch some twenty-seven years ago and has not hitherto been +published in America. At the time when it was written, the author was +a leading member of what was then known as the "sensitivist" school +of Dutch novelists; and the reader will not be slow in discovering +that the story possesses an elusive charm of its own, a charm marking +a different tendency from that of the later books. + + + Alexander Teixeira de Mattos + + Chelsea, 2 June, 1919 + + + + + + + +ECSTASY: A STUDY OF HAPPINESS + +CHAPTER I + + +1 + +Dolf Van Attema, in the course of an after-dinner stroll, had called on +his wife's sister, Cecile van Even, on the Scheveningen Road. He was +waiting in her little boudoir, pacing up and down, among the rosewood +chairs and the vieux rose moiré ottomans, over and over again, with +three or four long steps, measuring the width of the tiny room. On +an onyx pedestal, at the head of a sofa, burned an onyx lamp, glowing +sweetly within its lace shade, a great six-petalled flower of light. + +Mevrouw was still with the children, putting them to bed, the maid had +told him; so he would not be able to see his godson, little Dolf, that +evening. He was sorry. He would have liked to go upstairs and romp with +Dolf where he lay in his little bed; but he remembered Cecile's request +and his promise on an earlier occasion, when a romp of this sort with +his uncle had kept the boy awake for hours. So Dolf van Attema waited, +smiling at his own obedience, measuring the little boudoir with his +steps, the steps of a firmly-built man, short, broad and thick-set, +no longer in his first youth, showing symptoms of baldness under his +short brown hair, with small blue-grey eyes, kindly and pleasant of +glance, and a mouth which was firm and determined, in spite of the +smile, in the midst of the ruddy growth of his crisp Teutonic beard. + +A log smouldered on the little hearth of nickel and gilt; and two +little flames flickered discreetly: a fire of peaceful intimacy in +that twilight atmosphere of lace-shielded lamplight. Intimacy and +discreetness shed over the whole little room an aroma as of violets; +a suggestion of the scent of violets nestled, too, in the soft tints of +the draperies and furniture--rosewood and rose moiré--and hung about +the corners of the little rosewood writing-table, with its silver +appointments and its photographs under smooth glass frames. Above +the writing-table hung a small white Venetian mirror. The gentle +air of modest refinement, the subdued and almost prudish tenderness +which floated about the little hearth, the writing-table and the +sofa, gliding between the quiet folds of the faded hangings, had +something soothing, something to quiet the nerves, so that Dolf +presently ceased his work of measurement, sat down, looked around +him and finally remained staring at the portrait of Cecile's husband, +the minister of State, dead eighteen months back. + +After that he had not long to wait before Cecile came in. She advanced +towards him smiling, as he rose from his seat, pressed his hand, +excused herself that the children had detained her. She always put them +to sleep herself, her two boys, Dolf and Christie, and then they said +their prayers, one beside the other in their little beds. The scene +came back to Dolf as she spoke of the children; he had often seen it. + +Christie was not well, she said; he was so listless; she hoped it +might not turn out to be measles. + + + + +2 + +There was motherliness in her voice, but she did not seem a mother as +she reclined, girlishly slight, on the sofa, with behind her the soft +glow of the lace flower of light on its stem of onyx. She was still +in the black of her mourning. Here and there the light at her back +touched her flaxen hair with a frail golden halo; the loose crape +tea-gown accentuated the maidenly slimness of her figure, with the +gently curving lines of her long neck and somewhat narrow shoulders; +her arms hung with a certain weariness as her hands lay in her lap; +gently curving, too, were the lines of her girlish youth of bust and +slender waist, slender as a vase is slender, so that she seemed a +still expectant flower of maidenhood, scarcely more than adolescent, +not nearly old enough to be the mother of her children, her two boys +of six and seven. + +Her features were lost in the shadow--the lamplight touching her +hair with gold--and Dolf could not at first see into her eyes; but +presently, as he grew accustomed to the shade, these shone softly +out from the dusk of her features. She spoke in her low-toned voice, +a little faint and soft, like a subdued whisper; she spoke again of +Christie, of his god-child Dolf and then asked for news of Amélie, +her sister. + +"We are all well, thank you," he replied. "You may well ask how we are: +we hardly ever see you." + +"I go out so little," she said, as an excuse. + +"That is just where you make a mistake: you do not get half enough +air, not half enough society. Amélie was saying so only at dinner +to-day; and that's why I've looked in to ask you to come round to us +to-morrow evening." + +"Is it a party?" + +"No; nobody." + +"Very well, I will come. I shall be very pleased." + +"Yes, but why do you never come of your own accord?" + +"I can't summon up the energy." + +"Then how do you spend your evenings?" + +"I read, I write, or I do nothing at all. The last is really the most +delightful: I only feel myself alive when I am doing nothing." + +He shook his head: + +"You're a funny girl. You really don't deserve that we should like +you as much as we do." + +"How?" she asked, archly. + +"Of course, it makes no difference to you. You can get on just as +well without us." + +"You mustn't say that; it's not true. Your affection means a great +deal to me, but it takes so much to induce me to go out. When I am +once in my chair, I sit thinking, or not thinking; and then I find +it difficult to stir." + +"What a horribly lazy mode of life!" + +"Well, there it is!... You like me so much: can't you forgive me my +laziness? Especially when I have promised you to come round to-morrow." + +He was captivated: + +"Very well," he said, laughing. "Of course you are free to live as +you choose. We like you just the same, in spite of your neglect of us." + +She laughed, reproached him with using ugly words and rose slowly to +pour him out a cup of tea. He felt a caressing softness creep over +him, as if he would have liked to stay there a long time, talking and +sipping tea in that violet-scented atmosphere of subdued refinement: +he, the man of action, the politician, member of the Second Chamber, +every hour of whose day was filled up with committees here and +committees there. + +"You were saying that you read and wrote a good deal: what do you +write?" he asked. + +"Letters." + +"Nothing but letters?" + +"I love writing letters. I write to my brother and sister in India." + +"But that is not the only thing?" + +"Oh, no!" + +"What else do you write then?" + +"You're growing a bit indiscreet, you know." + +"Nonsense!" he laughed back, as if he were quite within his +right. "What is it? Literature?" + +"Of course not! My diary." + +He laughed loudly and gaily: + +"You keep a diary! What do you want with a diary? Your days are all +exactly alike!" + +"Indeed they are not." + +He shrugged his shoulders, quite non-plussed. She had always been a +riddle to him. She knew this and loved to mystify him: + +"Sometimes my days are very nice and sometimes very horrid." + +"Really?" he said, smiling, looking at her out of his kind little eyes. + +But still he did not understand. + +"And so sometimes I have a great deal to write in my diary," she +continued. + +"Let me see some of it." + +"By all means ... after I'm dead." + +A mock shiver ran through his broad shoulders: + +"Brr! How gloomy!" + +"Dead! What is there gloomy about that?" she asked, almost merrily. + +But he rose to go: + +"You frighten me," he said, jestingly. "I must be going home; I have +a lot to do still. So we see you to-morrow?" + +"Thanks, yes: to-morrow." + +He took her hand; and she struck a little silver gong, for him to +be let out. He stood looking at her a moment longer, with a smile in +his beard: + +"Yes, you're a funny girl, and yet ... and yet we all like you!" he +repeated, as if he wished to excuse himself in his own eyes for +this affection. + +And he stooped and kissed her on the forehead: he was so much older +than she. + +"I am very glad that you all like me," she said. "Till to-morrow, +then. Good-bye." + + + + +3 + +He went; and she was alone. The words of their conversation seemed +still to be floating in the silence, like vanishing atoms. Then the +silence became complete; and Cecile sat motionless, leaning back in +the three little cushions of the sofa, black in her crape against the +light of the lamp, her eyes gazing out before her. All around her a +vague dream descended as of little clouds, in which faces shone for +an instant, from which low voices issued without logical sequence of +words, an aimless confusion of recollection. It was the dreaming of +one on whose brain lay no obsession either of happiness or of grief, +the dreaming of a mind filled with peaceful light: a wide, still, +grey Nirvana, in which all the trouble of thinking flows away and +the thoughts merely wander back over former impressions, taking them +here and there, without selecting. For Cecile's future appeared to +her as a monotonous sweetness of unruffled peace, in which Dolf and +Christie grew up into jolly boys, young undergraduates, men, while she +herself remained nothing but the mother, for in the unconsciousness +of her spiritual life she did not know herself entirely. She did not +know that she was more wife than mother, however fond she might be +of her children. Swathed in the clouds of her dreaming, she did not +feel that there was something missing, by reason of her widowhood; +she did not feel loneliness, nor a need of some one beside her, nor +regret that yielding air alone flowed about her, in which her arms +might shape themselves and grope in vain for something to embrace. The +capacity for these needs was there, but so deep hidden in her soul's +unconsciousness that she did not know of its existence nor suspect +that one day it might assert itself and rise up slowly, up and up, +an apparition of more evident melancholy. For such melancholy as was +in her dreaming seemed to her to belong to the past, to the memory of +the dear husband whom she had lost, and never, never, to the present, +to an unrealized sense of her loneliness. + +Whoever had told her now that something was wanting in her life +would have roused her indignation; she herself imagined that she had +everything that she wanted; and she valued highly the calm happiness of +the innocent egoism in which she and her children breathed, a happiness +which she thought complete. When she dreamed, as now, about nothing +in particular--little dream-clouds fleeing across the field of her +imagination, with other cloudlets in their wake--sometimes great tears +would well into her eyes and trickle slowly down her cheek; but to +her these were only tears of an unspeakably vague melancholy, a light +load upon her heart, barely oppressive and there for some reason which +she did not know, for she had ceased to mourn the loss of her husband. + +In this manner she could pass whole evenings, simply sitting dreaming, +never wearying of herself, nor reflecting how the people outside +hurried and tired themselves, aimlessly, without being happy, whereas +she was happy, happy in the cloudland of her dreams. + +The hours sped and her hand was too slack to reach for the book upon +the table beside her; slackness at last permeated her so thoroughly +that one o'clock arrived and she could not yet decide to get up and +go to her bed. + + + + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +1 + +Next evening, when Cecile entered the Van Attemas' drawing-room, +slowly with languorous steps, in the sinuous black of her crape, +Dolf at once came to her and took her hand: + +"I hope you won't be annoyed. Quaerts called; and Dina had told the +servants that we were at home. I'm sorry...." + +"It doesn't matter!" she whispered. + +Nevertheless, she was a little irritated, in her sensitiveness, at +unexpectedly meeting this stranger, whom she did not remember ever to +have seen at Dolf's and who now rose from where he had been sitting +with Dolf's great-aunt, old Mrs. Hoze, Amélie and the two daughters, +Anna and Suzette. Cecile kissed the old lady and greeted the rest +of the circle in turn, welcomed with a smile by all of them. Dolf +introduced: + +"My friend Taco Quaerts.... Mrs. van Even, my sister-in-law." + +They sat a little scattered round the great fire on the open hearth, +the piano close to them in the corner, its draped back turned to them, +and Jules, the youngest boy, sitting behind it, playing a romance by +Rubinstein and so absorbed that he had not heard his aunt come in. + +"Jules!..." Dolf called out. + +"Leave him alone," said Cecile. + +The boy did not reply and went on playing. Cecile, across the piano, +saw his tangled hair and his eyes abstracted in the music. A feebleness +of melancholy slowly rose within her, like a burden, like a burden that +climbed up her breast and stifled her breathing. From time to time, +forte notes falling suddenly from Jules' fingers gave her little +shocks in her throat; and a strange feeling of uncertainty seemed +winding her about as with vague meshes: a feeling not new to her, +one in which she seemed no longer to possess herself, to be lost and +wandering in search of herself, in which she did not know what she +was thinking, nor what at this very moment she might say. Something +melted in her brain, like a momentary weakness. Her head sank a +little; and, without hearing distinctly, it seemed to her that once +before she had heard this romance played so, exactly so, as Jules was +now playing it, very, very long ago, in some former existence ages +agone, in just the same circumstances, in this very circle of people, +before this very fire.... The tongues of flame shot up with the same +flickerings as from the logs of ages back; and Suzette blinked with +the same expression which she had worn then on that former occasion.... + +Why was it that Cecile should be sitting here again now, in the midst +of them all? Why was it necessary, to sit like this round a fire, +listening to music? How strange it was and what strange things there +were in this world!... Still, it was pleasant to be in this cosy +company, so agreeably quiet, without many words, the music behind +the piano dying away plaintively, until it suddenly stopped. + +Mrs. Hoze's voice had a ring of sympathy as she murmured in Cecile's +ear: + +"So we are getting you back, dear? You are coming out of your shell +again?" + +Cecile pressed her hand, with a little laugh: + +"But I never hid myself from you! I have always been in to you!" + +"Yes, but we had to come to you. You always stayed at home, didn't +you?" + +"You're not angry with me, are you?" + +"No, darling, of course not; you have had such a great sorrow." + +"Oh, I have still: I seem to have lost everything!" + +How was it that she suddenly realized this? She never had that sense of +loss in her own home, among the clouds of her day-dreams, but outside, +among other people, she immediately felt that she had lost everything, +everything.... + +"But you have your children." + +"Yes." + +She answered faintly, wearily, with a sense of loneliness, of terrible +loneliness, like one floating aimlessly in space, borne upon thinnest +air, in which her yearning arms groped in vain. + +Mrs. Hoze stood up. Dolf came to take her into the other room, +for whist. + +"You too, Cecile?" he asked. + +"No, you know I never touch a card!" + +He did not press her; there were Quaerts and the girls to make up. + +"What are you doing there, Jules?" he asked, glancing across the piano. + +The boy had remained sitting there, forgotten. He now rose and +appeared, tall, grown out of his strength, with strange eyes. + +"What were you doing?" + +"I ... I was looking for something ... a piece of music." + +"Don't sit moping like that, my boy!" growled Dolf, kindly, with his +deep voice. "What's become of those cards again, Amélie?" + +"I don't know," said his wife, looking about vaguely. "Where are the +cards, Anna?" + +"Aren't they in the box with the counters?" + +"No," Dolf grumbled. "Nothing is ever where it ought to be." + +Anna got up, looked, found the cards in the drawer of a buhl +cabinet. Amélie also had risen, stood arranging the music on the +piano. She was for ever ordering things in her rooms and immediately +forgetting where she had put them, tidying with her fingers and +perfectly absent in her mind. + +"Anna, come and draw a card too. You can play in the next rubber," +cried Dolf, from the other room. + +The two sisters remained alone, with Jules. + +The boy had sat down on a stool at Cecile's feet: + +"Mamma, do leave my music alone." + +Amélie sat down beside Cecile: + +"Is Christie better?" + +"He is a little livelier to-day." + +"I'm glad. Have you never met Quaerts before?" + +"No." + +"Really? He comes here so often." + +Cecile looked through the open folding-doors at the card-table. Two +candles stood upon it. Mrs. Hoze's pink face was lit up clearly, with +its smooth and stately features; her hair gleamed silver-grey. Quaerts +sat opposite her: Cecile noticed the round, vanishing silhouette of his +head, the hair cut very close, thick and black above the glittering +white streak of his collar. His arms made little movements as he +threw down a card or gathered up a trick. His person had something +about it of great power, something energetic and robust, something +of every-day life, which Cecile disliked. + +"Are the girls fond of cards?" + +"Suzette is, Anna not so very: she's not so brisk." + +Cecile saw that Anna sat behind her father, looking on with eyes +which did not understand. + +"Do you take them out much nowadays?" Cecile asked next. + +"Yes, I have to. Suzette likes going out, but not Anna. Suzette will +be a pretty girl, don't you think?" + +"Suzette's an awful flirt!" said Jules. "At our last dinner-party...." + +He stopped suddenly: + +"No, I won't tell you. It's not right to tell tales, is it, Auntie?" + +Cecile smiled: + +"No, of course it's not." + +"I want always to do what's right." + +"That is very good." + +"No, no!" he said deprecatingly. "Everything seems to me so bad, +do you know. Why is everything so bad, Auntie?" + +"But there is much that is good too, Jules." + +He shook his head: + +"No, no!" he repeated. "Everything is bad. Everything is very +bad. Everything is selfishness. Just mention something that's not +selfish!" + +"Parents' love for their children." + +But Jules shook his head again: + +"Parents' love is ordinary selfishness. Children are a part of their +parents, who only love themselves when they love their children." + +"Jules!" cried Amélie. "Your remarks are always much too decided. You +know I don't like it: you are much too young to talk like that. One +would think you knew everything!" + +The boy was silent. + +"And I always say that we never know anything. We never know anything, +don't you agree, Cecile? I, at least, never know anything, never...." + +She looked round the room absently. Her fingers smoothed the fringe +of her chair, tidying. Cecile put her arm softly round Jules' neck. + + + + +2 + +It was Quaerts' turn to sit out from the card-table; and, though Dolf +pressed him to go on playing, he rose: + +"I want to go and talk to Mrs. van Even," Cecile heard him say. + +She saw him come towards the big drawing-room, where she was still +sitting with Amélie--Jules still at her feet--engaged in desultory +talk, for Amélie could never maintain a conversation, always wandering +and losing the threads. She did not know why, but Cecile suddenly +assumed a most serious expression, as though she were discussing very +important matters with her sister; and yet all that she said was: + +"Jules ought really to take lessons in harmony, when he composes +so nicely...." + +Quaerts had approached; he sat down beside them, with a scarcely +perceptible shyness in his manner, a gentle hesitation in the brusque +force of his movements. + +But Jules fired up: + +"No, Auntie, I want to be taught as little as possible! I don't want +to be learning names and principles and classifications. I couldn't +do it. I only compose like this, like this...." And he suited his +phrase with a vague movement of his fingers. + +"Jules can hardly read, it's a shame!" said Amélie. + +"And he plays so nicely," said Cecile. + +"Yes, Auntie, I remember things, I pick them out on the piano. Oh, +it's not really clever: it just comes out of myself, you know!" + +"But that's so splendid!" + +"No, no! You have to know the names and principles and +classifications. You want that in everything. I shall never learn +technique; I'm no good." + +He closed his eyes for a moment; a look of sadness flitted across +his restless face. + +"You know a piano is so ... so big, a great piece of furniture, isn't +it? But a violin, oh, how delightful! You hold it to you like this, +against your neck, almost against your heart; it is almost part of you; +and you stroke it, like this, you could almost kiss it! You feel the +soul of the violin quivering inside its body. And then you only have +just a string or two, two or three strings which sing everything. Oh, +a violin, a violin!" + +"Jules...." Amélie began. + +"And, oh, Auntie, a harp! A harp, like this, between your legs, a harp +which you embrace with both your arms: a harp is exactly like an angel, +with long golden hair.... Ah, I've never yet played on a harp!" + +"Jules, leave off!" cried Amélie, sharply. "You drive me silly with +that nonsense! I wonder you're not ashamed, before Mr. Quaerts." + +Jules looked up in surprise: + +"Before Taco? Do you think I've anything to be ashamed of, Taco?" + +"Of course not, my boy." + +The sound of his voice was like a caress. Cecile looked at him, +astonished; she would have expected him to make fun of Jules. She +did not understand him, but she disliked him exceedingly, so healthy +and strong, with his energetic face and his fine, expressive mouth, +so different from Amélie and Jules and herself. + +"Of course not, my boy." + +Jules glanced at his mother with a slight look of disdain, as if to +say that he knew better: + +"You see! Taco's a good fellow." + +He turned his footstool round towards Quaerts and laid his head +against his knee. + +"Jules!" + +"Pray let him be, mevrouw." + +"Every one spoils that boy...." + +"Except yourself," said Jules. + +"I! I!" cried Amélie, indignantly. "I spoil you out and out! I wish I +knew how not to give way to you! I wish I could send you to Kampen or +Deli! [1] That would make a man of you! But I can't do it by myself; +and your father spoils you too.... I can't think what's going to +become of you!" + +"What is going to become of you, Jules?" asked Quaerts. + +"I don't know. I mustn't go to college, I am too weak a doll to do +much work." + +"Would you like to go to Deli some day?" + +"Yes, with you.... Not alone; oh, to be alone, always alone! You will +see: I shall always be alone; and it is so terrible to be alone!" + +"But, Jules, you are not alone now!" said Cecile, reproachfully. + +"Oh, yes, yes, in myself I am alone, always alone...." + +He pressed himself against Quaerts' knee. + +"Jules, don't talk so stupidly," cried Amélie, nervously. + +"Yes, yes!" cried Jules, with a sudden half sob. "I will hold my +tongue! But don't talk about me any more; oh, I beg you, don't talk +about me!" + +He locked his hands and implored them, with dread in his face. They +all stared at him, but he buried his face in Quaerts' knees, as though +deadly frightened of something.... + + + + +3 + +Anna had played execrably, to Suzette's despair: she could not even +remember the winning trumps! + +Dolf called out to his wife: + +"Amélie, do come in for a rubber; that is, if Quaerts doesn't want +to. You can't give your daughter many points, but still you're not +quite so bad!" + +"I would rather stay and talk to Mrs. van Even," said Quaerts. + +"Go and play without minding me, if you prefer, Mr. Quaerts," said +Cecile, in the cold voice which she adopted towards people whom +she disliked. + +Amélie dragged herself away with an unhappy face. She did not play +a brilliant game either; and Suzette always lost her temper when she +made mistakes. + +"I have so long been hoping to make your acquaintance, mevrouw, +that I should not like to miss this opportunity," Quaerts replied. + +She looked at him: it troubled her that she could not understand +him. She knew him to be something of a Lothario. There were stories in +which the name of a married woman was coupled with his. Did he wish +to try his blandishments on her? She had no particular hankering for +this sort of pastime; she had never cared for flirtations. + +"Why?" she asked, calmly, immediately regretting the word; for her +question sounded like coquetry and she intended anything but that. + +"Why?" he echoed. + +He looked at her in slight surprise as he sat near her, with Jules +on the ground between them, against his knee, his eyes closed. + +"Because ... because," he stammered, "because you are my friend's +sister, I suppose, and I had never met you here...." + +She made no answer: in her seclusion she had forgotten how to talk +and she did not take the least trouble about it. + +"I used often to see you at the theatre," said Quaerts, "when Mr. van +Even was still alive." + +"At the opera," she said. + +"Yes." + +"Really? I didn't know you then." + +"No." + +"I have not been out in the evening for a long time, because of +my mourning." + +"And I always choose the evening to come to Dolf's." + +"So that explains why we have never met." + +They were silent for a moment. It seemed to him that she spoke +very coldly. + +"I should love to go to the opera!" murmured Jules, without opening +his eyes. "Or no, after all, I think I would rather not." + +"Dolf told me that you read a great deal," Quaerts continued. "Do +you keep in touch with modern literature?" + +"A little. I don't read so very much." + +"No?" + +"Oh, no! I have two children; that leaves me very little time for +reading. Besides, it has no particular fascination for me: life is +much more romantic than any novel." + +"So you are a philosopher?" + +"I? Oh, no, I assure you, Mr. Quaerts! I am the most commonplace +woman in the world." + +She spoke with her wicked little laugh and her cold voice: the voice +and the laugh which she employed when she feared lest she should be +wounded in her secret sensitiveness and when therefore she hid deep +within herself, offering to the outside world something very different +from what she really was. Jules had opened his eyes and sat looking +at her; and his steady glance troubled her. + +"You live in a charming house, on the Scheveningen Road." + +"Yes." + +She realized suddenly that her coldness amounted to rudeness; and +she did not wish this, even though she did dislike him. She threw +herself back negligently; she asked at random, quite without concern, +merely for the sake of conversation: + +"Have you many relations in The Hague?" + +"No; my father and mother live at Velp and the rest of my family at +Arnhem chiefly. I never fix myself anywhere; I can't stay long in +one place. I have spent a good many years in Brussels." + +"You have no occupation, I believe?" + +"No. As a boy, my one desire was to enter the navy, but I was rejected +on account of my eyes." + +Involuntarily she looked into his eyes: small, deep-set eyes, the +colour of which she could not determine. She thought they looked sly +and cunning. + +"I have always regretted it," he continued. "I am a man of action. I am +always longing for action. I console myself as best I can with sport." + +"Sport?" she repeated, coldly. + +"Yes." + +"Oh!" + +"Quaerts is a Nimrod and a Centaur and a Hercules rolled into one, +aren't you, Quaerts?" said Jules. + +"Ah, so you're 'naming' me!" said Quaerts, with a laugh. "Where do +you really 'class' me?" + +"Among the very few people that I really like!" the boy answered, +ardently and without hesitation. "Taco, when are you going to teach +me to ride?" + +"Whenever you like, my son." + +"Yes, but you must fix the day for us to go to the riding-school. I +won't fix a day; I hate fixing days." + +"Well, shall we say to-morrow? To-morrow will be Wednesday." + +"Very well." + +Cecile noticed that Jules was still staring at her. She looked at +him back. How was it possible that the boy could like this man! How +was it possible that it irritated her and not him, all that health, +that strength, that power of muscle and rage of sport! She could +make nothing of it; she understood neither Quaerts nor Jules; and +she herself drifted away again into that mood of half-consciousness, +in which she did not know what she thought nor what at that very +moment she might say, in which she seemed to be lost and wandering +in search of herself. + +She rose, tall, slender and frail in her crape, like a queen who +mourns, with little touches of gold in her flaxen hair, where a small +jet aigrette glittered like a black mirror. + +"I'm going to see who's winning," she said and moved to the card-table +in the other room. + +She stood behind Mrs. Hoze, appeared to be interested in the game; but +across the light of the candles she peered at Quaerts and Jules. She +saw them talking together, softly, confidentially, Jules with his +arm on Quaerts' knee. She saw Jules looking up, as if in adoration, +into the face of this man; and then the boy suddenly threw his arms +around his friend in a wild embrace, while the other pushed him away +with a patient gesture. + + + + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +1 + +Next evening, Cecile revelled even more than usual in the luxury of +being able to stay at home. + +It was after dinner; she was sitting on the sofa in her little +boudoir with Dolf and Christie, an arm thrown round each of them, +sitting between them, so young, like an elder sister. In her low +voice she was telling them: + +"Judah came near to him, and said, O my Lord, let me abide a bondman +instead of the lad. For our father, who is such an old man, said to +us, when we left with Benjamin, My son Joseph I have already lost; +surely he is torn in pieces by the wild beasts. And if ye take this +also from me and mischief befall him, ye shall bring down my grey hairs +with sorrow to the grave. Then (Judah said) I said to our father that I +would be surety for the lad and that I should bear the blame if I did +not bring Benjamin home again. And therefore I pray thee, O my lord, +let me abide a bondman, and let the lad go up with his brethren. For +how shall I go up to my father if the lad be not with me?..." + +"And Joseph, mamma, what did Joseph say?" asked Christie. + +He had nestled closely against his mother, this poor little +slender fellow of six, with his fine golden hair and his eyes of +pale forget-me-not blue; and his little fingers hooked themselves +nervously into Cecile's gown, rumpling the crape. + +"Then Joseph could not refrain himself before all them that stood +by him and he caused every man to leave him. And Joseph made himself +known unto his brethren. And he wept aloud and said, I am Joseph." + +But Cecile could not continue the story, for Christie had thrown +himself on her neck in a frenzy of despair and she heard him sobbing +against her. + +"Christie! Darling!" + +She was greatly distressed; she had grown interested in her own +recital and had not noticed Christie's excitement; and now he was +sobbing against her in such violent grief that she could find no word +to quiet him, to comfort him, to tell him that it ended happily. + +"But, Christie, don't cry, don't cry! It ends happily." + +"And Benjamin, what about Benjamin?" + +"Benjamin returned to his father; and Jacob went down into Egypt to +live with Joseph." + +The child raised his wet face from her shoulder and looked at her +deliberately: + +"Was it really like that? Or are you only making it up?" + +"No, really, darling. Don't, don't cry any more...." + +Christie grew calmer, but he was evidently disappointed. He was not +satisfied with the end of the story; and yet it was very pretty like +that, much prettier than if Joseph had been angry and put Benjamin +in prison. + +"What a baby, Christie, to go crying like that!" said Dolf. "Why, +it's only a story." + +Cecile did not reply that the story had really happened, because +it was in the Bible. She had suddenly become very sad, in doubt +of herself. She fondly dried the child's sad eyes with her +pocket-handkerchief: + +"And now, children, bed! It's late!" she said, faintly. + +She put them to bed, a ceremony which lasted a long time; a ceremony +with an elaborate ritual of undressing, washing, saying of prayers, +tucking in and kissing. + + + + +2 + +When, an hour later, she was sitting downstairs again alone, she +realized for the first time how sad she felt. + +Ah, no, she did not know! Amélie was quite right: one never knew +anything, never! She had been so happy that day; she had found herself +again, deep in the recesses of her secret self, in the essence of +her soul; all day she had seen her dreams hovering about her as an +apotheosis; all day she had felt within her that consuming love of her +children. She had told them stories out of the Bible after dinner; +and suddenly, when Christie began to cry, a doubt had arisen within +her. Was she really good to her little boys? Did she not, in her +love, in the tenderness of her affection for them, spoil and weaken +them? Would she not end by utterly unfitting them for practical life, +with which she did not come into contact, but in which the children, +when they grew up, would have to move? It flashed through her mind: +parting, boarding-schools, her children estranged from her, coming home +big, rough boys, smoking and swearing, with cynicism on their lips and +in their hearts: lips which would no longer kiss her, hearts in which +she would no longer have a place. She pictured them already with the +swagger of their seventeen or eighteen years, tramping across her rooms +in their cadet's and midshipman's uniforms, with broad shoulders and a +hard laugh, flicking the ash from their cigars upon the carpet.... Why +did Quaerts' image suddenly rise up in the midst of this cruelty? Was +it chance or a logical consequence? She could not analyse it; she +could not explain the presence of this man, rising up through her +grief in his atmosphere of antipathy. But she felt sad, sad, sad, as +she had not felt sad since Van Even's death; not vaguely melancholy, +as she so often felt, but sad, undoubtedly sorrowful at the thought +of what must come.... Oh! to have to part with her children! And then, +to be alone.... Loneliness, everlasting loneliness! Loneliness within +herself: that feeling of which Jules had such a dread! Withdrawn +from the world which had no charm for her, sinking away alone into +emptiness! She was thirty, she was old, an old woman. Her house would +be empty, her heart empty! Dreams, clouds of dreaming, which fly away, +which lift like smoke, revealing only emptiness. Emptiness, emptiness, +emptiness! The word each time fell hollowly, with hammer strokes, +upon her breast. Emptiness, emptiness!... + +"Why am I like this?" she asked herself. "What ails me? What has +altered?" + +Never had she felt that word emptiness throb within her in this way: +that very afternoon she had been gently happy, as usual. And now! She +saw nothing before her: no future, no life, nothing but one great +darkness. Estranged from her children, alone within herself.... + +She rose with a little moan of pain and walked across the boudoir. The +discreet twilight troubled her, oppressed her. She turned the key of +the lace-covered lamp: a golden gleam crept over the rose folds of +the silk curtains like glistening water. A strange coolness wafted +away something of that scent of violets which hung about everything. A +fire burned on the hearth, but she felt cold. + +She stopped beside the low table; she took up a visiting-card, with +one corner turned down, and read: + +"T. H. Quaerts." + +There was a five-balled coronet above the name. + +"Quaerts!" + +How short it sounded! A name like the smack of a hard hand. There +was something bad, something cruel in the name: + +"Quaerts, Quaerts!..." + +She threw down the bit of pasteboard, was angry with herself. She +felt cold and not herself, just as she had felt at the Van Attemas' +last evening: + +"I will not go out again. Never again, never!" she said, almost +aloud. "I am so contented in my own house, so contented with my life, +so beautifully happy.... That card! Why should he leave a card? What +do I want with his card?..." + +She sat down at her writing-table and opened her blotting-book. She +thought of finishing a half-written letter to India; but she was in +quite a different mood from when she had begun it. So she took from +a drawer a thick manuscript-book, her diary. She wrote the date, +then reflected a moment, tapping her teeth nervously with the silver +penholder.... + +But then, with a little ill-tempered gesture, she threw down the pen, +pushed the book aside and, letting her head fall into her hands on +the blotting-book, sobbed aloud. + + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +1 + +Cecile was astonished at her unusually long fit of abstraction, that +it should continue for days before she returned to her usual condition +of serenity, the delightful abode from which she had involuntarily +wandered. But she compelled herself, with gentle compulsion, to recover +the treasures of her loneliness; and she ended by recovering them. She +argued with herself that it would be some years before she would +have to part from Dolf and Christie: there was time enough to grow +accustomed to the idea of separation. Besides, nothing had altered +either about her or within her; and so she let the days glide slowly +over her, like gently flowing water. + +In this way, gently flowing by, a fortnight had elapsed since the +evening which she spent at Dolf's. It was a Saturday afternoon; she +had been working with the children--she still taught them herself--and +she had walked out with them; and now she was sitting in her favourite +room waiting for the Van Attemas, who came to tea every Saturday at +half-past four. She rang for the servant, who lighted the blue flame +of methylated spirit. Dolf and Christie were with her; they sat upon +the floor on footstools, cutting the pages of a children's magazine +to which Cecile subscribed for them. They were sitting quietly, +looking very good and well-bred, like children who grow up in soft +surroundings, in the midst of too much refinement, too pale, with hair +too long and too fair, Christie especially, whose little temples were +veined as if with azure blood. Cecile stepped by them as she went +to glance over the tea-table; and the look which she cast upon them +wrapped the children in a warm embrace of devotion. She was in her +calmly happy mood: it was so pleasant to think that she would soon +see the Van Attemas come in. She liked these hours of the afternoon, +when her silver tea-kettle hissed over the blue flame. An exquisite +intimacy filled the room; she had in her long, shapely feminine fingers +that special power of witchery, that gentle art of handling by which +everything over which they merely glided acquired a look of herself, +an indefinable something, of tint, of position, of light, which the +things had not until the touch of those fingers came across them. + +There was a ring. She thought it rather early for the Van Attemas, +but she rarely saw any one else in her seclusion from the outer world; +therefore it must be they. In a second or two, however, Greta entered, +with a card: was mevrouw at home and could the gentleman see her? + +Cecile recognized the card from a distance: she had seen one like it +lately. Nevertheless she took it up, glanced at it discontentedly, +with drawn eyebrows. + +What an idea, she reflected. Why did he do it? What did it mean? + +But she thought it unnecessary to be impolite and refuse to see +him. After all, he was a friend of Dolf's. But such persistence.... + +"Show meneer in," she said, calmly. + +Greta went; and it seemed to Cecile as though something trembled in +the intimacy which filled the room, as if the objects over which +her fingers had just passed took on another aspect, a look of +shuddering. But Dolf and Christie had not changed; they were still +sitting looking at the pictures, with occasional remarks falling +softly from their lips. + + + + +2 + +The door opened and Quaerts entered the room. As he bowed to Cecile, +he had his air of shyness in still greater measure than before. To +her this air was incomprehensible in him, who seemed so strong, +so determined. + +"I hope you will not think me indiscreet, mevrouw, in taking the +liberty to come and call on you." + +"On the contrary, Mr. Quaerts," she said, coldly. "Pray sit down." + +He took a chair and placed his tall hat on the floor beside him: + +"I am not disturbing you, mevrouw?" + +"Not in the least; I am expecting Mrs. van Attema and her +daughters. You were so kind as to leave a card on me; but, as I dare +say you know, I see nobody." + +"I knew that, mevrouw. Perhaps it is to that very reason that you +owe the indiscretion of my visit." + +She looked at him coldly, politely, smilingly. There was a feeling +of irritation in her. She felt inclined to ask him bluntly what he +wanted with her. + +"How so?" she asked, with her mannerly smile, which converted her +face into a mask. + +"I was afraid that I might not see you for a very long time; and I +should consider it a great privilege to be allowed to know you better." + +His tone was in the highest degree respectful. She raised her eyebrows, +as if she did not understand; but the accent of his voice was so +very courteous that she could not even find a cold word with which +to answer him. + +"Are these your two children?" he asked, with a glance towards Dolf +and Christie. + +"Yes," she replied. "Get up, boys, and shake hands with meneer." + +The children approached timidly and put out their little hands. He +smiled, looked at them penetratingly with his small, deep-set eyes +and drew them to him: + +"Am I mistaken, or is the little one very like you?" + +"They both resemble their father," she replied. + +It seemed to her she had set a protecting shield around herself, +from which the children were excluded, within which she found it +impossible to draw them. It troubled her that he was holding them so +tight, that he looked at them as he did. + +But he released them; and they went back to their little stools, +gentle, quiet, well-behaved. + +"Yet they both have something of you," he insisted. + +"Possibly," she said. + +"Mevrouw," he resumed, as if he had something important to say to her, +"I wish to ask you a direct question: tell me honestly, quite honestly, +do you think me indiscreet?" + +"For calling to see me? No, I assure you, Mr. Quaerts. It is very +kind of you. Only ... if I may be candid ..." + +She gave a little laugh. + +"Of course," he said. + +"Then I will confess that I fear you will find little in my house to +amuse you. I never see people...." + +"I have not called on you for the sake of the people I might meet at +your house." + +She bowed, smiling, as if he had paid her a compliment: + +"Of course I am very pleased to see you. You are a great friend of +Dolf's, are you not?" + +She tried each time to say something different from what she actually +did say, to speak more coldly, more aggressively; but she had too +much breeding and could not bring herself to do it. + +"Yes," he replied, "Dolf and I have known each other ever so long. We +have always been great friends, though we are quite unlike." + +"I'm very fond of him; he's always very kind to us." + +She saw him look at the low table and smile. A few reviews were +scattered on it, a book or two. On the top of these lay a little +volume of Emerson's essays, with a paper-cutter marking the page. + +"You told me you were not a great reader!" he said, mischievously. "I +should think ..." + +And he pointed to the books. + +"Oh," said she, carelessly, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, +"a little...." + +She thought him very tiresome: why should he remark that she had +hidden herself from him? Why, indeed, had she hidden herself from him? + +"Emerson!" he read, bending forward a little. "Forgive me," he added +quickly. "I have no right to spy upon your pursuits. But the print +is so large; I read it from here." + +"You are far-sighted?" she asked, laughing. + +"Yes." + +His courtesy, a certain respectfulness, as if he would not venture +to touch the tips of her fingers, placed her more at her ease. She +still disliked him, but there was no harm in his knowing what she read. + +"Are you fond of reading?" asked Cecile. + +"I do not read much: it is too great a delight for that; nor do I +read everything that appears. I am too hard to please." + +"Do you know Emerson?" + +"No...." + +"I like his essays very much. They are written with such a wide +outlook. They place one on such a deliciously exalted level...." + +She suited her phrase with an expansive gesture; and her eyes +lighted up. + +Then she observed that he was following her attentively, with his +respectfulness. And she recovered herself; she no longer wanted to +talk to him about Emerson. + +"It is very fine indeed," was all she said, to close the conversation, +in the most commonplace voice that she was able to assume. "May I +give you some tea?" + +"No, thank you, mevrouw; I never take tea at this time." + +"Do you look upon it with so much scorn?" she asked, jestingly. + +He was about to answer, when there was a ring at the bell; and +she cried: + +"Ah, here they are!" + +Amélie entered, with Suzette and Anna. They were a little surprised +to see Quaerts. He said he had wanted to call on Mrs. van Even. The +conversation became general. Suzette was very merry, full of a +fancy-fair, at which she was going to assist, in a Spanish costume. + +"And you, Anna?" + +"Oh, no, Auntie!" said Anna, shrinking together with fright. "Imagine +me at a fancy-fair! I should never sell anybody anything." + +"Ah, it's a gift!" said Amélie, with a far-away look. + +Quaerts rose: he was bowing with a single word to Cecile, when the +door opened. Jules came in, with some books under his arm, on his +way home from school. + +"How do you do, Auntie? Hallo, Taco, are you going just as I arrive?" + +"You drive me away," said Quaerts, laughing. + +"Oh, Taco, do stay a little longer!" begged Jules, enraptured to see +him and lamenting that he had chosen just this moment to leave. + +"Jules, Jules!" cried Amélie, thinking it was the proper thing to do. + +Jules pressed Quaerts, took his two hands, forced him, like a spoilt +child. Quaerts only laughed. Jules in his excitement knocked a book +or two off the table. + +"Jules, be quiet, do!" cried Amélie. + +Quaerts picked up the books, while Jules persisted in his bad +behaviour. As Quaerts replaced the last book, he hesitated a moment; +he held it in his hand, looked at the gold lettering: "Emerson." + +Cecile watched him: + +"If he thinks I'm going to lend it him, he's mistaken," she thought. + +But Quaerts asked nothing: he had released himself from Jules and +said good-bye. With a quip at Jules he left. + + + + +3 + +"Is this the first time he has been to see you?" asked Amélie. + +"Yes," replied Cecile. "An uncalled-for civility, don't you think?" + +"Taco Quaerts is always very correct in matters of etiquette," said +Anna, defending him. + +"Still, this visit was hardly a matter of etiquette," said Cecile, +laughing merrily. "But Taco Quaerts seems to be quite infallible in +the eyes of all of you." + +"He waltzes divinely!" cried Suzette. "The other day, at the Eekhofs' +dance...." + +Suzette chattered on; there was no restraining Suzette that afternoon; +she seemed already to hear the castanets rattling in her little brain. + +Jules had a peevish fit on him, but he remained quietly at a window, +with the boys. + +"You don't much care about Quaerts, do you, Auntie?" asked Anna. + +"I don't find him attractive," said Cecile. "You know, I am easily +influenced by my first impressions. I can't help it, but I don't like +those very healthy, robust people, who look so strong and manly, as if +they walked straight through life, clearing away everything that stands +in their way. It may be morbid of me, but I can't help it; I always +dislike any excessive display of health and physical force. Those +strong people look upon others who are not so strong as themselves +much as the Spartans used to look upon their deformed children." + +Jules could control himself no longer: + +"If you think that Taco is no better than a Spartan, you know nothing +at all about him," he said, fiercely. + +Cecile looked at him, but, before Amélie could interpose, he continued: + +"Taco is the only person with whom I can talk about music and who +understands every word I say. And I don't believe I could talk with +a Spartan." + +"Jules, how rude you are!" cried Suzette. + +"I don't care!" he exclaimed, furiously, rising suddenly and stamping +his foot. "I don't care! I won't hear Taco abused; and Aunt Cecile +knows it and only does it to tease me. And I think it very mean to +tease a boy, very mean...." + +His mother and sisters tried to bring him to reason with their +authority. But he caught up his books: + +"I don't care! I won't have it!" + +He was gone in a moment, furious, slamming the door, which groaned +with the shock. Amélie was trembling in every nerve: + +Oh, that boy!" she hissed out, shivering. "That Jules, that Jules!..." + +"It's nothing," said Cecile, gently, excusing him. "He is just a +little excitable...." + +She had turned rather paler and glanced at her boys, Dolf and Christie, +who had looked up in dismay, their mouths wide open with astonishment. + +"Is Jules naughty, mamma?" asked Christie. + +She shook her head, smiling. She felt a strange, an unspeakably strange +weariness. She did not know what it meant; but it seemed to her as if +very distant vistas were opening before her eyes and fading into the +horizon, pale, in a great light. Nor did she know what this meant; +but she was not angry with Jules and it seemed to her as if he had +lost his temper, not with her, but with somebody else. A sense of the +enigmatical depth of life, the soul's unconscious mystery, like to +a fair, bright endlessness, a far-away silvery light, shot through +her in silent rapture. + +Then she laughed: + +"Jules is so nice," she said, "when he gets excited." + +Anna and Suzette, upset at the incident, played with the boys, looking +over their picture-books. Cecile spoke only to her sister. But Amélie's +nerves were still quivering. + +"How can you defend those ways of Jules'?" she asked, in a choking +voice. + +"I think it nice of him to stand up for people he likes. Don't you +think so too?" + +Amélie grew calmer. Why should she be put out if Cecile was not? + +"I dare say," she replied. "I don't know. He has a good heart I +believe, but he is so unmanageable. But, who knows, perhaps it's my +fault: if I understood things better, if I had more tact...." + +She grew confused; she sought for something more to say and found +nothing, wandering like a stranger through her own thoughts. Then, +suddenly, as if struck by a ray of certain knowledge, she said: + +"But Jules is not stupid. He has a good eye for all sorts of things +and for persons too. Personally, I think you judge Taco Quaerts +wrongly. He is a very interesting man and a great deal more than a +mere sportsman. I don't know what it is, but there's something about +him different from other people, I can't say exactly what...." + +She was silent, seeking, groping. + +"I wish Jules got on better at school. As I say, he is not stupid, but +he learns nothing. He has been two years now in the third class. The +boy has no application. He makes me despair of him." + +She was silent again; and Cecile also did not speak. + +"Ah," said Amélie, "I dare say it is not his fault! Very likely it +is my fault. Perhaps he takes after me...." + +She looked straight before her: sudden, irrepressible tears filled +her eyes and fell into her lap. + +"Amy, what's the matter?" asked Cecile, kindly. + +But Amélie had risen, so that the girls, who were still playing +with the children, might not see her tears. She could not restrain +them, they streamed down and she hurried away into the adjoining +drawing-room, a big room in which Cecile never sat. + +"What's the matter, Amy?" Cecile repeated. + +She had followed Amélie out and now threw her arms about her, made +her sit down, pressed Amélie's head against her shoulder. + +"How do I know what it is?" Amélie sobbed. "I don't know, I don't +know.... I am wretched because of that feeling in my head. It is more +than I can bear sometimes. After all, I am not mad, am I? Really, +I don't feel mad, or as if I were going mad! But I feel sometimes +as if everything had gone wrong in my head, as if I couldn't +think. Everything runs through my brain. It's a terrible feeling!" + +"Why don't you see a doctor?" asked Cecile. + +"No, no, he might tell me I was mad; and I'm not. He might try to +send me to an asylum. No, I won't see a doctor. I have every reason +to be happy otherwise, have I not? I have a kind husband and dear +children; I have never had any great sorrow. And yet I sometimes +feel profoundly miserable, desperately miserable! It is always as if +I wanted to reach some place and could not succeed. It is always as +if I were hemmed in...." + +She sobbed violently; a storm of tears rained down her face. Cecile's +eyes, too, were moist; she liked her sister, she felt sorry for +her. Amélie was only ten years older than she; and already she had +something of an old woman about her, something withered and shrunken, +with her hair growing grey at the temples, under her veil. + +"Cecile, tell me, Cecile," she said, suddenly, through her sobs, +"do you believe in God?" + +"Why, of course I do, Amy!" + +"I used to go to church sometimes, but it was no use.... And I've +stopped going.... Oh, I am so unhappy! It is very ungrateful of me. I +have so much to be grateful for.... Do you know, sometimes I feel as +if I should like to go to God at once, all at once, just like that!" + +"Come, Amy, don't excite yourself so." + +"Ah, I wish I were like you, so calm! Do you feel happy?" + +Cecile smiled and nodded. Amélie sighed; she remained lying for a +moment with her head against her sister's shoulder. Cecile kissed her, +but suddenly Amélie started: + +"Be careful," she whispered, "the girls might come in. There +... there's no need for them to see that I've been crying." + +Rising, she arranged her hat before the looking-glass, carefully +dried her veil with her handkerchief: + +"There, now they won't know," she said. "Let's go in again. I am +quite calm. You're a dear thing...." + +They went back to the boudoir: + +"Come, girls, it's time to go home," said Amélie, in a voice which +was still a little unsettled. + +"Have you been crying, Mamma?" Suzette at once asked. + +"Mamma was a bit upset about Jules," said Cecile, quickly. + + + + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +Cecile was alone; the children had gone upstairs to tidy themselves +for dinner. She tried to get back her distant vistas, fading into +the pale horizon; she tried to recover the silvery endlessness which +had shot through her as a vision of light. But instead her brain was +all awhirl with a kaleidoscope of very recent petty memories: the +children, Quaerts, Emerson, Jules, Suzette, Amélie. How strange, how +strange life was!... The outer life; the coming and going of people +about us; the sounds of words which they utter in strange accents; +the endless interchange of phenomena; the concatenation of those +phenomena, one with the other; strange, too, the presence of a soul +somewhere inside us, like a god within us, never to be known in our own +essence. Often, as indeed now, it seemed to Cecile that all things, +even the most commonplace things, were strange, very strange, as if +nothing in the world were absolutely commonplace, as if everything +were strange: the strange form and outward expression of a deeper +life that lies hidden behind everything, even the meanest objects; +as if everything displayed itself under an appearance, a mask of +pretence, while the reality, the very truth, lay underneath. How +strange, how strange life was!... For it seemed to her as if she, +under that very usual afternoon tea, had seen something very unusual; +she did not know what, she could not express it nor even think it +thoroughly; it seemed to her as if beneath the coming and going of +those people something had glittered: a reality, an ultimate truth +under the appearance of that casual afternoon tea. + +"What is it? What is it?" she wondered. "Am I deluding myself, or is +it so? I feel that it is so...." + +It was all very vague and yet so very clear.... It seemed to her +as though there were a vision, a haze of light behind all that had +happened there, behind Amélie and Jules and Quaerts and the book +which he had picked up from the floor and held in his hand for a +moment.... Did that vision, that haze of light mean anything, or.... + +But she shook her head: + +"I am dreaming, I am giving way to fancy," she laughed, within +herself. "It was all very simple; I only make it complex because it +amuses me to do so." + +But she had no sooner thought this than she felt something which +denied the thought absolutely, an intuition which should have made +her guess the essence of the truth, but did not quite succeed. Surely +there was something, something behind it all, hiding away, lurking +as the shadow lurked behind the thing; and the shadow appeared to +her as a vision and haze of light.... + +Her thoughts still wandered over all those people and finally halted +at Taco Quaerts. She saw him sitting there again, bending slightly +forward in her direction, his hands folded and hanging between his +knees, as he looked up to her. A barrier of aversion had stood between +them like an iron bar. She saw him sitting there again, though he was +gone. That again was past: how quickly everything moved; how small +was the speck of the present! + +She rose, sat down at her writing-table and wrote: + + +"Beneath me flows the sea of the past; above me drifts the ether +of the future; and I stand midway upon the one speck of reality, +so small that I must press my feet firmly together lest I lose my +hold. And from the speck of the present my sorrow looks down upon +the sea and my longing up to the sky. + +"It is scarcely life to stand upon this speck, so small that I hardly +appreciate it, hardly feel it beneath my feet; and yet to me it is the +one reality. I am not greatly occupied about it: my eyes only follow +the rippling of those waves towards distant horizons, the gliding of +those clouds towards distant spheres, vague manifestations of endless +change, translucent ephemeras, visible incorporeities. The present +is the only thing that is, or rather that seems to be. The speck is, +or at least appears to be, but not the sea below nor the sky above, +for the sea is but a memory and the air but an illusion. Yet memory +and illusion are everything: they are the wide inheritance of the +soul, which alone can escape from the speck of the moment to float +upon the sea towards the horizons which retreat, to drift upon the +clouds towards the spheres which retreat and retreat...." + + +Then she reflected. How was it that she had written all this and +why? How had she come to write it? She went back upon her thoughts: +the present, the speck of the present, which was so small.... Quaerts, +Quaerts' very attitude, rising up before her just now. Was he in any +way concerned with her writing down those sentences? The past a sorrow; +the future an illusion.... Why, why illusion? + +"And Jules, who likes him," she thought. "And Amélie, who spoke of him +... but she knows nothing.... What is there in him, what lurks behind +him: his visionary image? Why did he come here? Why do I dislike him +so? Do I dislike him? I cannot see into his eyes...." + +She would have liked to do this once; she would have liked to make +sure that she disliked him or that she did not: one or the other. She +was curious to see him once more, to know what she would think and +feel about him then.... + +She had risen from her writing-table and now lay at full length on +the sofa, with her arms folded behind her head. She no longer knew +what she dreamt, but she felt peacefully happy. She heard Dolf and +Christie come down the stairs. They came in, it was dinner-time. + +"Jules was really naughty just now, wasn't he, Mummy?" Christie asked +again, with a grave face. + +She drew the frail little fellow gently to her, took him tightly in +her arms and fondly kissed his moist, pale-raspberry lips: + +"No, really not, darling!" she said. "He wasn't naughty, really...." + + + + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +1 + +Cecile passed through the long hall, which was almost a gallery: +footmen stood on either side of the hangings; a hum of voices came +from behind. The train of her dress rustled against the leaves of +a palm; and the sound gave a sudden jar to the strung cords of her +sensitiveness. She was a little nervous; her eyelids quivered slightly +and her mouth had a very earnest fold. + +She walked in; there was much light, but soft light, the light +of candles only. Two officers stepped aside for her as she stood +hesitating. Her eyes glanced round in search of Mrs. Hoze; she saw +her standing among two or three of her guests, with her grey hair, her +kindly and yet haughty face, rosy and smooth, almost without a wrinkle. + +Mrs. Hoze came towards her: + +"I can't tell you how charming I think it of you not to have played me +false!" she said, pressing Cecile's hand with effusive and hospitable +urbanity. + +She introduced people to Cecile here and there; Cecile heard names +the sound of which at once escaped her. + +"General, allow me ... Mrs. van Even," Mrs. Hoze whispered and left +her, to speak to some one else. + +Cecile drew a deep breath, pressed her hand to the edge of her bodice, +as though to arrange something that had slipped from its place, +answered the general cursorily. She was very pale; and her eyelids +quivered more and more. She ventured to throw a glance round the room. + +She stood next to the general, forcing herself to listen, so as not to +give answers that would sound strikingly foolish. She was very tall, +slender, and straight, with her shoulders, white as sunlit marble, +blossoming out of a sombre vase of black: fine, black, trailing +tulle, sprinkled all over with small jet spangles; glittering black +on dull transparent black. A girdle with tassels of jet, hanging low, +was wound about her waist. So she stood, blonde: blonde and black; +a little sombre amid the warmth and light of other toilettes; and, +for unique relief, two diamonds in her ears, like dewdrops. + +Her thin suêde-covered fingers trembled as she manipulated her fan, +a black tulle transparency, on which the same jet spangles glittered +with black lustre. Her breath came short behind the strokes of +the diaphanous fan as she talked with the general, a spare, bald, +distinguished-looking man, not in uniform, but wearing his decorations. + +Mrs. Hoze's guests walked about, greeting one another here and there, +with a continuous hum of voices. Cecile saw Taco Quaerts come up to +her; he bowed before her; she bowed coldly in return, not offering +him her hand. He lingered by her for a moment, spoke a word or two +and then passed on, greeting other acquaintances. + +Mrs. Hoze had taken the arm of an old gentleman; a procession formed +slowly. The servants threw back the doors; a table glittered beyond, +half-visible. The general offered Cecile his arm, as she stood looking +behind her with a listless turn of her neck. She closed her eyelids +for a second, to prevent their quivering. Her brows contracted with +a sense of disappointment; but smilingly she laid the tips of her +fingers on the general's arm and with her closed fan smoothed away +a crease from the tulle of her train. + + + + +2 + +When Cecile was seated she found Quaerts sitting on her right. Then +her disappointment vanished, the disappointment which she had felt +at not being taken in to dinner by him; but her look remained cold, +as usual. And yet she had what she wished; the expectation with which +she had come to this dinner was fulfilled. Mrs. Hoze had seen Cecile +at the Van Attemas' and had gladly undertaken to restore the young +widow to society. Cecile knew that Quaerts was a frequent visitor +at Mrs. Hoze's; she had heard from Amélie that he was invited to +the dinner; and she had accepted. That Mrs. Hoze, remembering that +Cecile had met Quaerts before, had placed him next to her was easy +to understand. + +Cecile was very inquisitive about herself. How would she feel? At +least interested: she could not disguise that from herself. She was +certainly interested in him, remembering what Jules had said, what +Amélie had said. She already felt that behind the mere sportsman there +lurked another, whom she longed to know. Why should she? What concern +was it of hers? She could not tell; but, in any case, as a matter of +curiosity, as a puzzle, it awoke her interest. And, at the same time, +she remained on her guard, for she did not think that his visit to +her was strictly in order; and there were stories in which the name +of that married woman was coupled with his. + +She succeeded in freeing herself from her conversation with the +general, who seemed to feel called upon to entertain her, and it was +she who spoke first to Quaerts: + +"Have you begun to give Jules his riding-lessons?" she asked, with +a smile. + +He looked at her, evidently a little surprised at her voice and her +smile, which were both new to him. He returned a bare answer: + +"Yes, mevrouw, we were at the riding-school yesterday...." + +She at once thought him clumsy, to let the conversation drop like that; +but he enquired with that slight shyness which became a charm in him +who was so manly: + +"So you are going out again, mevrouw?" + +She thought--she had indeed thought so before--that his questions +were sometimes questions which people do not ask. This was one of +the strange things about him. + +"Yes," she replied, simply, not knowing what else to say. + +"Forgive me," he said, seeing that his words had embarrassed her a +little. "I asked, because ..." + +"Because?" she echoed, with wide-open eyes. + +He took courage and explained: + +"When Dolf spoke of you, he used always to say that you lived so +quietly.... And I could never picture you to myself returning to +society, mixing with many people; I had formed an idea of you; and +it now seems that this idea was a mistaken one." + +"An idea?" she asked. "What idea?" + +"Perhaps you will be angry when I tell you. Perhaps, even as it is, +you are none too well pleased with me!" he replied, jestingly. + +"I have not the slightest reason to be either pleased or displeased +with you," she jested in return. "But tell me, what was your idea?" + +"Then you are interested in it?" + +"If you will answer candidly, yes. But you must be candid!" and she +threatened him with her finger. + +"Well," he began, "I thought of you as a very cultured woman, as a +very interesting woman--I still think all that--and ... as a woman who +cared nothing for the world beyond her own sphere; and this ... this +I can no longer think. And I feel almost inclined to say, at the risk +of your looking on me as very strange, that I am sorry no longer to +be able to think of you in that way. I would almost rather not have +met you here...." + +He laughed, to soften what might sound strange in his words. She looked +at him, her eyelashes flickering with amazement, her lips half-opened; +and suddenly it struck her that she was looking into his eyes for +the first time. She looked into his eyes and saw that they were a +dark, very dark grey around the black depth of the pupil. There was +something in his eyes, she could not say what, but something magnetic, +as though she could never again take away her own from them. + +"How strange you can be sometimes!" she said mechanically: the words +came intuitively. + +"Oh, please don't be angry!" he almost implored her. "I was so glad +when you spoke kindly to me. You were a little distant to me when I +saw you last; and I should be so sorry if I put you out. Perhaps I am +strange, but how could I possibly be commonplace with you? How could I +possibly, even if you were to take offence?... Have you taken offence?" + +"I ought to, but I suppose I must forgive you, if only for your +candour!" she said, laughing. "Otherwise your remarks were anything +but gallant." + +"And yet I did not mean it ungallantly." + +"Oh, no doubt!" she jested. + +She remembered that she was at a big dinner-party. The guests ranged +before and around her; the footmen waiting behind; the light of the +candles gleaming on the silver and touching the glass with all the +hues of the rainbow; on the table prone mirrors, like sheets of water +surrounded by flowers, little lakes amidst moss-roses and lilies of the +valley. She sat silent a moment, still smiling, looking at her hand, +a pretty hand, like a white precious thing upon the tulle of her gown: +one of the fingers bore several rings, scintillating sparks of blue +and white. + +The general turned to her again; they exchanged a few words; the +general was delighted that Mrs. van Even's right-hand neighbour was +keeping her entertained and enabling him to get on quietly with his +dinner. Quaerts turned to the lady on his right. + +Both of them were glad when they were able to resume their +conversation: + +"What were we talking about just now?" she asked. + +"I know!" he replied, mischievously. + +"The general interrupted us." + +"You were not angry with me!" he jested. + +"Oh, of course," she replied, laughing softly, "it was about your +idea of me, was it not? Why could you no longer picture me returning +to society?" + +"I thought that you had become a person apart." + +"But why?" + +"From what Dolf said, from what I myself thought, when I saw you." + +"And why are you now sorry that I am not 'a person apart,' as you +call it?" she asked, still laughing. + +"From vanity; because I made a mistake. And yet perhaps I have not +made a mistake...." + +They looked at each other; and both of them, although each thought it +in a different way, now thought the same thing, namely, that they must +be careful with their words, because they were speaking of something +very delicate and tender, something as frail as a soap-bubble, which +could easily break if they spoke of it too loudly; the mere breath +of their words might be sufficient. Yet she ventured to ask: + +"And why ... do you believe ... that perhaps ... you are not mistaken?" + +"I don't quite know. Perhaps because I wish it so. Perhaps, too, +because it is so true as to leave no room for doubt. Oh, yes, I am +almost sure that I judged rightly! Do you know why? Because otherwise +I should have hidden myself and been commonplace; and I find this +impossible with you. I have given you more of myself in this short +moment than I have given people whom I have known for years in the +course of all those years. Therefore surely you must be a person +apart." + +"What do you mean by 'a person apart'?" + +He smiled, he opened his eyes; she looked into them again, deeply. + +"You understand, surely!" he said. + +Fear for the delicate thing that might break came between them +again. They understood each other as with a freemasonry of feeling. Her +eyes were magnetically held upon his. + +"You are very strange!" she again said, automatically. + +"No," he said, calmly, shaking his head, with his eyes in hers. "I +am certain that I am not strange to you, even though you may think +so for the moment." + +She was silent. + +"I am so glad to be able to talk to you like this!" he whispered. "It +makes me very happy. And see, no one knows anything of it. We are +at a big dinner; the people next to us can even catch our words; +and yet there is not one among them who understands us or grasps the +subject of our conversation. Do you know the reason?" + +"No," she murmured. + +"I will tell you; at least, I think it is like this. Perhaps you +know better, for you must know things better than I, you are so much +subtler. I personally believe that each person has a circle about +him, an atmosphere, and that he meets other people who have circles +or atmospheres about them, sympathetic or antipathetic to his own." + +"This is pure mysticism!" she said. + +"No," he replied, "it is quite simple. When the two circles are +antipathetic, each repels the other; but, when they are sympathetic, +they glide and overlap in smaller or larger curves of sympathy. In +some cases the circles almost coincide, but they always remain +separate.... Do you really think this so very mystical?" + +"One might call it the mysticism of sentiment. But ... I have thought +something of the sort myself...." + +"Yes, yes, I can understand that," he continued, calmly, as if he +expected it. "I believe that those around us would not be able to +understand us, because we two alone have sympathetic circles. But +my atmosphere is of a much grosser texture than yours, which is +very delicate." + +She was silent again, remembering her former aversion to him: did +she still feel it? + +"What do you think of my theory?" he asked. + +She looked up; her white fingers trembled in the tulle of her gown. She +made a poor effort to smile: + +"I think you go too far!" she stammered. + +"You think I rush into hyperbole?" + +She would have liked to say yes, but could not: + +"No," she said; "not that." + +"Do I bore you?..." + +She looked at him, looked deep into his eyes. She shook her head, +by way of saying no. She would have liked to say that he was +too unconventional just now; but she could not find the words. A +faintness oppressed her whole being. The table, the people, the whole +dinner-party appeared to her as through a haze of light. When she +recovered herself again, she perceived that a pretty woman opposite had +been staring at her and was now looking away, out of politeness. She +did not know how or why this interested her, but she asked Quaerts: + +"Who is the lady over there, in pale blue, with the dark hair?" + +She saw that he started. + +"That is young Mrs. Hijdrecht!" he said, calmly, a little distantly. + +She too was perturbed; she turned pale; her fan flapped nervously to +and fro in her fingers. + +He had named the woman whom rumour said to be his mistress. + + + + +3 + +It seemed to Cecile as though that delicate, frail thing, that +soap-bubble, had burst. She wondered if he had spoken to that +dark-haired woman also of circles of sympathy. So soon as she was able, +Cecile observed Mrs. Hijdrecht. She had a warm, dull-gold complexion, +dark, glowing eyes, a mouth as of fresh blood. Her dress was cut +very low; her throat and the slope of her breast showed insolently +handsome, brutally luscious. A row of diamonds encompassed her neck +with a narrow line of white flame. + +Cecile felt ill at ease. She felt as if she were playing with fire. She +looked away from the young woman and turned to Quaerts, in obedience +to some magnetic force. She saw a cloud of melancholy stealing over +the upper half of his face, over his forehead and his eyes, which +betrayed a slight look of age. And she heard him say: + +"Now what do you care about that lady's name? We were just in the +middle of such a charming conversation...." + +She too felt sad now, sad because of the soap-bubble that had +burst. She did not know why, but she felt pity for him, a sudden, +deep, intense pity. + +"We can resume our conversation," she said, softly. + +"Ah no, don't let us take it up where we left it!" he rejoined, +with feigned airiness. "I was becoming tedious." + +He spoke of other things. She answered little; and their conversation +languished. They each occupied themselves with their neighbours. The +dinner came to an end. Mrs. Hoze rose, took the arm of the gentleman +beside her. The general escorted Cecile to the drawing-room, in the +slow procession of the others. + + + + +4 + +The ladies remained alone; the men went to the smoking-room with +young Hoze. Cecile saw Mrs. Hoze come towards her. She asked her +if she had not been bored at dinner; they sat down together, in a +confidential tête-à-tête. + +Cecile made the necessary effort to reply to Mrs. Hoze; but she would +have liked to go somewhere and weep quietly, because everything passed +so quickly, because the speck of the present was so small. Gone was +the sweet charm of their conversation during dinner about sympathy, +a fragile intimacy amid the worldly show about them. Gone was that +moment, never, never to return: life sped over it with its constant +flow, as with a torrent of all-obliterating water. Oh, the sorrow +of it, to think how quickly, like an intangible perfume, everything +speeds away, everything that is dear to us!... + +Mrs. Hoze left her; Suzette van Attema came to talk to Cecile. She +was dressed in pink; and she glittered in all her aspect as if +gold-dust had poured all over her, upon her movements, her eyes, +her words. She spoke volubly to Cecile, telling interminable tales, +to which Cecile did not always listen. Suddenly, through Suzette's +prattle, Cecile heard the voices of two women whispering behind her; +she only caught a word here and there: + +"Emilie Hijdrecht, you know...." + +"Only gossip, I think; Mrs. Hoze does not seem to heed it...." + +"Ah, but I know it as a fact!" + +The voices were lost in the hum of the others. Cecile just caught a +sound like Quaerts' name. Then Suzette asked, suddenly: + +"Do you know young Mrs. Hijdrecht, Auntie?" + +"No." + +"Over there, with the diamonds. You know, they talk about her and +Quaerts. Mamma doesn't believe it. At any rate, he's a great flirt. You +sat next to him, didn't you?" + +Cecile suffered severely in her innermost sensitiveness. She shrank +into herself entirely, doing all that she could to appear different +from what she was. Suzette saw nothing of her discomfiture. + +The men returned. Cecile looked to see whether Quaerts would speak +to Mrs. Hijdrecht. But he wholly ignored her presence and even, +when he saw Suzette sitting with Cecile, came over to them to pay a +compliment to Suzette, to whom he had not yet spoken. + +It was a relief to Cecile when she was able to go. She was yearning to +be alone, to recover herself, to return from her abstraction. In her +brougham she scarcely dared breathe, fearful of something, she could +not say what. When she reached home she felt a stifling heaviness +which seemed to paralyse her; and she dragged herself languidly up +the stairs to her dressing-room. + +And yet, on the stairs, there fell over her, as from the roof of +her house, a haze of protecting safety. Slowly she went up, her hand, +holding a long glove, pressing the velvet banister of the stairway. She +felt as if she were about to swoon: + +"But, Heaven help me ... I am fond of him, I love him, I love him!" she +whispered between her trembling lips, in sudden amazement. + +It was as in a rhythm of astonishment that she wearily mounted the +stairs, higher and higher, in a silent surprise of sudden light. + +"But I am fond of him, I love him, I love him!" + +It sounded like a melody through her weariness. + +She reached her dressing-room, where Greta had lighted the gas; she +dragged herself inside. The door of the nursery stood half open; she +went in, threw back the curtain of Christie's little bed, dropped on +her knees and looked at the child. The boy partly awoke, still in the +warmth of a deep sleep; he crept a little from between the sheets, +laughed, threw his arms about Cecile's bare neck: + +"Mummy dear!" + +She pressed him tightly in the embrace of her slender, white arms; +she kissed his raspberry mouth, his drowsed eyes. And meantime the +refrain sang on in her heart, right across the weariness which seemed +to break her by the bedside of her child: + +"But I am fond of him, I love him, I love him, I love him...!" + + + + +5 + +The mystery! Suddenly, on the staircase, it had beamed open before +her in her soul, like a great flower of light, a mystic rose with +glistening petals, into whose golden heart she now looked for the +first time. The analysis to which she was so much inclined was no +longer possible: this was the riddle of love, the eternal riddle, +which had beamed open within her, transfixing with its rays the very +width of her soul, in the midst of which it had burst forth like a +sun in a universe; it was too late to ask the reason why; it was too +late to ponder and dream upon it; it could only be accepted as the +inexplicable phenomenon of the soul; it was a creation of sentiment, +of which the god who created it would be as impossible to find in +the inner essence of his reality as the God who had created the +world out of chaos. It was light breaking forth from darkness; it +was heaven disclosed above the earth. And it existed: it was reality +and not a fairy-tale! For it was wholly and entirely within her, +a sudden, incontestable, everlasting truth, a felt fact, so real in +its ethereal incorporeity that it seemed to her as if, until that +moment, she had never known, never thought, never felt. It was the +beginning, the opening out of herself, the dawn of her soul's life, +the joyful miracle, the miraculous inception of love, love focussed +in the midst of her soul. + +She passed the following days in self-contemplation, wandering +through her dreams as through a new country, rich with great light, +where distant landscapes paled into a wan radiance, like fantastic +meteors in the night, quivering in incandescence on the horizon. It +seemed to her as though she, a pious and glad pilgrim, were making +her way along paradisaical oases towards those distant scenes, +there to find even more, the goal.... Only a little while ago, the +prospect before her had been narrow and forlorn--her children gone +from her, her loneliness wrapping her about like a night--and now, +now she saw stretching in front of her a long road, a wide horizon, +glittering with light, nothing but light.... + +That was, all that was! It was no fine poets' fancy; it existed, +it gleamed in her heart like a sacred jewel, like a mystic rose +with stamina of light! A freshness as of dew fell over her, over +her whole life: over the life of her senses; over the life of +outward appearances; over the life of her soul; over the life of the +indwelling truth. The world was new, fresh with young dew, the very +Eden of Genesis; and her soul was a soul of newness, born anew in a +metempsychosis of greater perfection, of closer approach to the goal, +that distant goal, far away yonder, hidden like a god in the sanctuary +of its ecstasy of light, as in the radiance of its own being. + + + + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +1 + +Cecile did not go out for a few days; she saw nobody. One morning +she received a note; it ran: + + +"Mevrouw, + +"I do not know if you were offended by my mystical utterances. I cannot +recall distinctly what I said, but I remember that you told me that I +was going too far. I trust that you did not take my indiscretion amiss. + +"It would be a great pleasure to me to come to see you. May I hope +that you will permit me to call on you this afternoon? + + +"With most respectful regards, + +"Quaerts." + + +As the bearer was waiting for a reply, she wrote back in answer: + + +"Dear Sir, + +"I shall be very pleased to see you this afternoon. + +"Cecile van Even." + + +When she was alone, she read his note over and over again; she looked +at the paper with a smile, looked at the handwriting: + +"How strange," she thought. "This note ... and everything that +happens. How strange everything is, everything, everything!" + +She remained dreaming a long time, with the note in her hand. Then +she carefully folded it up, rose, walked up and down the room, +sought with her dainty fingers in a bowl full of visiting-cards, +taking out two which she looked at for some time. "Quaerts." The name +sounded differently from before.... How strange it all was! Finally +she locked away the note and the two cards in a little empty drawer +of her writing-table. + +She stayed at home and sent the children out with the nurse. She +hoped that no one else would call, neither Mrs. Hoze nor the Van +Attemas. And, staring before her, she reflected for a long, long +while. There was so much that she did not understand: properly +speaking, she understood nothing. So far as she was concerned, she +had fallen in love with him: there was no analysing that; it must +simply be accepted. But he, what did he feel, what were his emotions? + +Her earlier aversion? Sport: he was fond of sport she +remembered.... His visit, which was an impertinence: he seemed now +to be wishing to atone for it, not to repeat his call without her +permission.... His mystical conversation at the dinner-party.... And +Mrs. Hijdrecht.... + +"How strange he is!" she reflected. "I do not understand him; but I +love him, I cannot help it. Love, love: how strange that it should +exist! I never realized that it existed! I am no longer myself; I am +becoming some one else!... What does he want to see me for?... And +how singular: I have been married, I have two children! How singular +that I should have two children! I feel as if I had none. And yet I +am so fond of my little boys! But the other thing is so beautiful, +so bright, so transparent, as if that alone were truth. Perhaps love +is the only truth.... It is as if everything in and about me were +turning to crystal!" + +She looked around her, surprised and troubled that her surroundings +should have remained the same: the rosewood furniture, the folds of the +curtains, the withered landscape of the Scheveningen Road outside. But +it was snowing, silently and softly, with great snow-flakes falling +heavily, as though they meant to purify the world. The snow was fresh +and new, but yet the snow was not real nature to her, who always +saw her distant landscape, like a fata morgana, quivering in pure +incandescence of light. + + + + +2 + +He came at four o'clock. She saw him for the first time since the +self-revelation which had flashed upon her astounded senses. And +when he came she felt the singularly rapturous feeling that in her +eyes he was a demigod, that he perfected himself in her imagination, +that everything in him was good. Now that he sat there before her, +she saw him for the first time and she saw that he was physically +beautiful. The strength of his body was exalted into the strength of +a young god, broad and yet slender, sinewed as with the marble sinews +of a statue; and all this seemed so strange beneath the modernity of +his morning coat. + +She saw his face completely for the first time. The cut of it was +Roman, the head that of a Roman emperor, with its sensual profile, +its small, full mouth, living red under the brown gold of his curly +moustache. The forehead was low, the hair cut very close, like an +enveloping black casque; and over that forehead, with its single +furrow, hovered sadness, like a mist of age, strangely contradicting +the wanton youthfulness of his mouth and chin. And then his eyes, +which she already knew, his eyes of mystery, small and deep-set, +with the depth of their pupils, which seemed now to veil themselves +and then again to look out. + +But the strangest thing was that from all his beauty, from all his +being, from all his attitude, as he sat there with his hands folded +between his knees, a magnetism emanated, dominating her, drawing +her irresistibly towards him, as though she had suddenly, from the +first moment of her self-revelation, become his, to serve him in all +things. She felt this magnetism attracting her so violently that every +power in her melted into listlessness and weakness. A weakness as if +he might take her and carry her away, anywhere, wherever he pleased; +a weakness as if she no longer possessed her own thoughts, as if she +had become nothing, apart from him. + +She felt this intensely; and then, then came the very strangest thing +of all, as he continued to sit there, at a respectful distance, his +eyes looking up to her in reverence, his voice falling in reverential +accents. This was the very strangest thing of all that she saw him +beneath her, while she felt him above her; that she wished to be his +inferior and that he seemed to consider her higher than himself. She +did not know how she suddenly came to realize this so intensely, but +she did realize it; and it was the first pain that her love gave her. + +"It is very kind of you not to be angry with me," he began. + +There was often something caressing in his voice; it was not clear +and was even now and then a little broken, but this just gave it a +certain charm of quality. + +"Why?" she asked. + +"In the first place, I did wrong to pay you that visit. In the second +place, I was ill-mannered at Mrs. Hoze's dinner." + +"A whole catalogue of sins!" she laughed. + +"Surely!" he continued. "And you are very good to bear me no malice." + +"Perhaps that is because I always hear so much good about you at +Dolf's." + +"Have you never noticed anything odd in Dolf?" he asked. + +"No. What do you mean?" + +"Has it never struck you that he has more of an eye for the great +aggregate of political problems as a whole than for the details of +his own surroundings?" + +She looked at him, with a smile of surprise: + +"Yes," she said. "You are quite right. You know him well." + +"Oh, we have known one another from boyhood! It is curious: he never +sees the things that lie close to his hand; he does not penetrate +them. He is intellectually far-sighted." + +"Yes," she assented. + +"He does not know his wife, nor his daughters, nor Jules. He does +not see what they have in them. He identifies each of them by means +of an image which he fixes in his mind; and he forms these images +out of two prominent characteristics, which are generally a little +opposed. Mrs. van Attema appears to him a woman with a heart of gold, +but not very practical: so much for her; Jules, a musical genius, +but an untractable boy: that settles him!" + +"Yes, he does not go very deeply into character," she said. "For +there is a great deal more in Amélie...." + +"And he is quite wrong about Jules," said Quaerts. "Jules is thoroughly +tractable and anything but a genius. Jules is nothing more than an +exceedingly receptive boy, with a little rudimentary talent. And you +... he misconceives you too!" + +"Me?" + +"Entirely! Do you know what he thinks of you?" + +"No." + +"He thinks you--let me begin by telling you this--very, very lovable +and a dear little mother to your boys. But he thinks also that you +are incapable of growing very fond of any one; he looks upon you as +a woman without passion and melancholy for no reason, except that +you are bored. He thinks you bore yourself!" + +She looked at him in utter dismay and saw him laughing mischievously. + +"I am never bored!" she said, joining in his laughter, with full +conviction. + +"No, of course you're not!" he replied. + +"How can you know?" she asked. + +"I feel it!" he answered. "And, what is more, I know that the basis +of your character is not melancholy, not dark, but, on the contrary, +very light." + +"I am not so sure of that myself," she scarcely murmured, slackly, +with that weakness within her, but happy that he should estimate +her so exactly. "And do you too," she continued, airily, "think me +incapable of loving any one very much?" + +"Now that is a matter of which I am not competent to judge," he said, +with such frankness that his whole countenance suddenly grew younger +and the crease disappeared from his forehead. "How can I tell?" + +"You seem to know a great deal about me otherwise," she laughed. + +"I have seen you so often." + +"Barely four times!" + +"That is very often." + +She laughed brightly: + +"Is this a compliment?" + +"It is meant for one," he replied. "You do not know how much it means +to me to see you." + +It meant much to him to see her! And she felt herself so small, +so weak; and him so great, so perfect. With what decision he spoke, +how certain he seemed of it all! It almost saddened her that it meant +so much to him to see her once in a while. He placed her too high; +she did not wish to be placed so high. + +And that delicate, fragile something hung between them again, as it +had hung between them at the dinner. Then it had been broken by one +ill-chosen word. Oh, that it might not be broken now! + +"And now let us talk about yourself!" she said, affecting an airy +vivacity. "Do you know that you are taking all sorts of pains to +fathom me and that I know nothing whatever about you? That's not fair." + +"If you knew how much I have given you already! I give myself to you +entirely; from others I always conceal myself." + +"Why?" + +"Because I am afraid of the others!" + +"You ... afraid?" + +"Yes. You think that I do not look as if I could feel afraid? I have +something...." + +He hesitated. + +"Well?" she asked. + +"I have something that is very dear to me and about which I am very +much afraid lest any should touch it." + +"And that is...?" + +"My soul. I am not afraid of your touching it, for you would not hurt +it. On the contrary, I know that it is very safe with you." + +She would have liked once more, mechanically, to reproach him with +his strangeness: she could not. But he guessed her thoughts: + +"You think me a very odd person, do you not? But how can I be otherwise +with you?" + +She felt her love expanding within her heart, widening it to its full +capacity within her. Her love was as a domain in which he wandered. + +"I do not understand you yet; I do not know you yet!" she said, +softly. "I do not see you yet...." + +"Would you be in any way interested to know me, to see me?" + +"Surely." + +"Let me tell you then; I should like to do so; it would be a great +joy to me." + +"I am listening to you most attentively." + +"One question first: you cannot endure people who go in for sport?" + +"On the contrary, I like to see the display and development of +strength, so long as it is not too near me. Just as I like to hear +a storm, when I am safely within doors. And I can even find pleasure +in watching acrobats." + +He laughed quietly: + +"Nevertheless you held my particular predilection in great aversion?" + +"Why should you think that?" + +"I felt it." + +"You feel everything," she said, almost in alarm. "You are a dangerous +person." + +"So many think that. Shall I tell you why I believe that you took a +special aversion in my case?" + +"Yes." + +"Because you did not understand it in me, even though you may have +observed that physical exercise is one of my hobbies." + +"I do not understand you at all." + +"I think you are right.... But don't let me talk about myself like +this: I would rather talk of you." + +"And I of you. So be nice to me for the first time in our acquaintance +and speak ... of yourself." + +He bowed, with a smile: + +"You will not think me tiresome?" + +"Not at all. You were telling me of yourself. You were speaking of +your love of exercise...." + +"Ah, yes!... Can you understand that there are in me two distinct +individuals?" + +"Two distinct...." + +"Yes. My soul, which I regard as my real self; and then ... there +remains the other." + +"And what is that other?" + +"Something ugly, something common, something grossly primitive. In +one word, the brute." + +She shrugged her shoulders lightly: + +"How dark you paint yourself. The same thing is more or less true +of everybody." + +"Yes, but it troubles me more than I can tell you. I suffer; that +brute within me hurts my soul, hurts it even more than the whole +world hurts it. Now do you know why I feel such a sense of security +when I am with you? It is because I do not feel the brute that is in +me.... Let me go on a little longer, let me confess; it does me good +to tell you all this. You thought I had only seen you four times? But +I used to see you so often formerly, in the theatre, in the street, +everywhere. It was always rather strange to me when I saw you in the +midst of accidental surroundings. And always, when I looked at you, +I felt as if I were being lifted to something more beautiful. I cannot +express myself more clearly. There is something in your face, in your +eyes, in your movements, I don't know what, but something better than +in other people, something that addressed itself, most eloquently, +to my soul only. All this is so subtle and so strange; I can hardly +put it more plainly. But you are no doubt once more thinking that I +am going too far, are you not? Or that I am raving?" + +"Certainly, I should never have thought you such an idealist, such +a sensitivist," said Cecile, softly. + +"Have I leave to speak to you like this?" + +"Why not?" she asked, to escape the necessity of replying. + +"You might perhaps fear that I should compromise you...." + +"I do not fear that for an instant!" she replied, haughtily, as in +utter contempt of the world. + +They were silent for a moment. That delicate, fragile thing, which +might so easily break, still hung between them, thin, like a gossamer, +lightly joining them together. An atmosphere of embarrassment hovered +about them. They felt that the words which had passed between them +were full of significance. Cecile waited for him to continue; but, +as he was silent, she boldly took up the conversation: + +"On the contrary, I value it highly that you have spoken to me like +this. You are right: you have indeed given me much of yourself. I want +to assure you that whatever you have given me will be quite safe with +me. I believe that I understand you better now that I see you better." + +"I want very much to ask you something," he said, "but I dare not." + +She smiled, to encourage him. + +"No, really I dare not," he repeated. + +"Shall I guess?" Cecile asked, jestingly. + +"Yes; what do you think it is?" + +She glanced round the room until her eye rested on the little table +covered with books. + +"The loan of Emerson's essays?" she hazarded. + +But Quaerts shook his head and laughed: + +"No, thank you," he said. "I bought the volume long ago. No, no, +it is a much greater favour than the loan of a book." + +"Be brave then and ask it," Cecile went on, still jestingly. + +"I dare not," he said again. "I should not know how to put my request +into words." + +She looked at him earnestly, into his eyes, which gazed steadily upon +her; and then she said: + +"I know what you want to ask me, but I will not say it. You must do +that: so seek your words." + +"If you know, will you then permit me to say it?" + +"Yes, for, if it is what I think, it is nothing that you are not +entitled to ask." + +"And yet it would be a great favour.... But let me warn you beforehand +that I look upon myself as some one of a much lower order than you." + +A shadow passed across her face, her mouth had a little contraction +of pain and she pressed him, a little unnerved: + +"I beg you, ask. Just ask me simply." + +"It is a wish, then, that sympathy might be sealed between you and +me. Would you allow me to come to you when I am unhappy? I always feel +so happy in your presence, so soothed, so different from the state +of ordinary life, for with you I live only my better, my real self: +you know what I mean." + +Everything within her again melted into weakness and slackness; he was +placing her upon too high a pedestal; she was happy, because of what +he asked her, but sad, that he felt himself so much lower than she. + +"Very well," she said, nevertheless, with a clear voice. "It shall +be as you wish. Let us seal a bond of sympathy." + +And she gave him her hand, her beautiful, long, white hand, where on +one white finger gleamed the sparks of jewels, white and blue. For +a second, very reverently, he pressed her finger-tips between his own: + +"Thank you," he said, in a hushed voice, a voice that was a little +broken. + +"Are you often unhappy?" asked Cecile. + +"Always," he replied, almost humbly and as though embarrassed at +having to confess it. "I don't know why, but it has always been +so. And yet from my childhood I have enjoyed much that people call +happiness. But yet, yet ... I suffer through myself. It is I who do +myself the most hurt. And after that the world ... and I have always +to hide myself. To the world, to people generally I only show the +individual who rides and fences and hunts, who goes into society and +is very dangerous to young married women...." + +He laughed with his bad, low laugh, looking aslant into her eyes; +she remained calmly gazing at him. + +"Beyond that I give them nothing. I hate them; I have nothing in +common with them, thank God!" + +"You are too proud," said Cecile. "Each of those people has his own +sorrow, just as you have: the one suffers a little more subtly, the +other a little more coarsely; but they all suffer. And in that they +all resemble yourself." + +"Each taken by himself, perhaps. But that is not how I take them: +I take them in the lump and therefore I hate them. Don't you?" + +"No," she said calmly. "I don't believe that I am capable of hating." + +"You are very strong within yourself. You suffice unto yourself." + +"No, no, not that, really not; but you ... you are unjust towards +the world." + +"Possibly; but why does it always give me pain? Alone with you, +I forget that it exists, the outside world. Do you understand +now why I was so sorry to see you at Mrs. Hoze's? You seemed to +me to have lowered yourself. And it was because ... because of +that special quality which I saw in you that I did not seek your +acquaintance earlier. The acquaintance was fatally bound to come; +and so I waited...." + +Fate? What would it bring her? thought Cecile. But she could not pursue +the thought: she seemed to herself to be dreaming of beautiful and +subtle things which did not exist for other people, which only floated +between them two. And those beautiful things were already there: +it was no longer necessary to look upon them as illusions; it was as +if she had overtaken the future! For one brief moment only did this +happiness endure; then again she felt pain, because of his reverence. + + + + +3 + +He was gone and she was alone, waiting for the children. She neglected +to ring for the lamp to be lighted; and the twilight of the late +afternoon darkened into the room. She sat motionless, looking out +before her at the leafless trees. + +"Why should I not be happy?" she thought. "He is happy with me; +he is himself with me only; he cannot be so among other people. Why +then can I not be happy?" + +She felt pain; her soul suffered and it seemed to her as if her +soul were suffering for the first time, perhaps because now, for the +first time, her soul had not been itself but another. It seemed to +her as if another woman and not she had spoken to him, to Quaerts, +just now. An exalted woman, a woman of illusions; the woman, in fact, +whom he saw in her and not the woman that she was, a humble woman, +a woman of love. Ah, she had had to restrain herself not to ask him: + +"Why do you speak to me like that? Why do you raise up your beautiful +thoughts to me? Why do you not rather let them drip down upon me? For +see, I do not stand so high as you think; and see, I am at your feet +and my eyes seek you above me." + +Ought she to have told him that he was deceiving himself? Ought she +to have asked him: + +"Why do I lower myself when I mix with other people? What do you see +in me after all? Behold, I am only a woman, a woman of weakness and +dreams; and I have come to love you, I don't know why." + +Ought she to have opened his eyes and said to him: + +"Look upon your own soul in a mirror; look upon yourself and see how +you are a god walking the earth, a god who knows everything because +he feels it, who feels everything because he knows it...." + +Everything?... No, not everything; for he deceived himself, this god, +and thought to find an equal in her, who was but his creature. + +Ought she to have declared all this, at the cost of her modesty and +his happiness? For his happiness--she felt perfectly assured--lay in +seeing her in the way in which he saw her. + +"With me he is happy!" she thought. "And sympathy is sealed between +us.... It was not friendship, nor did he speak of love; he called it +simply sympathy.... With me he feels only his real self and not that +other ... the brute that is within him!... The brute!..." + +Then there came drifting over her a gloom as of gathering clouds; +and she shuddered at something that suddenly rolled through her: a +broad stream of blackness, as though its waters were filled with mud, +which bubbled up in troubled rings, growing larger and larger. And +she took fear before this stream and tried not to see it; but it +swallowed up all her landscapes--so bright before, with their luminous +horizons--now with a sky of ink smeared above, like a foul night. + +"How loftily he thinks, how noble his thoughts are!" Cecile still +forced herself to imagine, in spite of it all.... + +But the magic was gone: her admiration of his lofty thoughts tumbled +away into an abyss; then suddenly, by a lightning flash through the +night of that inky sky, she saw clearly that this loftiness of thought +was a supreme sorrow to her in him. + +It was quite dark in the room. Cecile, afraid of the lightning which +revealed her to herself, had thrown herself back upon the cushions of +the couch. She hid her face in her hands, pressing her eyes, as though +she wished, after this moment of self-revelation, to be blind for ever. + +But demoniacally it raged through her, a hurricane of hell, a storm +of passion, which blew out of the darkness of the landscape, lashing +the tossed waves of the stream towards the inky sky. + +"Oh!" she moaned. "I am unworthy of him ... unworthy!..." + + + + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +1 + +Quaerts lived on the Plein, above a tailor, where he occupied two +small rooms furnished in the most ordinary style. He could have had +much better lodgings if he chose, but he was indifferent to comfort: +he never gave it a thought in his own place; when he came across +it elsewhere, it did not attract him. But it distressed Jules that +Quaerts should live in this fashion; and the boy had long wanted to +improve the sitting-room. He was now busy hanging some trophies on +an armour-rack, standing on a pair of steps, humming a tune which he +remembered from some opera. But Quaerts paid no heed to what Jules +was doing: he lay without moving on the sofa, at full length, in his +pyjamas, unshorn, with his eyes fixed upon the Renascence decorations +of the Law Courts, tracing a background of architecture behind the +leafless trees of the Plein. + +"Look, Taco, will this do?" asked Jules, after hanging an Algerian +sabre between two Malay creeses and draping the folds of a Javanese +sarong between. + +"Yes, beautifully," replied Quaerts. + +But he did not look at the rack of arms and continued gazing at the Law +Courts. He lay back motionless. There was no thought in him, nothing +but listless dissatisfaction with himself and consequent sadness. For +three weeks he had led a life of debauch, to deaden consciousness, +or perhaps he did not know precisely what: something that was in +him, something that was beautiful but tedious, in ordinary life. He +had begun by shooting over a friend's land in North Brabant. It +lasted a week; there were eight of them; sport in the open air, +followed by sporting dinners, with not only a great deal of wine, +certainly the best, but still more geneva, also of the finest, like +a liqueur. Ragging-excursions on horseback in the neighbourhood; +follies at a farm--the peasant-woman carried round in a barrel and +locked up in the cow-house--mischievous exploits, worthy only of +unruly boys and savages and ending in a summons before a magistrate, +with a fine and damages. Wound up to a pitch of excitement with too +much sport, too much oxygen and too much drink, five of the pack, +including Quaerts, had gone on to Brussels, where one of them had +a mistress. There they stayed nearly a fortnight, leading a life of +continual excess, with endless champagne and larking: a wild joy of +living, which, natural enough at first, had in the end to be screwed up +and screwed up higher still, to make it last a couple of days longer; +the last nights spent weariedly over écarté, with none but the fixed +idea of winning, the exhaustion of all their violence already pulsing +through their bodies, like a nervous relaxation, and their eyes gazing +without expression at the cards. + +During that time Quaerts had only once thought of Cecile; and he +had not followed up the thought. She had no doubt arisen three or +four times in his brain, as a vague image, white and transparent, an +apparition which had vanished again immediately, leaving no trace of +its passage. All this time too he had not written to her; and it had +only once struck him that a silence of three weeks, after their last +conversation, must seem strange to her. There it had remained. He was +back now; he had lain three days long at home on his bed, on his sofa, +tired, feverish, dissatisfied, disgusted with everything, everything; +then, one morning, remembering that it was Wednesday, he had thought +of Jules and his riding-lesson. + +He sent for Jules, but, too lazy to shave or dress, he remained lying +where he was. And he still lay there, realizing nothing. There before +him were the Law Courts, with the Privy Council adjoining. At the +side he could see the Witte [2] and William the Silent standing on +his pedestal in the middle of the Plein: that was all exceedingly +interesting. And Jules was hanging up trophies: also interesting. And +the most interesting of all was the stupid life he had been +leading. What a tense effort to lull his boredom! Had he really amused +himself during that time? No; he had made a pretence of being amused: +the episode of the peasant-woman and the écarté had excited him; the +sport was bad, the wine good, but he had drunk too much of it. And +then the filthy champagne of that wench, at Brussels!... + +Well, what then? He had absolute need of it, of a life like that, +of sport and wild enjoyment; it served to balance the other thing in +him, which became impossible in everyday life. + +But why could he not preserve some sort of mean in both? He was +perfectly well-equipped for ordinary life; and with that he possessed +something in addition, something that was very beautiful in his soul: +why could he not remain balanced between those two inner spheres? Why +was he always tossed from one to the other, as a thing that belonged +to neither? How fine he could have made his life with just the least +tact, the least self-restraint! How he might have lived in a healthy +delight of purified animal existence, tempered by a higher joyousness +of soul! But tact, self-restraint: he had none of all this; he lived +according to his impulses, always in extremes; he was incapable of +half-measures. And in this lay his pride as well as his regret: his +pride that he felt this or that thing "wholly," that he was unable +to compromise with his emotions; and his regret that he could not +compromise and bring into harmony the elements which for ever waged +war within him. + +When he had met Cecile and had seen her again and yet once again, +he had felt himself carried wholly to the one extreme, the summit +of exaltation, of pure crystal sympathy, in which the circle of +his atmosphere--as he had said--glided in sympathy over hers, in +a caress of pure chastity and spirituality, as two stars, spinning +closer together, might mingle their atmospheres for a moment, like +breaths. What smiling happiness had not been within his reach, as it +were a grace from Heaven! + +Then, then he had felt himself toppling down, as if he had rocked +over the balancing-point; and he had longed for earthly pleasures, +for great simplicity of emotion, for primitive enjoyment of life, +for flesh and blood. He now remembered how, two days after his last +conversation with Cecile, he had seen Emilie Hijdrecht, here, in these +very rooms, where at length, stung by his neglect, she had ventured +to come to him one evening, heedless of all caution. With a line of +cruelty round his mouth he recalled how she had wept at his knees, how +in her jealousy she had complained against Cecile, how he had ordered +her to be silent and forbidden her to pronounce Cecile's name. Then, +their mad embrace, an embrace of cruelty: cruelty on her part against +the man whom time after time she lost when she thought him secured +for good, whom she could not understand and to whom she clung with +all the violence of her brutal passion, a purely animal passion of +primitive times; cruelty on his part against the woman he despised, +while in his passion he almost stifled her in his embrace. + + + + +2 + +Yes, what then? How was he to find the mean between the two poles of +his nature? He shrugged his shoulders. He knew that he could never +find it. He lacked some quality, or a certain power, necessary to find +it. He could do nothing but allow himself to swing to and fro. Very +well then: he would let himself swing; there was no help for it. For +now, in the lassitude following his outburst of savagery, he began +to experience again a violent longing, like one who, after a long +evening passed in a ball-room heavy with the foul air of gaslight and +the stifling closeness and mustiness of human breath, craves a high +heaven and width of atmosphere: a violent longing for Cecile. And +he smiled, glad that he knew her, that he was able to go to her, +that it was now his privilege to enter into the chaste sanctuary of +her environment, as into a temple; he smiled, glad that he felt his +longing and proud of it, exalting himself above other men. Already he +tasted the pleasure of confessing to her honestly how he had lived +during the last three weeks; and already he heard her voice, though +he could not distinguish the words.... + +Jules climbed down the steps. He was disappointed that Quaerts had not +followed his arranging of the weapons upon the rack and his draping +of the stuffs around them. But he had quietly continued his work and, +now that it was finished, he climbed down and came and sat on the +floor quietly, with his head against the foot of the couch on which +his friend lay thinking. Jules said never a word; he looked straight +before him, a little sulkily, knowing that Quaerts was looking at him. + +"Jules," said Quaerts. + +But Jules did not answer, still staring. + +"Tell me, Jules, what makes you like me so much?" + +"How should I know?" answered Jules, with thin lips. + +"Don't you know?" + +"No. How can you know why you are fond of any one?" + +"You oughtn't to be so fond of me, Jules. It's not good." + +"Very well, I will be less so in the future." + +Jules rose suddenly and took his hat. He put out his hand; but Quaerts +held him back with a laugh: + +"You see, scarcely any one is fond of me, except ... you and your +father. Now I know why your father likes me, but not why you do." + +"You want to know everything." + +"Is that so very wrong?" + +"Certainly. You'll never be satisfied. Mamma always says that no one +knows anything." + +"And you?" + +"I?... Nothing...." + +"How do you mean, nothing?" + +"I know nothing at all.... Let me go." + +"Are you cross, Jules?" + +"No, but I have an engagement." + +"Can't you wait till I'm dressed? Then we can go together. I am going +to Aunt Cecile's." + +Jules objected: + +"All right, provided you hurry." + +Quaerts got up. He now saw the arrangement of the weapons, which he +had entirely forgotten: + +"You've done it very nicely, Jules," he said, in an admiring +tone. "Thank you very much." + +Jules did not answer; and Quaerts went through into his +dressing-room. The lad sat down on the sofa, bolt upright, looking out +at the Law Courts, across the bare trees. His eyes filled with great +round tears, which ran down his cheeks. Sitting stiff and motionless, +he wept. + + + + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +1 + +Cecile had passed those three weeks in a state of ignorance which had +filled her with pain. She had, it is true, heard through Dolf that +Quaerts was away shooting, but beyond that nothing. A thrill of joy +electrified her when the door behind the screen opened and she saw +him enter the room. He was standing in front of her before she could +recover herself; and, as she was trembling, she did not rise, but, +still sitting, reached out her hand to him, her fingers quivering +imperceptibly. + +"I have been out of town," he began. + +"So I heard." + +"Have you been well all this time?" + +"Quite well, thank you." + +He noticed that she was somewhat pale, that she had a light blue shadow +under her eyes and that there was lassitude in all her movements. But +he came to the conclusion that there was nothing extraordinary in +this, or that perhaps she merely looked pale in the creamy whiteness +of her soft, white dress, like silky wool, even as her figure became +yet slighter in the constraint of the scarf about her waist, with +its long white fringe falling to her feet. She was sitting alone with +Christie, the child upon his footstool with his head in her lap and +a picture-book on his knees. + +"You two are a perfect Madonna and Child," said Quaerts. + +"Little Dolf has gone out to walk with his god-father," she said, +looking fondly upon her child and motioning to him gently. + +At this bidding the boy stood up and shyly approached Quaerts, +offering him a hand. Quaerts lifted him up and set him on his knee: + +"How light he is!" + +"He is not strong," said Cecile. + +"You coddle him too much." + + She laughed: + +"Pedagogue!" she laughed. "How do I coddle him?" + +"I always find him nestling against your skirts. He must come with +me one of these days: I should make him do some gymnastics." + +"Jules horse-riding and Christie gymnastics!" she exclaimed. + +"Yes ... sport, in fact!" he answered, with a meaning look of fun. + +She glanced back at him; and sympathy smiled from the depths of her +gold-grey eyes. He felt thoroughly happy and, with the child still +upon his knees, said: + +"I have come to confess to you ... Madonna!" + +Then, as though startled, he put the child away from him. + +"To confess?" + +"Yes.... There, Christie, go back to Mamma; I mustn't keep you by me +any longer." + +"Very well," said Christie, with great, wondering eyes, and caught +hold of the cord of Quaerts' eyeglass. + +"The Child would forgive too easily," said Quaerts. + +"And I, have I anything to forgive you?" she asked. + +"I shall be only too happy if you will see it in that light." + +"Then begin your confession." + +"But the Child ..." he hesitated. + +Cecile stood up; she took the child, kissed him and sat him on a stool +by the window with his picture-book. Then she came back to the sofa: + +"He will not hear...." + +And Quaerts began the story, choosing his words: he spoke of the +shooting, of the ragging-parties and the peasant-woman and of +Brussels. She listened attentively, with dread in her eyes at the +violence of such a life, the echo of which reverberated in his words, +even though the echo was softened by his reverence. + +"And is all this a sin calling for absolution?" she asked, when he +had finished. + +"Is it not?" + +"I am no Madonna, but ... a woman with fairly emancipated views. If +you were happy in what you did, it was no sin, for happiness is +good.... Were you happy, I ask you? For in that case what you did +was ... good." + +"Happy?" he asked. + +"Yes." + +"No.... Therefore I have sinned, sinned against myself, have I +not? Forgive me ... Madonna." + +She was troubled at the sound of his voice, which, gently broken, +wrapped her about as with a spell; she was troubled to see him sitting +there, filling with his body, his personality, his existence a place +in her room, beside her. In a single second she lived through hours, +feeling her calm love lying heavy within her, like a sweet weight; +feeling a longing to throw her arms about him and tell him that she +worshipped him; feeling also an intense sorrow at what he had admitted, +that once again he had been unhappy. Hardly able to control herself +in her compassion, she rose, moved towards him and laid her hand upon +his shoulder: + +"Tell me, do you mean all this? Is it all true? Is it true that you +have been living as you say and yet have not been happy?" + +"Perfectly true, on my soul." + +"Then why did you do it?" + +"I couldn't help it." + +"You were unable to force yourself to be more moderate?" + +"Absolutely." + +"Then I should like to teach you." + +"And I should not like to learn, from you. For it is and always will +be my best happiness to be immoderate also where you are concerned, +immoderate in the life of my real self, my soul, just as I have now +been immoderate in the life of my apparent self." + +Her eyes grew dim; she shook her head, her hand still upon his +shoulder: + +"That is not right," she said, in deep distress. + +"It is a joy ... for both those beings. I have to be like that, +I have to be immoderate: they both demand it." + +"But that is not right," she insisted. "Pure enjoyment ..." + +"The lowest, but also the highest...." + +A shiver passed through her, a deadly fear for him. + +"No, no," she persisted. "Don't think that. Don't do it. Neither the +one nor the other. Really, it is all wrong. Pure joy, unbridled joy, +even the highest, is not good. In that way you force your life. When +you speak so, I am afraid for your sake. Try to recover moderation. You +have so many possibilities of being happy." + +"Oh, yes!..." + +"Yes, but what I mean is that you must not be fanatical. And ... and +also, for the love of God, don't run quite so madly after pleasure." + +He looked up at her; he saw her beseeching him with her eyes, with +the expression of her face, with her whole attitude, as she stood +bending slightly forward. He saw her beseeching him, even as he +heard her; and then he knew that she loved him. A feeling of bright +rapture came upon him, as though something high were descending upon +him to guide him. He did not stir--he felt her hand thrilling at his +shoulder--afraid lest with the smallest movement he should drive that +rapture away. It did not occur to him for a moment to speak a word +of tenderness to her or to take her in his arms and press her to him: +she was so profoundly transfigured in his eyes that any such profane +desire remained far removed from him. And yet he felt at that moment +that he loved her, but as he had never yet loved any one before, +so completely and exclusively, with the noblest elements that lie +hidden away in the soul, often unknown even to itself. He felt that +he loved her with new-born feelings of frank youth and fresh vigour +and pure unselfishness. And it seemed to him that it was all a dream +of something which did not exist, a dream lightly woven about him, +a web of sunbeams. + +"Madonna!" he whispered. "Forgive me...." + +"Promise then...." + +"Willingly, but I shall not be able to keep my promise. I am weak...." + +"No." + +"Ah, I am! But I give you my promise; and I promise also to try my +utmost to keep it. Will you forgive me now?" + +She nodded to him; her smile fell on him like a ray of sunlight. Then +she went to the child, took it in her arms and brought it to Quaerts: + +"Put your arms round his neck, Christie, and give him a kiss." + +He took the child from her; it threw its little arms about his neck +and kissed him on the forehead. + +"The Madonna forgives me ... and the Child!" he whispered. + + + + +2 + +They stayed long talking to each other; and no one came to disturb +them. The child had gone back to sit by the window. Twilight began to +strew pale ashes in the room. He saw Cecile sitting there, sweetly +white; the kindly melody of her half-breathed words came rippling +towards him. They talked of many things: of Emerson; of Van Eeden's +new poem in the Nieuwe Gids; of their respective views of life. He +accepted a cup of tea, only for the pleasure of seeing her move with +the yielding lines of her graciousness, standing before the tea-table +in the corner. In her white dress, she had something about her of +marble grown lissom with inspiration and warm life. He sat motionless, +listening reverently, swathed in a still rapture of delight. It was a +mood which defied analysis, without a visible origin, springing from +their sympathetic fellowship as a flower springs from an invisible seed +after a drop of rain and a kiss of the sunshine. She too was happy; +she no longer felt the pain which his reverence had caused her. True, +she was a little sad by reason of what he had told her, but she was +happy for the sake of this speck of the present. Nor did she any longer +see that dark stream, that inky sky, that night landscape: everything +that she now saw was bright and calm. And happiness breathed about +her, a tangible happiness, like a living caress. Sometimes they ceased +speaking and both of them looked towards the child, as it sat reading; +or Christie would ask them something and they would answer. Then they +smiled one to the other, because the child was so good and did not +disturb them. + +"If only this could continue for ever," he ventured to say, though +still fearing lest a word might break the crystalline transparency of +their happiness. "If you could only see into me now, how all in me is +peace. I don't know why, but that is how I feel. Perhaps because of +your forgiveness. Really the Catholic religion is delightful, with its +absolution. What a comfort that must be for people of weak character!" + +"But I cannot think your character weak. And it is not. You tell me +that you sometimes know how to place yourself above ordinary life, +whence you can look down upon its grief as on a comedy which makes +one laugh sadly for a minute, but which is not true. I too believe +that life, as we see it, is no more than a symbol of a truer life, +concealed beneath it, which we do not see. But I cannot rise beyond +the symbol, while you can. Therefore you are very strong and feel +yourself very great." + +"How strange, when I just think myself weak and you great and +powerful. You dare to be what you are, in all your harmony; and I am +always hiding and am afraid of people individually, though sometimes I +am able to rise above life in the mass. But these are riddles which it +is vain for me to attempt to solve; and, though I have not the power +to solve them, at this moment I feel nothing but happiness. Surely +I may say that once aloud, may I not, quite aloud?" + +She smiled to him in the bliss which she felt of making him happy. + +It is the first time I have felt happiness in this way," he +continued. "Indeed it is the first time I have felt it at all...." + +"Then don't analyse it." + +"There is no need. It is standing before me in all its simplicity. Do +you know why I am happy?" + +"Don't analyse, don't analyse," she repeated in alarm. + +"No," he said, "but may I tell you, without analysing?" + +"No, don't," she stammered, "because ... because I know...." + +She besought him, very pale, with folded, trembling hands. The child +looked at them; it had closed its book, and come to sit down on its +stool by its mother, with a look of gay sagacity in its pale-blue eyes. + +"Then I obey you," said Quaerts, with some difficulty. + +And they were both silent, their eyes expanded as with the lustre of +a vision. It seemed to be gently beaming about them through the pale +ashen twilight. + + + + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +This evening Cecile had written a great deal into her diary; and she +now paced up and down in her room, with locked hands hanging before +her and her head slightly bowed and a fixed look in her eyes. There +was anxiety about her mouth. Before her was the vision, as she had +conceived it. He loved her with his soul alone, not as a woman who +is pretty and good, but with a higher love than that, with the finest +nervous fibres of his being--his real being--with the supreme emotion +of the very essence of his soul. Thus she felt that he loved her and +in no other way, with contemplation, with adoration. Thus she felt it +actually, through a sympathetic power of divination by which each of +them was able to guess what actually passed within the other. And this +was his happiness--his first, as he said--thus to love her and in no +other way. Oh, she well understood him! She understood his illusion, +which he saw in her; and she now knew that, if she really wished to +love him for his sake and not for her own, she must needs appear to +be nothing else to him, she must preserve his illusion of a woman +not of flesh, one who desired none of the earthly things that other +women did, one who should be soul alone, a sister soul to his. But, +while she saw before her this vision of her love, calm and radiant, +she saw also the struggle which awaited her, the struggle with herself, +with her own distress: distress because he thought of her so highly +and named her Madonna, the while she longed only to be lowly and his +slave. She would have to seem the woman he saw in her, for the sake of +his happiness, and the part would be a heavy one for her to support, +for she loved him, ah, with such simplicity, with all her woman's +heart, wishing to give herself to him entirely, as only once in her +life a woman gives herself, whatever the sacrifice might cost her, +the sacrifice made in ignorance of herself and perhaps afterwards +to be made in bitterness and sorrow! The outward appearance of her +conduct and her inward consciousness of herself: the conflict of +these would fall heavily upon her, but she thought upon the struggle +with a smile, with joy beaming through her heart, for this bitterness +would be endured for him, deliberately for him and for him alone. Oh, +the luxury to suffer for one whom she loved as she loved him; to +be tortured with inner longing, that he might not come to her with +the embrace of his arms and the kiss of his mouth; and to feel that +the torture was for the sake of his happiness, his! To feel that she +loved him enough to go to him with open arms and beg for the alms of +his caresses; but also to feel that she loved him more than that and +more highly and that--not from pride or bashfulness, which are really +egoism, but solely from sacrifice of herself to his happiness--she +never would, never could, be a suppliant before him! + +To suffer, to suffer for him! To wear a sword through her soul for +him! To be a martyr for her god, for whom there was no happiness +on earth save through her martyrdom! And she had passed her life, +had spent long, long years, without feeling until this day that such +luxury could exist, not as a fantasy in rhymes, but as a reality in her +heart. She had been a young girl and had read the poets and what they +rhyme of love; and she had thought she understood it all, with a subtle +comprehension and yet without ever having had the least acquaintance +with emotion itself. She had been a young woman, had been married, +had borne children. Her married life flashed through her mind in a +lightning-flicker of memory; and she stopped still before the portrait +of her dead husband, standing there on its easel, draped in sombre +plush. The mask it wore was of ambition: an austere, refined face, +with features sharp, as if engraved in fine steel; coldly-intelligent +eyes with a fixed portrait look; thin, clean-shaven lips, closed firmly +like a lock. Her husband! And she still lived in the same house where +she had lived with him, where she had had to receive her many guests +when he was Foreign Minister. Her receptions and dinners flickered up +in her mind, so many scenes of worldliness; and she clearly recalled +her husband's eye taking in everything with a quick glance of approval +or disapproval: the arrangement of her rooms, her dress, the ordering +of her parties. Her marriage had not been unhappy; her husband was a +little cold and unexpansive, wrapped wholly in his ambition; but he +was attached to her after his fashion and even tenderly; she too had +been fond of him; she thought at the time that she was marrying him +for love: her dependent womanliness loved the male, the master. Of a +delicate constitution, probably undermined by excessive brain-work, +he had died after a short illness. Cecile remembered her sorrow, her +loneliness with the two children, as to whom he had already feared +that she would spoil them. And her loneliness had been sweet to her, +among the clouds of her dreaming.... + +This portrait--a handsome life-size photograph; a carbon impression +dark with a Rembrandt shadow--why had she never had it copied in +oils, as she had at first intended? The intention had faded away +within her; for months she had not given it a thought; now suddenly +it recurred to her.... And she felt no self-reproach or remorse. She +would not have the painting made now. The portrait was well enough +as it was. She thought of the dead man without sorrow. She had never +had cause to complain of him; he had never had anything with which to +reproach her. And now she was free; she became conscious of the fact +with a great exultation. Free, to feel what she would! Her freedom +arched above her as a blue firmament in which new love ascended +with a dove's immaculate flight. Freedom, air, light! She turned +from the portrait with a smile of rapture; she thrust her arms above +her head as if she would measure her freedom, the width of the air, +as if she would go to meet the light. Love, she was in love! There +was nothing but love; nothing but the harmony of their souls, the +harmony of her handmaiden's soul with the soul of her god, an exile +upon earth. Oh, what a mercy that this harmony could exist between +him so exalted and her so lowly! But he must not see her lowliness; +she must remain the Madonna, remain the Madonna for his sake, in the +martyrdom due to his reverence, in the dizziness of the high place, +the heavenly throne to which he raised her, beside himself. She felt +this dizziness shuddering about her like rings of light. And she flung +herself on her sofa and locked her fingers; her eyelids quivered; +then she remained staring before her, towards some very distant point. + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +Jules had been away from school for a day or two with a bad headache, +which had made him look very pale and given him an air of sadness; +but he was a little better now and, feeling bored in his own room, he +went downstairs to the empty drawing-room and sat at the piano. Papa +was at work in his study, but it would not interfere with Papa if +he played. Dolf spoilt him, seeing in his son something that was +wanting in himself and therefore attracted him, even as possibly it +had formerly attracted him in his wife also: Jules could do no wrong +in his eyes; and, if the boy had only been willing, Dolf would have +spared no expense to give him a careful musical education. But Jules +violently opposed himself to anything resembling lessons and besides +maintained that it was not worth while. He had no ambition; his vanity +was not tickled by his father's hopes of him or his appreciation of +his playing: he played only for himself, to express himself in the +vague language of musical sounds. At this moment he felt alone and +abandoned in the great house, though he knew that Papa was at work +two rooms off and that when he pleased he could take refuge on Papa's +great couch; at this moment he had within himself an almost physical +feeling of dread at his loneliness, which caused something to reel +about him, an immense sense of utter desolation. + +He was fourteen years old, but he felt himself neither child nor +boy: a certain feebleness, an almost feminine need of dependency, +of devotion to some one who would be everything to him had already, +in his earliest childhood, struck at his virility; and he shivered +in his dread of this inner loneliness, as if he were afraid of +himself. He suffered greatly from vague moods in which that strange +something oppressed and stifled him; then, not knowing where to hide +his inner being, he would go to play, so that he might lose himself in +the great sound-soul of music. His thin, nervous fingers would grope +hesitatingly over the keys; he himself would suffer from the false +chords which he struck in his search; then he would let himself go, +find a single, very short motive, of plaintive, minor melancholy, and +caress that motive in his joy at possessing it, at having found it, +caress it until it returned each moment as a monotony of sorrow. He +would think the motive so beautiful that he could not part with it; +those four or five notes expressed so well everything that he felt that +he would play them over and over again, until Suzette burst into the +room and made him stop, saying that otherwise she would be driven mad. + +Thus he sat playing now. And it was pitiful at first: he hardly +recognized the notes; cacophonous discords wailed and cut into his poor +brain, still smarting from the headache. He moaned as if he were in +pain afresh; but his fingers were hypnotized, they could not desist, +they still sought on; and the notes became purer: a short phrase +released itself with a cry, a cry which returned continually on the +same note, suddenly high after the dull bass of the prelude. And +this note came as a surprise to Jules; that fair cry of sorrow +frightened him; and he was glad to have found it, glad to have so +sweet a sorrow. Then he was no longer himself; he played on until +he felt that it was not he who was playing but another, within him, +who compelled him; he found the full, pure chords as by intuition; +through the sobbing of the sounds ran the same musical figure, +higher and higher, with silver feet of purity, following the curve +of crystal rainbows lightly spanned on high; reaching the topmost +point of the arch it struck a cry, this time in very drunkenness, +out into the major, throwing up wide arms in gladness to heavens of +intangible blue. Then it was like souls of men, which first live and +suffer and utter their complaint and then die, to glitter in forms of +light whose long wings spring from their pure shoulders in sheets of +silver radiance; they trip one behind the other over the rainbows, +over the bridges of glass, blue and rose and yellow; and there come +more and more, kindreds and nations of souls; they hurry their silver +feet, they press across the rainbow, they laugh and sing and push one +another; in their jostling their wings clash together, scattering +silver down. Now they stand all on the top of the arc and look up, +with the great wondering of their laughing child-eyes; and they dare +not, they dare not; but others press on behind them, innumerous, +more and more and yet more; they crowd upwards to the topmost height, +their wings straight in the air, close together. And now, now they +must; they may hesitate no longer. One of them, taking deep breaths, +spreads his flight and with one shock springs out of the thick throng +into the ether. Soon many follow, one after another, till their shapes +swoon in the blue; all is gleam about them. Now, far below, thin as a +thin thread, the rainbow arches itself, but they do not look at it; +rays fall towards them: these are souls, which they embrace; they +go with them in locked embraces. And then the light: light beaming +over all; all things liquid in everlasting light; nothing but light: +the sounds sing the light, the sounds are the light, there is nothing +now but the light everlasting.... + +"Jules!" + +He looked up vacantly. + +"Jules! Jules!" + +He smiled now, as if awakened from a dream-sleep; he rose, went to +her, to Cecile. She stood in the doorway; she had remained standing +there while he played; it had seemed to her that he was playing a +part of herself. + +"What were you playing, Jules?" she asked. + +He was quite awake now and distressed, fearing that he must have made +a terrible noise in the house.... + +"I don't know, Auntie," he said. + +She hugged him, suddenly, violently, in gratitude.... To him she owed +it, the great mystery, since the day when he had broken out in anger +against her.... + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +1 + + +"Oh, for that which cannot be told, because words are so few, always +the same combinations of a few letters and sounds; oh, for that which +cannot be thought of in the narrow limits of comprehension; that +which at best can only be groped for with the antennæ of the soul; +essence of the essences of the ultimate elements of our being!..." + + + +She wrote no more, she knew no more: why write that she had no words +and yet seek them? + +She was waiting for him and she now looked out of the open window +to see if he was coming. She remained there for a long time; then +she felt that he would come immediately and so he did: she saw him +approaching along the Scheveningen Road; he pushed open the iron gate +of the villa and smiled to her as he raised his hat. + +"Wait!" she cried. "Stay where you are!" + +She ran down the steps, into the garden, where he stood. She came +towards him, beaming with happiness and so lovely, so delicately frail; +her blonde head so seemly in the fresh green of May; her figure like +a young girl's in the palest grey gown, with black velvet ribbon and +here and there a touch of silver lace. + +"I am so glad that you have come! You have not been to see me for so +long!" she said, giving him her hand. + +He did not answer at once; he merely smiled. + +"Let us sit in the garden, behind: the weather is so lovely." + +"Let us," he said. + +They walked into the garden, by the mesh of the garden-paths, the +jasmine-vines starring white as they passed. In an adjoining villa +a piano was playing; the sounds came to them of Rubinstein's Romance. + +"Listen!" said Cecile, starting. "What is that?" + +"What?" he asked. + +"What they are playing." + +"Something of Rubinstein's, I believe," he said. + +"Rubinstein?..." she repeated, vaguely. "Yes...." + +And she relapsed into the wealth of memories of ... what? Once before, +in this way, she had walked along these same paths, past jasmine-vines +like these, long, ever so long ago; she had walked with him, with +him.... Why? Could the past repeat itself, after centuries?... + +"It is three weeks since you have been to see me," she said, simply, +recovering herself. + +"Forgive me," he replied. + +"What was the reason?" + +He hesitated throughout his being, seeking an excuse: + +"I don't know," he answered, softly. "You will forgive me, will you +not? One day it was this, another day that. And then ... I don't +know. Many reasons together. It is not good that I should see you +often. Not good for you, nor for me." + +"Let us begin with the second. Why is it not good for you?" + +"No, let us begin with the first, with what concerns you. People ..." + +"People?" + +"People are talking about us. I am looked upon as an irretrievable +rake. I will not have your name linked profanely with mine." + +"And is it?" + +"Yes...." + +She smiled: + +"I don't mind." + +"But you must mind; if not for your own sake ..." + +He stopped. She knew he was thinking of her boys; she shrugged her +shoulders. + +"And now, why is it not good for you?" + +"A man must not be happy too often." + +"What a sophism! Why not?" + +"I don't know; but I feel I am right. It spoils him; it is too much +for him." + +"Are you happy here, then?" + +He smiled and gently nodded yes. + +They were silent for very long. They were now sitting at the end +of the garden, on a seat which stood in a semicircle of flowering +rhododendrons: the great purple-satin blossoms shut them in with a +tall hedge of closely-clustered bouquets, rising from the paths and +overtopping their heads; standard roses flung their incense before +them. They sat still, happy in each other, happy in the sympathy of +their atmospheres mingling together; yet in their happiness there +was the invincible melancholy which is an integral part of all life, +even in happiness. + +"I don't know how I am to tell you," he said. "But suppose that I were +to see you every day, every moment that I thought of you.... That would +not do. For then I should become so refined, so subtle, that for pure +happiness I should not be able to live; my other being would receive +nothing and would suffer like a beast that is left to starve. I am +bad, I am selfish, to be able to speak like this, but I must tell +you the truth, that you may not think too well of me. And so I only +seek your company as something very beautiful which I allow myself +to enjoy just once in a way." + +She was silent. + +"Sometimes ... sometimes, too, I imagine that in doing this I am not +behaving well to you, that in some way or other I offend or hurt +you. Then I sit brooding about it, until I begin to think that it +would be best to take leave of you for ever." + +She was still silent; motionless she sat, with her hands lying slackly +in her lap, her head slightly bowed, a smile about her mouth. + +"Speak to me," he begged. + +"You do not offend me, nor hurt me," she said. "Come to me whenever +you feel the need. Do always as you think best; and I shall think +that best too: you must not doubt that." + +"I should so much like to know in what way you like me?" + +"In what way? Surely, as a Madonna does a sinner who repents and +gives her his soul," she said, archly. "Am I not a Madonna?" + +"Are you content to be so?" + +"Can you be so ignorant about women as not to know how every one of +us has a longing to solace and relieve, in fact, to play at being +a Madonna?" + +"Do not speak like that," he said, with pain in his voice. + +"I am speaking seriously...." + +He looked at her; a doubt rose within him, but she smiled to him; +a calm glory was about her; she sat amidst the bouquets of the +rhododendrons as in the blossoming tenderness of one great mystic +flower. The wound of his doubt was soothed with balsam. He surrendered +himself wholly to his happiness; an atmosphere wafted about him of the +sweet calm of life, an atmosphere in which life becomes dispassionate +and restful and smiling, like the air which is rare about the gods. It +began to grow dark; a violet dusk fell from the sky like crape falling +upon crape; quietly the stars lighted up. The shadows in the garden, +between the shrubs among which they sat, flowed into one another; the +piano in the next villa had stopped. And happiness drew a veil between +his soul and the outside world: the garden with its design of plots +and paths; the villa with curtains at its windows and its iron gate; +the road behind, with the rattle of carriages and trams. All this +withdrew itself far back; all ordinary life retreated far from him; +vanishing behind the veil, it died away. It was no dream nor conceit: +reality to him was the happiness that had come while the world died +away; the happiness that was rare, invisible, intangible, coming from +the love which alone is sympathy, calm and without passion, the love +which exists purely of itself, without further thought either of +taking anything or even of giving anything, the love of the gods, +which is the soul of love itself. High he felt himself: the equal +of the illusion which he had of her, which she wished to be for his +sake, of which he also was now absolutely certain. For he could not +know that what had given him happiness--his illusion--so perfect, +so crystal-clear, might cause her some sort of grief; he could not +at this moment penetrate without sin into the truth of the law which +insists on equilibrium, which takes away from one what it offers to +another, which gives happiness and grief together; he could not know +that, if happiness was with him, with her there was anguish, anguish +in that she had to make a pretence and deceive him for his own sake, +anguish in that she wanted what was earthly, that she craved for what +was earthly, that she yearned for earthly pleasures!... And still less +could he know that, notwithstanding all this, there was nevertheless +voluptuousness in her anguish: that to suffer through him, to suffer +for him made of her anguish all voluptuousness. + + + + +2 + +It was dark and late; and they were still sitting there. + +"Shall we go for a walk?" she asked. + +He hesitated, with a smile; but she repeated her suggestion: + +"Why not, if you care to?" + +And he could no longer refuse. + +They rose and went along by the back of the house; and Cecile +said to the maid, whom she saw sitting with her needle-work by the +kitchen-door: + +"Greta, fetch me my little black hat, my black-lace shawl and a pair +of gloves." + +The servant rose and went into the house. Cecile noticed how a trifle +of shyness was emphasized in Quaerts' hesitation, now that they stood +loitering, waiting among the flower-beds. She smiled, plucked a rose +and placed it in her waist-band. + +"Have the boys gone to bed?" he asked. + +"Yes," she replied, still smiling, "long ago." + +The servant returned; Cecile put on the little black hat, threw the +lace about her neck, but refused the gloves which Greta offered her: + +"No, not these; get me a pair of grey ones...." + +The servant went into the house again; and as Cecile looked at Quaerts +her gaiety increased. She gave a little laugh: + +"What is the matter?" she asked, mischievously, knowing perfectly +well what it was. + +"Nothing, nothing!" he said, vaguely, and waited patiently until +Greta returned. + +Then they went through the garden-gate into the Woods. They walked +slowly, without speaking; Cecile played with her long gloves, not +putting them on. + +"Really ..." he began, hesitating. + +"Come, what is it?" + +"You know; I told you the other day: it's not right...." + +"What isn't?" + +"What we are doing now. You risk too much." + +"Too much, with you?" + +"If any one were to see us...." + +"And what then?" + +He shook his head: + +"You are wilful; you know quite well." + +She clinched her eyes; her mouth grew serious; she pretended to be +a little angry: + +"Listen, you mustn't be anxious if I'm not. I am doing no harm. Our +walks are not secret: Greta at least knows about them. And, besides, +I am free to do as I please." + +"It's my fault: the first time we went for a walk in the evening, +it was at my request...." + +"Then do penance and be good; come now, without scruple, at my +request," she said, with mock emphasis. + +He yielded, feeling far too happy to wish to make any sacrifice to +a convention which at that moment did not exist. + +They walked on silently. Cecile's sensations always came to her in +shocks of surprise. So it had been when Jules had grown suddenly angry +with her; so also, midway on the stair, after that conversation at +dinner of circles of sympathy. And now, precisely in the same way, with +the shock of sudden revelation, came this new sensation, that after +all she was not suffering so seriously as she had at first thought; +that her agony, being a voluptuousness, could not be a martyrdom; +that she was happy, that happiness had come about her in the fine +air of his atmosphere, because they were together, together.... Oh, +why wish for anything more, above all for things less pure? Did he +not love her and was not his love already a fact and was not his love +earthly enough for her, now that it was a fact? Did he not love her +with a tenderness which feared for anything that might trouble her +in the world, through her ignoring that world and wandering about +with him alone in the dark? Did he not love her with tenderness, but +also with the lustre of his soul's divinity, calling her Madonna and +by this title--unconsciously, perhaps, in his simplicity--making her +the equal of all that was divine in him? Did he not love her? Heavens +above, did he not love her? Well, what did she want more? No, no, +she wanted nothing more: she was happy, she shared happiness with +him; he gave it to her just as she gave it to him; it was a sphere +that moved with them wherever they went, seeking their way along the +darkling paths of the Woods, she leaning on his arm, he leading her, +for she could see nothing in the dark, which yet was not dark, but +pure light of their happiness. And so it was as if it were not evening, +but day, noonday, noonday in the night, hour of light in the dusk! + + + + +3 + +And the darkness was light; the night dawned with light which beamed +on every side. Calmly it beamed, the light, like one solitary planet, +beaming with the soft radiance of purity, bright in a heaven of +still, white, silver light, a heaven where they walked along milky +ways of light and music; it beamed and sounded beneath their feet; +it welled in seas of ether high above their heads and beamed and +sounded there, high and clear. And they were alone in their heaven, +in their infinite heaven, which was as space, endless beneath them +and above and around them, with endless spaces of light and music, +of light that was music. Their heaven lay eternal on every side +with blissful vistas of white radiance, fading away in lustre and +vanishing landscapes, like oases of flowers and plants beside waters +of light, still and clear and hushed with peace. For its peace was the +ether in which all desire is dissolved and becomes transparent and +crystal; and their life was a limpid existence in unruffled peace; +they walked on, in heavenly sympathy of fellowship, close together, +hemmed in one narrow circle, a circle of radiance which embraced them +both. Barely was there a recollection in them of the world which had +died out in the glitter of their heaven; there was naught in them but +the ecstasy of their love, which had become their soul, as if they +no longer had any soul, as if they were only love; and, when they +looked about them and into the light, they saw that their heaven, +in which their happiness was the light, was nothing but their love, +and they saw that the landscapes--the flowers and plants by waters +of light--were nothing but their love and that the endless space, +the eternities of light and space, of spaces full of light and music, +stretching on every hand, beneath them and above and around them, +that all this was nothing but their love, which had grown into heaven +and happiness. + +And now they came into the very midst, to the very sun-centre, the very +goal which Cecile had once foreseen, concealed in the distance, in the +irradiance of innate divinity. Up to the very goal they stepped; and +on every side it shot its endless rays into each and every eternity, +as if their love were becoming the centre of the universe... + + + + +4 + +But they sat on a bench, in the dark, not knowing that it was dark, +for their eyes were full of the light. They sat against each other, +silently at first, till, remembering that he had a voice and could +still speak words, he said: + +"I have never lived through such a moment as this. I forget where +we are and who we are and that we are human. We were, were we not? I +seem to remember that we once were?" + +"Yes, but we are that no longer," she said, smiling; and her eyes, +grown big, looked into the darkness that was light. + +"Once we were human, suffering and desiring, in a world where certainly +much was beautiful, but where much also was ugly." + +"Why speak of that now?" she asked; and her voice sounded to herself +as coming from very far and low beneath her. + +"I seemed to remember it." + +"I wanted to forget it." + +"Then I will do so too. But may I not thank you in human speech for +lifting me above humanity?" + +"Have I done so?" + +"Yes. May I thank you for it ... on my knees?" + +He knelt down and reverently took her hands. He could just distinguish +the outline of her figure, seated motionless and still upon the +bench; above them was a pearl-grey twilight of stars, between the +black boughs. She felt her hands in his and then his mouth, his kiss, +upon her hand. Very gently, she released herself; and then, with a +great soul of modesty, full of desireless happiness, very gently she +bent her arms about his neck, took his head against her and kissed +him on the forehead: + +"And I, I thank you too!" she whispered, rapturously. + +He was still; and she held him fast in her embrace. + +"I thank you," she said, "for teaching me this and how to be happy as +we are and no otherwise. You see, when I still lived and was human, +when I was a woman, I thought that I had lived before I met you, for I +had had a husband and I had children of whom I was very fond. But from +you I first learnt to live, to live without egoism and without desire; +I learnt that from you this evening or ... this day, which is it? You +have given me life and happiness and everything. And I thank you, +I thank you! You see, you are so great and so strong and so clear +and you have borne me towards your own happiness, which should also +be mine, but it was so far above me that, without you, I should never +have attained it! For there was a barrier for me which did not exist +for you. You see, when I was still human"--and she laughed, clasping +him more tightly--"I had a sister; and she too felt that there was +a barrier between her happiness and herself; and she felt that she +could not surmount this barrier and was so unhappy because of it that +she feared lest she should go mad. But I, I do not know: I dreamed, +I thought, I hoped, I waited, oh, I waited; and then you came; and you +made me understand at once that you could be no man, no husband for me, +but that you could be more for me: my angel, O my deliverer, who would +take me in his arms and bear me over the barrier into his own heaven, +where he himself was god, and make me his Madonna! Oh, I thank you, +I thank you! I do not know how to thank you; I can only say that I +love you, that I adore you, that I lay myself at your feet. Remain +as you are and let me adore you, while you kneel where you are. I may +adore you, may I not, while you yourself are kneeling? You see, I too +must confess, as you used to do," she continued, for now she could +not but confess. "I have not always been straightforward with you; +I have sometimes pretended to be the Madonna, knowing all the time +that I was but an ordinary woman, a woman who frankly loved you. But +I deceived you for your own happiness, did I not? You wished me so, +you were happy when I was so and no otherwise. And now, now too you +must forgive me, because now I need no longer pretend, because that is +past and has died away, because I myself have died away from myself, +because now I am no longer a woman, no longer human for myself, but +only what you wish me to be: a Madonna and your creature, an atom of +your own essence and divinity. So will you forgive me the past? May +I thank you for my happiness, for my heaven, my light, O my master, +for my joy, my great, my immeasurable joy?" + +He rose and sat beside her, taking her gently in his arms: + +"Are you happy?" he asked. + +"Yes," she said, laying her head on his shoulder in a giddiness of +light. "And you?" + +"Yes," he answered; and he asked again, "And do you desire ... nothing +more?" + +"No, nothing!" she stammered. "I want nothing but this, nothing but +what is mine, oh, nothing, nothing more!" + +"Swear it to me ... by something sacred!" + +"I swear it to you ... by yourself!" she declared. + +He pressed her head to his shoulder again. He smiled; and she did +not see that there was sadness in his laugh, for she was blinded +with light. + + + + +5 + +They were long silent, sitting there. She remembered having said +many things, she no longer knew what. About her she saw that it was +dark, with only that pearl-grey twilight of stars above their heads, +between the black boughs. She felt that she was lying with her head +on his shoulder; she heard his breath. A sort of chill crept down +her shoulders, notwithstanding the warmth of his embrace; she drew +the lace closer about her throat and felt that the bench on which +they sat was moist with dew. + +"I thank you, I love you so, you make me so happy," she repeated. + +He was silent; he pressed her to him very gently, with sheer +tenderness. Her last words still sounded in her ears after she had +spoken them. Then she was bound to acknowledge to herself that they +had not been spontaneous, like all that she had told him before, as +he knelt before her with his head at her breast. She had spoken them +to break the silence: formerly that silence had never troubled her; +why should it now? + +"Come!" he said gently; and even yet she did not hear the sadness of +his voice, in this single word. + +They rose and walked on. It came to him that it was late, that they +must return by the same path; beyond that, his thoughts were sorrowful +with many things which he could not have expressed; a poor twilight +had come about him, after the blinding light of their heaven of but +now. And he had to be cautious: it was very dark here; and he could +only just see the path, lying very pale and undecided at their feet; +they brushed against the trunks of the trees as they passed. + +"I can see nothing," said Cecile, laughing. "Can you see the way?" + +"Rely upon me: I can see quite well in the dark," he replied. "I have +eyes like a lynx...." + +Step by step they went on and she felt a sweet joy in being guided +by him; she clung close to his arm, saying laughingly that she was +afraid and that she would be terrified if he were suddenly to leave +hold of her. + +"And suppose I were suddenly to run away and leave you alone?" said +Quaerts, jestingly. + +She laughed; she besought him with a laugh not to do so. Then she +was silent, angry with herself for laughing; a burden of sadness +bore her down because of her jesting and laughter. She felt as if +she were unworthy of that into which, in radiant light, she had just +been received. + +And he too was filled with sadness: the sadness of having to lead +her through the dark, by invisible paths, past rows of invisible +tree-trunks which might graze and wound her; of having to lead her +through a dark wood, through a black sea, through an ink-dark sphere, +when they were returning from a heaven where all had been light and +all happiness, without sadness or darkness. + +And so they were silent in that sadness, until they reached the +highroad, the old Scheveningen Road. + +They approached the villa. A tram went by; two or three people passed +on foot; it was a fine evening. He brought her home and waited until +the door opened to his ring. The door remained unopened; meantime he +pressed her hand tightly and hurt her a little, involuntarily. Greta +must have fallen asleep, she thought: + +"Ring again, would you?" + +He rang again, louder this time; after a moment, the door opened. She +gave him her hand once more, with a smile. + +"Good-night, mevrouw," he said, taking her fingers respectfully and +raising his hat. + +Now, now she could hear the sound of his voice, with its note of +sadness.... + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +1 + +Then she knew, next day, when she sat alone, wrapped in reflection, +that the sphere of happiness, the highest and brightest, may not be +trod; that it may only beam upon us as a sun; and that we may not +enter into it, into the sacred sun-centre. They had done that.... + +Listless she sat, with her children by her side, Christie looking pale +and languid. Yes, she spoiled them; but how could she change herself? + +Weeks passed; and Cecile heard nothing from Quaerts. It was always +so: after he had been with her, weeks would drag by without her ever +seeing him. For he was much too happy with her, it was more than he +could bear. He looked upon her society as a rare pleasure to be very +jealously indulged. And she, she loved him simply, with the innermost +essence of her soul, loved him frankly, as a woman loves a man.... She +always wanted him, every day, every hour, at every pulse of her life. + +Then she met him by chance, at Scheveningen, where she had gone +one evening with Amélie and Suzette. Then once again at a reception +at Mrs. Hoze's. He seemed shy with her; and a certain pride in her +kept her from asking him to call. Yes, something was changed in what +had been woven between them. But she suffered sorely, suffered also +because of that foolish pride, because she had not humbly begged him +to come to her. Was he not her god? Whatever he did was good. + +So she did not see him for weeks and weeks. Life went on: each day +she had her little occupations, in her household, with her children; +Mrs. Hoze reproached her for her withdrawal from society and she +began to think more about her friends, to please Mrs. Hoze, who had +asked this of her. There were flashes in her memory; in those flashes +she saw the dinner-party, their conversations and walks, all her love +for him, all his reverence for her whom he called Madonna; their last +evening of light and ecstasy. Then she smiled; and the smile itself +beamed over her anguish, her anguish in that she no longer saw him, +in that she felt proud and cherished a little inward bitterness. Yet +all things must be well, as he wished them to be. + +Oh, the evenings, the summer evenings, cooling after the warm days, +the evenings when she sat alone, staring out from her room, where +the onyx lamp burnt with a subdued flame, staring out of the open +windows at the trams which, with their tinkling bells, came and went to +Scheveningen, full, full of people! Waiting, the endless long waiting, +evening after evening in solitude, after the children had gone to +bed! Waiting, when she simply sat still, staring fixedly before +her, looking at the trams, the tedious, everlasting trams! Where +was her modulated joy of dreaming happiness? And where, where was +her radiant happiness? Where was her struggle within herself between +what she was and what he saw in her? This struggle no longer existed, +this struggle also had been overcome; she no longer felt the force +of passion; she only longed to see him come as he had always come, +as he no longer came. Why did he not come? Happiness palled; people +were talking about them.... It was not right that they should see +much of each other--he had said so the evening before that highest +happiness--not good for him and not good for her. + +So she sat and thought; and great silent tears fell from her eyes, +for she knew that, though he remained away partly for his own sake, +it was above all for hers that he did not come. What had she not +said to him that evening on the bench in the Woods, when her arms +were about his neck! Oh, she should have been silent, she felt it +now! She should not have uttered her rapture, but have enjoyed it +secretly within herself; she should have let him utter himself: she +herself should have remained his Madonna. But she had been too full, +too happy; and in that over-brimming happiness she had been unable +to be other than true and clear as a bright mirror. + +He had glanced into her and read her entirely: she knew that, she +was certain of it. + +He knew now in what manner she loved him; she herself had revealed it +to him. But, at the same time, she had made known to him that this +was all past, that she was now what he wished her to be. And this +had been true then, clear at that time and true.... But now? Does +ecstasy endure only for one moment and did he know it? Did he know +that her soul's flight had reached its limit and must now descend +again to a commoner sphere? Did he know that she loved him again now, +quite ordinarily, with all her being, wholly and entirely, no longer +as widely as the heavens, only as widely as her arms could reach out +and embrace? And could he not return this love, this so petty love +of hers, and was that why he did not come to her? + + + + +2 + +Then she received his letter: + +"Forgive me if I put off from day to day coming to see you; forgive +me if even to-day I cannot decide to come and if I write to you +instead. Forgive me if I even venture to ask you whether it may +not be necessary that we see each other no more. If I hurt you and +offend you, if I--which may God forbid--cause you pain, forgive me, +forgive me! Perhaps I procrastinated a little from indecision, but +much more because I considered that I had no other choice. + +"There has been between our two lives, between our two souls, a +rare moment of happiness which was a special boon, a special grace +of heaven. Do you not think so too? Oh, if only I had the words to +tell you how grateful I am in my innermost soul for that happiness! If +later I ever look back upon my life, I shall always see that happiness +gleaming in between the ugliness and the blackness, like a star of +light. We received it as such, as a gift of light. And I venture to +ask you if that gift is not a thing for you and me to keep sacred? + +"Can we do that if I continue to see you? You, yes, I have no doubt +of you: you will be strong to keep it sacred, our sacred happiness, +especially because you have already had your struggle, as you confided +to me on that sacred evening. But I, can I too be strong, especially +now that I know that you have been through the struggle? I doubt +myself, I doubt my own force; I am afraid of myself. There is cruelty +in me, a love of destruction, something of a savage. As a boy I took +pleasure in destroying beautiful things, in breaking and soiling +them. The other day, Jules brought me some roses to my room; in the +evening, as I sat alone, thinking of you and of our happiness--yes, at +that very moment--my fingers began to fumble with a rose whose petals +were loose; and, when I saw that one rose dispetalled, there came a +cruel frenzy within me to tear and destroy them all; and I rumpled +every one of them. I only give you a small instance, because I do +not wish to give you larger instances, from vanity, lest you should +know how bad I am. I am afraid of myself. If I saw you again and +again and yet again, what should I begin to feel and think and wish, +unconsciously? Which would be the stronger, my soul or the beast that +is in me? Forgive me for laying bare my dread before you and do not +despise me for it. Up to the present I have not attempted a struggle, +in the sacred world of our happiness. I saw you, I saw you often before +I knew you; I guessed you as you were; I was permitted to speak to you; +it was given me to love you with my soul alone: I beseech you, let it +remain so. Let me continue to keep my happiness like this, to keep it +sacred, a thousand times sacred. I think it worth while to have lived, +now that I have known that: happiness, the highest. And I am afraid of +the struggle which would probably come and pollute that sacred thing. + +"Will you believe me when I swear to you that I have reflected deeply +on all this? Will you believe me when I swear to you that I suffer at +the thought of never being permitted to see you again? And, above all, +will you forgive me when I swear to you that I am acting in this way +because I think that I am doing right? Oh, I am grateful to you and +I love you as a soul of light alone, of nothing but light! + +"Perhaps I am wrong to send you this letter. I do not know. Perhaps +presently I will tear up what I have written...." + +Yet he had sent her the letter. + +There was great bitterness within her. She had struggled once, +had conquered herself and, in a sacred moment, had confessed both +struggle and conquest; she knew that fate had compelled her to do so; +she now knew what she would lose through her confession. For a short +moment, a single evening perhaps, she had been worthy of her god and +his equal. Now she was so no longer; for this reason also she felt +bitter. And she felt bitterest of all because the thought dared to +rise within her: + +"A god! Is he a god? Is a god afraid of the struggle?" + +Then her threefold bitterness changed to despair, black despair, a +night which her eyes sought to penetrate in order to see something +where they saw nothing, nothing; and she moaned low and wrung her +hands, sinking into a heap before the window and staring at the trams +which, with the tinkling of their bells, ran pitilessly to and fro. + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +She shut herself up; she saw little of her children; she told her +friends that she was ill. She was at home to no visitors. She guessed +intuitively that people in their circles were speaking of Quaerts and +herself. Life hung dull about her in a closely-woven web of tiresome, +tedious meshes; and she remained motionless in her corner, to avoid +entangling herself in those meshes. Once Jules forced his way to her; +he went upstairs, in spite of Greta's protests; he sought her in the +little boudoir and, not finding her, went resolutely to her bedroom. He +knocked without receiving a reply, but entered nevertheless. The room +was half in darkness, for she kept the blinds lowered; in the shadow +of the canopy which rose above the bedstead, with its hangings of +old-blue brocade, Cecile lay sleeping. Her tea-gown was open over +her breast; the train trailed from the bed and lay creased over the +carpet; her hair spread loosely over the pillows; one of her hands +was clutching nervously at the tulle bed-curtains. + +"Auntie!" cried Jules. "Auntie!" + +He shook her by the arm; and she woke heavily, with heavy, blue-girt +eyes. She did not recognize him at first and thought that he was +little Dolf. + +"It's me, Auntie; Jules...." + +She knew him now, asked how he came there, what was the matter and +if he did not know that she was ill? + +"I knew, but I wanted to speak to you. I came to speak to you about +... him...." + +"Him?" + +"About Taco. He asked me to tell you. He couldn't write to you, he +said. He is going on a long journey with his friend from Brussels; +he will be away a long time and he would like ... he would like to +take leave of you." + +"To take leave?" + +"Yes; and he told me to ask you if he might see you once more?" + +She had half-raised herself and was looking at Jules with a vacant +air. In an instant the memory ran through her brain of the long look +which Jules had directed on her so strangely when she saw Quaerts +for the first time and spoke to him coolly and distantly: + +"Have you many relations in The Hague?... You have no occupation, +I believe?... Sport?... Oh!..." + +Then came the memory of Jules playing the piano, of Rubinstein's +Romance, of the ecstasy of his fantasia: the glittering rainbows and +the souls turning to angels. + +"To take leave?" she repeated. + +Jules nodded: + +"Yes, Auntie, he is going away for ever so long." + +He could have shed tears himself and there were tears in his voice, +but he would not give way and his eyes merely grew moist. + +"He told me to ask you," he repeated, with difficulty. + +"If he can come and take leave?" + +"Yes, Auntie." + +She made no reply, but lay staring before her. An emptiness began +to stretch before her, in endless vistas. It was a shadowy image of +their evening of rapture, but no light beamed out of the shadow. + +"Emptiness!" she muttered through her closed lips. + +"What, Auntie?" + +She would have liked to ask Jules whether he was still, as formerly, +afraid of the emptiness within himself; but a gentleness of pity, a +soft feeling, a sweetening of the bitterness which filled her being, +stayed her. + +"To take leave?" she repeated, with a smile of melancholy; and the +big tears fell heavily, drop by drop, upon her fingers wrung together. + +"Yes, Auntie...." + +He could no longer restrain himself: a single sob convulsed his throat, +but he gave a cough to conceal it. Cecile threw her arm round his neck: + +"You are very fond of ... Taco, are you not?" she asked; and it struck +her that this was the first time that she had pronounced the name, +for she had never called Quaerts by it: she had never called him by +any name. + +He did not answer at first, but nestled in her arm, in her embrace, +and began to cry: + +"Yes, I can't tell you how fond I am of him," he said. + +"I know," she said; and she thought of the rainbows and the angels: +he had played as out of her own soul. + +"May he come?" asked Jules, loyally remembering his instructions. + +"Yes." + +"He asks if he might come this evening?" + +"Very well." + +"Auntie, he is going away, because of ... because of ..." + +"Because of what, Jules?" + +"Because of you: because you don't like him and will not marry +him! Mamma says so...." + +She made no reply; she lay sobbing, with her head against Jules' head. + +"Is it true, Auntie? No, it is not true, is it?..." + +"No." + +"Why then?" + +She raised herself suddenly, conquering herself, and looked at him +fixedly: + +"He is going away because he must, Jules. I cannot tell you why. But +what he does is right. All that he does is right." + +The boy looked at her, motionless, with large wet eyes, full of +astonishment: + +"Is right?" he repeated. + +"Yes. He is better than any one of us. If you go on loving him, Jules, +it will bring you happiness, even if ... if you never see him again." + +"Do you think so?" he asked. "Does he bring happiness? Even in that +case?..." + +"Even in that case." + +She listened to her own words as she spoke: it was to her as if another +were speaking, another who consoled not only Jules but herself as +well and who would perhaps give her the strength to take leave of +Taco in the manner which would be best, without despair. + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +1 + +"So you are going on a long journey?" she asked. + +He sat facing her, motionless, with anguish on his face. Outwardly +she was very calm, only there was a sadness in her look and in her +voice. In her white dress, with the girdle falling before her feet, +she lay back among the three pillows of the rose-moiré sofa; the tips +of her little slippers were buried in the white sheepskin rug. On the +table before her lay a great bouquet of loose roses, pink, white and +yellow, bound together with a broad riband. He had brought them for +her and she had not yet placed them. There was a great calm about her; +the exquisite atmosphere of the boudoir seemed unchanged. + +"Tell me, am I not paining you severely?" he asked, with the anguish +in his eyes, the eyes which she now knew so well. + +She smiled: + +"No," she said. "I will be honest with you. I have suffered, but I +suffer no longer. I have struggled with myself for the second time +and I have conquered myself. Will you believe me?" + +"If you knew the remorse that I feel...." + +She rose and went to him: + +"What for?" she asked, in a clear voice. "Because you read me and +gave me happiness?" + +"Did I?" + +"Have you forgotten?" + +"No," he said, "but I thought...." + +"What?" + +"I don't know; I thought that you would ... would suffer so ... and +I ... I cursed myself!..." + +She shook her head gently, with smiling disapproval: + +"For shame!" she said. "Do not blaspheme!..." + +"Can you forgive me?" + +"I have nothing to forgive. Listen to me. Swear to me that you believe +me, that you believe that you have given me happiness and that I am +not suffering." + +"I ... I swear." + +"I trust that you are not swearing this merely to satisfy my wish." + +"You have been the highest thing in my life," he said, gently. + +A rapture shot through her soul. + +"Tell me only...." she began. + +"What?" + +"Tell me if you believe that I, I, I ... shall always remain the +highest thing in your life." + +She stood before him, tall, in her clinging white. She seemed to shed +radiance; never had he seen her so beautiful. + +"I am certain of that," he said. "Certain, oh, certain!... My God, +how can I convey the certainty of it to you?" + +"But I believe you, I believe you!" she exclaimed. + +She laughed a laugh of rapture. In her soul a sun seemed to be shooting +forth rays on every side. She placed her arm tenderly about his neck +and kissed his forehead with a chaste caress. + +For one moment he seemed to forget everything. He too rose, took her +in his arms, almost savagely, and clasped her suddenly to him, as if +he were about to crush her against his breast. She just caught sight +of his sad eyes; then she saw nothing more, blinded by the kisses +of his mouth, which scorched her whole face as though with sparks of +fire. With the sun-rapture of her soul was mingled a bliss of earth, +a yielding to the violence of his embrace. But the thought flashed +across her of what she would lose if she yielded. She released herself, +put him away and said: + +"And now ... go." + +He felt stunned; he understood that he had no choice: + +"Yes, yes, I am going," he said. "I may write to you, may I not?" + +She nodded yes, with her smile: + +"Write to me, I shall write to you too," she said. "Let me always +hear from you...." + +"Then these are not to be the last words between us? This ... this +... is not the end?" + +"No." + +"Thank you. Good-bye, mevrouw, good-bye ... Cecile. Ah, if you knew +what this moment costs me!" + +"It must be. It cannot be otherwise. Go, go. You must go. Do go...." + +She gave him her hand again, for the last time. A moment later he +was gone. + + + + +2 + +She looked about her strangely, with bewildered eyes, with hands +locked together: + +"Go, go...." she repeated, like one raving. + +Then she noticed the roses. With something like a faint scream she +sank down before the little table and buried her face in his gift, +until the thorns wounded her face. The pain--two drops of blood which +fell from her forehead--brought her back to her senses. Standing +before the Venetian mirror hanging over her writing-table, she wiped +away the red spots with her handkerchief. + +"Happiness!" she stammered to herself. "His happiness! The highest +thing in his life! So he knew happiness, though short it was. But now +... now he suffers, now he will suffer again, as he did before. The +remembrance of happiness cannot do everything. Ah, if it could only +do that, then everything would be well, everything!... I wish for +nothing more, I have had my life, my own life, my own happiness; I +now have my children; I now belong to them. To him I must no longer +be anything...." + +She turned away from the mirror and sat down on the settee, as though +tired with a great space traversed, and she closed her eyes, as though +blinded with too great a light. She folded her hands together, like +one in prayer; her face beamed in its fatigue, from smile to smile. + +"Happiness!" she repeated, faltering between her smiles. "The highest +thing in his life! O my God, happiness! I thank Thee, O God, I thank +Thee!..." + + + THE END + + + + + + + +NOTES + + +[1] Two military staff-colleges in Holland and Java respectively. + +[2] The leading club at The Hague. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Ecstasy: A Study of Happiness, by Louis Couperus + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ECSTASY: A STUDY OF HAPPINESS *** + +***** This file should be named 37770-8.txt or 37770-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/7/7/37770/ + +Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project +Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously +made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Ecstasy: A Study of Happiness + A Novel + +Author: Louis Couperus + +Translator: Alexander Teixeira de Mattos + +Release Date: October 16, 2011 [EBook #37770] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ECSTASY: A STUDY OF HAPPINESS *** + + + + +Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project +Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously +made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + +</pre> + +<div class="front"> +<div class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first"></p> +<div class="figure xd20e114width"><img src="images/frontcover.jpg" alt= +"Original Front Cover." width="471" height="720"></div> +</div> +</div> +<div class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first xd20e119">Ecstasy: A Study of Happiness</p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="div1 xd20e122"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first xd20e123">THE BOOKS OF THE SMALL SOULS</p> +<p class="xd20e119">By</p> +<p class="xd20e123">LOUIS COUPERUS</p> +<p class="xd20e119">Translated by<br> +ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA de MATTOS</p> +<div class="table"> +<table class="xd20e133" width="100%"> +<tr> +<td>I.</td> +<td><a class="pglink xd20e41" title="Link to Project Gutenberg ebook" +href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34021">SMALL SOULS</a>.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td>II.</td> +<td><a class="pglink xd20e41" title="Link to Project Gutenberg ebook" +href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37578">THE LATER LIFE.</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td>III.</td> +<td><a class="pglink xd20e41" title="Link to Project Gutenberg ebook" +href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34458">THE TWILIGHT OF THE +SOULS</a>.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td>IV.</td> +<td><a class="pglink xd20e41" title="Link to Project Gutenberg ebook" +href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34761">DR. ADRIAAN</a>.</td> +</tr> +</table> +</div> +</div> +</div> +<div class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first"></p> +<div class="figure xd20e166width"><img src="images/titlepage.gif" alt= +"Original Title Page." width="434" height="720"></div> +</div> +</div> +<div class="titlePage"> +<div class="docTitle"> +<div class="mainTitle">Ecstasy:<br> +A Study of Happiness</div> +<div class="subTitle"><i>A Novel</i></div> +</div> +<div class="byline">By<br> +<span class="docAuthor">Louis Couperus</span><br> +Author of “Small Souls,” “Old People and the Things +that Pass,” etc.<br> +Translated by<br> +<span class="docAuthor">Alexander Teixeira de Mattos</span></div> +<div class="figure xd20e195width"><img src="images/logo.gif" alt= +"Original Publisher Logo." width="115" height="109"></div> +<div class="docImprint">New York<br> +Dodd, Mead and Company<br> +<span class="docDate">1919</span></div> +</div> +<div class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first xd20e119"><span class="sc">Copyright, 1919<br> +By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc.</span></p> +<p class="xd20e119">VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY<br> +BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK</p> +</div> +</div> +<div id="note" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h2 class="main">Translator’s Note</h2> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">This delicate story is Louis Couperus’ third +novel. It appeared in the original Dutch some twenty-seven years ago +and has not hitherto been published in America. At the time when it was +written, the author was a leading member of what was then known as the +“sensitivist” school of Dutch novelists; and the reader +will not be slow in discovering that the story possesses an elusive +charm of its own, a charm marking a different tendency from that of the +later books.</p> +<p class="signed"><span class="sc">Alexander Teixeira de +Mattos</span></p> +<p class="signed"><span class="sc">Chelsea</span>, <i>2 June, 1919</i> +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb1" href="#pb1" name= +"pb1">1</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +</div> +<div class="body"> +<div id="ch1" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h2 id="xd20e240" class="super">Ecstasy: A Study of Happiness</h2> +<h2 class="main">Chapter I</h2> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">1</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">Dolf Van Attema, in the course of an after-dinner +stroll, had called on his wife’s sister, Cecile van Even, on the +Scheveningen Road. He was waiting in her little boudoir, pacing up and +down, among the rosewood chairs and the <i lang="fr">vieux rose +moiré</i> ottomans, over and over again, with three or four long +steps, measuring the width of the tiny room. On an onyx pedestal, at +the head of a sofa, burned an onyx lamp, glowing sweetly within its +lace shade, a great six-petalled flower of light.</p> +<p>Mevrouw was still with the children, <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb2" href="#pb2" name="pb2">2</a>]</span>putting them to bed, the maid +had told him; so he would not be able to see his godson, little Dolf, +that evening. He was sorry. He would have liked to go upstairs and romp +with Dolf where he lay in his little bed; but he remembered +Cecile’s request and his promise on an earlier occasion, when a +romp of this sort with his uncle had kept the boy awake for hours. So +Dolf van Attema waited, smiling at his own obedience, measuring the +little boudoir with his steps, the steps of a firmly-built man, short, +broad and thick-set, no longer in his first youth, showing symptoms of +baldness under his short brown hair, with small blue-grey eyes, kindly +and pleasant of glance, and a mouth which was firm and determined, in +spite of the smile, in the midst of the ruddy growth of his crisp +Teutonic beard.</p> +<p>A log smouldered on the little hearth of nickel and gilt; and two +little flames flickered <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb3" href="#pb3" +name="pb3">3</a>]</span>discreetly: a fire of peaceful intimacy in that +twilight atmosphere of lace-shielded lamplight. Intimacy and +discreetness shed over the whole little room an aroma as of violets; a +suggestion of the scent of violets nestled, too, in the soft tints of +the draperies and furniture—rosewood and <i>rose +moiré</i>—and hung about the corners of the little +rosewood writing-table, with its silver appointments and its +photographs under smooth glass frames. Above the writing-table hung a +small white Venetian mirror. The gentle air of modest refinement, the +subdued and almost prudish tenderness which floated about the little +hearth, the writing-table and the sofa, gliding between the quiet folds +of the faded hangings, had something soothing, something to quiet the +nerves, so that Dolf presently ceased his work of measurement, sat +down, looked around him and finally remained staring <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb4" href="#pb4" name="pb4">4</a>]</span>at the +portrait of Cecile’s husband, the minister of State, dead +eighteen months back.</p> +<p>After that he had not long to wait before Cecile came in. She +advanced towards him smiling, as he rose from his seat, pressed his +hand, excused herself that the children had detained her. She always +put them to sleep herself, her two boys, Dolf and Christie, and then +they said their prayers, one beside the other in their little beds. The +scene came back to Dolf as she spoke of the children; he had often seen +it.</p> +<p>Christie was not well, she said; he was so listless; she hoped it +might not turn out to be measles.</p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">2</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">There was motherliness in her voice, but she did not +seem a mother as she reclined, girlishly slight, on the sofa, with +behind <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb5" href="#pb5" name= +"pb5">5</a>]</span>her the soft glow of the lace flower of light on its +stem of onyx. She was still in the black of her mourning. Here and +there the light at her back touched her flaxen hair with a frail golden +halo; the loose crape tea-gown accentuated the maidenly slimness of her +figure, with the gently curving lines of her long neck and somewhat +narrow shoulders; her arms hung with a certain weariness as her hands +lay in her lap; gently curving, too, were the lines of her girlish +youth of bust and slender waist, slender as a vase is slender, so that +she seemed a still expectant flower of maidenhood, scarcely more than +adolescent, not nearly old enough to be the mother of her children, her +two boys of six and seven.</p> +<p>Her features were lost in the shadow—the lamplight touching +her hair with gold—and Dolf could not at first see into her eyes; +but presently, as he grew accustomed <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb6" +href="#pb6" name="pb6">6</a>]</span>to the shade, these shone softly +out from the dusk of her features. She spoke in her low-toned voice, a +little faint and soft, like a subdued whisper; she spoke again of +Christie, of his god-child Dolf and then asked for news of +Amélie, her sister.</p> +<p>“We are all well, thank you,” he replied. “You may +well ask how we are: we hardly ever see you.”</p> +<p>“I go out so little,” she said, as an excuse.</p> +<p>“That is just where you make a mistake: you do not get half +enough air, not half enough society. Amélie was saying so only +at dinner to-day; and that’s why I’ve looked in to ask you +to come round to us to-morrow evening.”</p> +<p>“Is it a party?”</p> +<p>“No; nobody.”</p> +<p>“Very well, I will come. I shall be very pleased.” +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb7" href="#pb7" name= +"pb7">7</a>]</span></p> +<p>“Yes, but why do you never come of your own accord?”</p> +<p>“I can’t summon up the energy.”</p> +<p>“Then how do you spend your evenings?”</p> +<p>“I read, I write, or I do nothing at all. The last is really +the most delightful: I only feel myself alive when I am doing +<i>nothing</i>.”</p> +<p>He shook his head:</p> +<p>“You’re a funny girl. You really don’t deserve +that we should like you as much as we do.”</p> +<p>“How?” she asked, archly.</p> +<p>“Of course, it makes no difference to you. You can get on just +as well without us.”</p> +<p>“You mustn’t say that; it’s not true. Your +affection means a great deal to me, but it takes so much to induce me +to go out. When I am once in my chair, I sit thinking, or not thinking; +and then I find it difficult to stir.” <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb8" href="#pb8" name="pb8">8</a>]</span></p> +<p>“What a horribly lazy mode of life!”</p> +<p>“Well, there it is!... You like me so much: can’t you +forgive me my laziness? Especially when I have promised you to come +round to-morrow.”</p> +<p>He was captivated:</p> +<p>“Very well,” he said, laughing. “Of course you are +free to live as you choose. We like you just the same, in spite of your +neglect of us.”</p> +<p>She laughed, reproached him with using ugly words and rose slowly to +pour him out a cup of tea. He felt a caressing softness creep over him, +as if he would have liked to stay there a long time, talking and +sipping tea in that violet-scented atmosphere of subdued refinement: +he, the man of action, the politician, member of the Second Chamber, +every hour of whose day was filled up with committees here and +committees there.</p> +<p>“You were saying that you read and <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb9" href="#pb9" name="pb9">9</a>]</span>wrote a good +deal: what do you write?” he asked.</p> +<p>“Letters.”</p> +<p>“Nothing but letters?”</p> +<p>“I love writing letters. I write to my brother and sister in +India.”</p> +<p>“But that is not the only thing?”</p> +<p>“Oh, no!”</p> +<p>“What else do you write then?”</p> +<p>“You’re growing a bit indiscreet, you know.”</p> +<p>“Nonsense!” he laughed back, as if he were quite within +his right. “What is it? Literature?”</p> +<p>“Of course not! My diary.”</p> +<p>He laughed loudly and gaily:</p> +<p>“You keep a diary! What do you want with a diary? Your days +are all exactly alike!”</p> +<p>“Indeed they are not.”</p> +<p>He shrugged his shoulders, quite non-plussed. She had always been a +riddle to <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb10" href="#pb10" name= +"pb10">10</a>]</span>him. She knew this and loved to mystify him:</p> +<p>“Sometimes my days are very nice and sometimes very +horrid.”</p> +<p>“Really?” he said, smiling, looking at her out of his +kind little eyes.</p> +<p>But still he did not understand.</p> +<p>“And so sometimes I have a great deal to write in my +diary,” she continued.</p> +<p>“Let me see some of it.”</p> +<p>“By all means ... after I’m dead.”</p> +<p>A mock shiver ran through his broad shoulders:</p> +<p>“Brr! How gloomy!”</p> +<p>“Dead! What is there gloomy about that?” she asked, +almost merrily.</p> +<p>But he rose to go:</p> +<p>“You frighten me,” he said, jestingly. “I must be +going home; I have a lot to do still. So we see you +to-morrow?”</p> +<p>“Thanks, yes: to-morrow.”</p> +<p>He took her hand; and she struck a little <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb11" href="#pb11" name="pb11">11</a>]</span>silver +gong, for him to be let out. He stood looking at her a moment longer, +with a smile in his beard:</p> +<p>“Yes, you’re a funny girl, and yet ... and yet we all +like you!” he repeated, as if he wished to excuse himself in his +own eyes for this affection.</p> +<p>And he stooped and kissed her on the forehead: he was so much older +than she.</p> +<p>“I am very glad that you all like me,” she said. +“Till to-morrow, then. Good-bye.”</p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">3</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">He went; and she was alone. The words of their +conversation seemed still to be floating in the silence, like vanishing +atoms. Then the silence became complete; and Cecile sat motionless, +leaning back in the three little cushions of the sofa, black in her +crape against the light of the lamp, her eyes gazing out before her. +All <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb12" href="#pb12" name= +"pb12">12</a>]</span>around her a vague dream descended as of little +clouds, in which faces shone for an instant, from which low voices +issued without logical sequence of words, an aimless confusion of +recollection. It was the dreaming of one on whose brain lay no +obsession either of happiness or of grief, the dreaming of a mind +filled with peaceful light: a wide, still, grey Nirvana, in which all +the trouble of thinking flows away and the thoughts merely wander back +over former impressions, taking them here and there, without selecting. +For Cecile’s future appeared to her as a monotonous sweetness of +unruffled peace, in which Dolf and Christie grew up into jolly boys, +young undergraduates, men, while she herself remained nothing but the +mother, for in the unconsciousness of her spiritual life she did not +know herself entirely. She did not know that she was more wife than +mother, however fond she <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb13" href= +"#pb13" name="pb13">13</a>]</span>might be of her children. Swathed in +the clouds of her dreaming, she did not feel that there was something +missing, by reason of her widowhood; she did not feel loneliness, nor a +need of some one beside her, nor regret that yielding air alone flowed +about her, in which her arms might shape themselves and grope in vain +for something to embrace. The capacity for these needs was there, but +so deep hidden in her soul’s unconsciousness that she did not +know of its existence nor suspect that one day it might assert itself +and rise up slowly, up and up, an apparition of more evident +melancholy. For such melancholy as was in her dreaming seemed to her to +belong to the past, to the memory of the dear husband whom she had +lost, and never, never, to the present, to an unrealized sense of her +loneliness.</p> +<p>Whoever had told her now that something was wanting in her life +would have <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb14" href="#pb14" name= +"pb14">14</a>]</span>roused her indignation; she herself imagined that +she had everything that she wanted; and she valued highly the calm +happiness of the innocent egoism in which she and her children +breathed, a happiness which she thought complete. When she dreamed, as +now, about nothing in particular—little dream-clouds fleeing +across the field of her imagination, with other cloudlets in their +wake—sometimes great tears would well into her eyes and trickle +slowly down her cheek; but to her these were only tears of an +unspeakably vague melancholy, a light load upon her heart, barely +oppressive and there for some reason which she did not know, for she +had ceased to mourn the loss of her husband.</p> +<p>In this manner she could pass whole evenings, simply sitting +dreaming, never wearying of herself, nor reflecting how the people +outside hurried and tired themselves, aimlessly, without being happy, +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb15" href="#pb15" name= +"pb15">15</a>]</span>whereas she was happy, happy in the cloudland of +her dreams.</p> +<p>The hours sped and her hand was too slack to reach for the book upon +the table beside her; slackness at last permeated her so thoroughly +that one o’clock arrived and she could not yet decide to get up +and go to her bed. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb16" href="#pb16" +name="pb16">16</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +</div> +</div> +<div id="ch2" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h2 id="xd20e416" class="main">Chapter II</h2> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">1</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">Next evening, when Cecile entered the Van +Attemas’ drawing-room, slowly with languorous steps, in the +sinuous black of her crape, Dolf at once came to her and took her +hand:</p> +<p>“I hope you won’t be annoyed. Quaerts called; and Dina +had told the servants that we were at home. I’m +sorry....”</p> +<p>“It doesn’t matter!” she whispered.</p> +<p>Nevertheless, she was a little irritated, in her sensitiveness, at +unexpectedly meeting this stranger, whom she did not remember ever to +have seen at Dolf’s and who now rose from where he had been +sitting with Dolf’s great-aunt, old Mrs. Hoze, Amélie and +the two daughters, <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb17" href="#pb17" +name="pb17">17</a>]</span>Anna and Suzette. Cecile kissed the old lady +and greeted the rest of the circle in turn, welcomed with a smile by +all of them. Dolf introduced:</p> +<p>“My friend Taco Quaerts.... Mrs. van Even, my +sister-in-law.”</p> +<p>They sat a little scattered round the great fire on the open hearth, +the piano close to them in the corner, its draped back turned to them, +and Jules, the youngest boy, sitting behind it, playing a romance by +Rubinstein and so absorbed that he had not heard his aunt come in.</p> +<p>“Jules!...” Dolf called out.</p> +<p>“Leave him alone,” said Cecile.</p> +<p>The boy did not reply and went on playing. Cecile, across the piano, +saw his tangled hair and his eyes abstracted in the music. A feebleness +of melancholy slowly rose within her, like a burden, like a burden that +climbed up her breast and stifled her breathing. From time to time, +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb18" href="#pb18" name= +"pb18">18</a>]</span><i>forte</i> notes falling suddenly from +Jules’ fingers gave her little shocks in her throat; and a +strange feeling of uncertainty seemed winding her about as with vague +meshes: a feeling not new to her, one in which she seemed no longer to +possess herself, to be lost and wandering in search of herself, in +which she did not know what she was thinking, nor what at this very +moment she might say. Something melted in her brain, like a momentary +weakness. Her head sank a little; and, without hearing distinctly, it +seemed to her that once before she had heard this romance played so, +exactly so, as Jules was now playing it, very, very long ago, in some +former existence ages agone, in just the same circumstances, in this +very circle of people, before this very fire.... The tongues of flame +shot up with the same flickerings as from the logs of ages back; and +Suzette blinked with the same expression <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb19" href="#pb19" name="pb19">19</a>]</span>which she had worn then +on that former occasion....</p> +<p>Why was it that Cecile should be sitting here again now, in the +midst of them all? Why was it necessary, to sit like this round a fire, +listening to music? How strange it was and what strange things there +were in this world!... Still, it was pleasant to be in this cosy +company, so agreeably quiet, without many words, the music behind the +piano dying away plaintively, until it suddenly stopped.</p> +<p>Mrs. Hoze’s voice had a ring of sympathy as she murmured in +Cecile’s ear:</p> +<p>“So we are getting you back, dear? You are coming out of your +shell again?”</p> +<p>Cecile pressed her hand, with a little laugh:</p> +<p>“But I never hid myself from you! I have always been in to +you!”</p> +<p>“Yes, but we had to come to you. You always stayed at home, +didn’t you?” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb20" href= +"#pb20" name="pb20">20</a>]</span></p> +<p>“You’re not angry with me, are you?”</p> +<p>“No, darling, of course not; you have had such a great +sorrow.”</p> +<p>“Oh, I have still: I seem to have lost everything!”</p> +<p>How was it that she suddenly realized this? She never had that sense +of loss in her own home, among the clouds of her day-dreams, but +outside, among other people, she immediately felt that she had lost +everything, everything....</p> +<p>“But you have your children.”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>She answered faintly, wearily, with a sense of loneliness, of +terrible loneliness, like one floating aimlessly in space, borne upon +thinnest air, in which her yearning arms groped in vain.</p> +<p>Mrs. Hoze stood up. Dolf came to take her into the other room, for +whist.</p> +<p>“You too, Cecile?” he asked.</p> +<p>“No, you know I never touch a card!” <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb21" href="#pb21" name="pb21">21</a>]</span></p> +<p>He did not press her; there were Quaerts and the girls to make +up.</p> +<p>“What are you doing there, Jules?” he asked, glancing +across the piano.</p> +<p>The boy had remained sitting there, forgotten. He now rose and +appeared, tall, grown out of his strength, with strange eyes.</p> +<p>“What were you doing?<span class="corr" id="xd20e491" title= +"Not in source">”</span></p> +<p>“I ... I was looking for something ... a piece of +music.”</p> +<p>“Don’t sit moping like that, my boy!” growled +Dolf, kindly, with his deep voice. “What’s become of those +cards again, Amélie?”</p> +<p>“I don’t know,” said his wife, looking about +vaguely. “Where are the cards, Anna?”</p> +<p>“Aren’t they in the box with the counters?”</p> +<p>“No,” Dolf grumbled. “Nothing is ever where it +ought to be.” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb22" href="#pb22" +name="pb22">22</a>]</span></p> +<p>Anna got up, looked, found the cards in the drawer of a buhl +cabinet. Amélie also had risen, stood arranging the music on the +piano. She was for ever ordering things in her rooms and immediately +forgetting where she had put them, tidying with her fingers and +perfectly absent in her mind.</p> +<p>“Anna, come and draw a card too. You can play in the next +rubber,” cried Dolf, from the other room.</p> +<p>The two sisters remained alone, with Jules.</p> +<p>The boy had sat down on a stool at Cecile’s feet:</p> +<p>“Mamma, do leave my music alone.”</p> +<p>Amélie sat down beside Cecile:</p> +<p>“Is Christie better?”</p> +<p>“He is a little livelier to-day.”</p> +<p>“I’m glad. Have you never met Quaerts before?”</p> +<p>“No.” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb23" href="#pb23" +name="pb23">23</a>]</span></p> +<p>“Really? He comes here so often.”</p> +<p>Cecile looked through the open folding-doors at the card-table. Two +candles stood upon it. Mrs. Hoze’s pink face was lit up clearly, +with its smooth and stately features; her hair gleamed silver-grey. +Quaerts sat opposite her: Cecile noticed the round, vanishing +silhouette of his head, the hair cut very close, thick and black above +the glittering white streak of his collar. His arms made little +movements as he threw down a card or gathered up a trick. His person +had something about it of great power, something energetic and robust, +something of every-day life, which Cecile disliked.</p> +<p>“Are the girls fond of cards?”</p> +<p>“Suzette is, Anna not so very: she’s not so +brisk.”</p> +<p>Cecile saw that Anna sat behind her father, looking on with eyes +which did not understand. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb24" href= +"#pb24" name="pb24">24</a>]</span></p> +<p>“Do you take them out much nowadays?” Cecile asked +next.</p> +<p>“Yes, I have to. Suzette likes going out, but not Anna. +Suzette will be a pretty girl, don’t you think?”</p> +<p>“Suzette’s an awful flirt!” said Jules. “At +our last dinner-party....”</p> +<p>He stopped suddenly:</p> +<p>“No, I won’t tell you. It’s not right to tell +tales, is it, Auntie?”</p> +<p>Cecile smiled:</p> +<p>“No, of course it’s not.”</p> +<p>“I want always to do what’s right.”</p> +<p>“That is very good.”</p> +<p>“No, no!” he said deprecatingly. “Everything seems +to me so bad, do you know. Why is everything so bad, Auntie?”</p> +<p>“But there is much that is good too, Jules.”</p> +<p>He shook his head:</p> +<p>“No, no!” he repeated. “Everything <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb25" href="#pb25" name="pb25">25</a>]</span>is bad. +Everything is very bad. Everything is selfishness. Just mention +something that’s not selfish!”</p> +<p>“Parents’ love for their children.”</p> +<p>But Jules shook his head again:</p> +<p>“Parents’ love is ordinary selfishness. Children are a +part of their parents, who only love themselves when they love their +children.”</p> +<p>“Jules!” cried Amélie. “Your remarks are +always much too decided. You know I don’t like it: you are much +too young to talk like that. One would think you knew +everything!”</p> +<p>The boy was silent.</p> +<p>“And I always say that we never know anything. We never know +anything, don’t you agree, Cecile? I, at least, never know +anything, never....”</p> +<p>She looked round the room absently. Her fingers smoothed the fringe +of her <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb26" href="#pb26" name= +"pb26">26</a>]</span>chair, tidying. Cecile put her arm softly round +Jules’ neck.</p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">2</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">It was Quaerts’ turn to sit out from the +card-table; and, though Dolf pressed him to go on playing, he rose:</p> +<p>“I want to go and talk to Mrs. van Even,” Cecile heard +him say.</p> +<p>She saw him come towards the big drawing-room, where she was still +sitting with Amélie—Jules still at her feet—engaged +in desultory talk, for Amélie could never maintain a +conversation, always wandering and losing the threads. She did not know +why, but Cecile suddenly assumed a most serious expression, as though +she were discussing very important matters with her sister; and yet all +that she said was:</p> +<p>“Jules ought really to take lessons in harmony, when he +composes so nicely....” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb27" href= +"#pb27" name="pb27">27</a>]</span></p> +<p>Quaerts had approached; he sat down beside them, with a scarcely +perceptible shyness in his manner, a gentle hesitation in the brusque +force of his movements.</p> +<p>But Jules fired up:</p> +<p>“No, Auntie, I want to be taught as little as possible! I +don’t want to be learning names and principles and +classifications. I couldn’t do it. I only compose like this, like +this....” And he suited his phrase with a vague movement of his +fingers.</p> +<p>“Jules can hardly read, it’s a shame!” said +Amélie.</p> +<p>“And he plays so nicely,” said Cecile.</p> +<p>“Yes, Auntie, I remember things, I pick them out on the piano. +Oh, it’s not really clever: it just comes out of myself, you +know!”</p> +<p>“But that’s so splendid!”</p> +<p>“No, no! You have to know the names and principles and +classifications. You <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb28" href="#pb28" +name="pb28">28</a>]</span>want that in everything. I shall never learn +technique; I’m no good.”</p> +<p>He closed his eyes for a moment; a look of sadness flitted across +his restless face.</p> +<p>“You know a piano is so ... so big, a great piece of +furniture, isn’t it? But a violin, oh, how delightful! You hold +it to you like this, against your neck, almost against your heart; it +is almost part of you; and you stroke it, like this, you could almost +kiss it! You feel the soul of the violin quivering inside its body. And +then you only have just a string or two, two or three strings which +sing everything. Oh, a violin, a violin!”</p> +<p>“Jules....” Amélie began.</p> +<p>“And, oh, Auntie, a harp! A harp, like this, between your +legs, a harp which you embrace with both your arms: a harp is exactly +like an angel, with long golden hair.... Ah, I’ve never yet +played on a harp!” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb29" href= +"#pb29" name="pb29">29</a>]</span></p> +<p>“Jules, leave off!” cried Amélie, sharply. +“You drive me silly with that nonsense! I wonder you’re not +ashamed, before Mr. Quaerts.”</p> +<p>Jules looked up in surprise:</p> +<p>“Before Taco? Do you think I’ve anything to be ashamed +of, Taco?”</p> +<p>“Of course not, my boy.”</p> +<p>The sound of his voice was like a caress. Cecile looked at him, +astonished; she would have expected him to make fun of Jules. She did +not understand him, but she disliked him exceedingly, so healthy and +strong, with his energetic face and his fine, expressive mouth, so +different from Amélie and Jules and herself.</p> +<p>“Of course not, my boy.”</p> +<p>Jules glanced at his mother with a slight look of disdain, as if to +say that he knew better:</p> +<p>“You see! Taco’s a good fellow.”</p> +<p>He turned his footstool round towards <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb30" href="#pb30" name="pb30">30</a>]</span>Quaerts and laid his head +against his knee.</p> +<p>“Jules!”</p> +<p>“Pray let him be, mevrouw.”</p> +<p>“Every one spoils that boy....”</p> +<p>“Except yourself,” said Jules.</p> +<p>“I! I!” cried Amélie, indignantly. “I spoil +you out and out! I wish I knew how not to give way to you! I wish I +could send you to Kampen or Deli!<a class="noteref" id="xd20e656src" +href="#xd20e656" name="xd20e656src">1</a> That would make a man of you! +But I can’t do it by myself; and your father spoils you too.... I +can’t think what’s going to become of you!”</p> +<p>“What is going to become of you, Jules?” asked +Quaerts.</p> +<p>“I don’t know. I mustn’t go to college, I am too +weak a doll to do much work.”</p> +<p>“Would you like to go to Deli some day?”</p> +<p>“Yes, with you.... Not alone; oh, to <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb31" href="#pb31" name="pb31">31</a>]</span>be +alone, always alone! You will see: I shall always be alone; and it is +so terrible to be alone!”</p> +<p>“But, Jules, you are not alone now!” said Cecile, +reproachfully.</p> +<p>“Oh, yes, yes, in myself I am alone, always +alone....”</p> +<p>He pressed himself against Quaerts’ knee.</p> +<p>“Jules, don’t talk so stupidly,” cried +Amélie, nervously.</p> +<p>“Yes, yes!” cried Jules, with a sudden half sob. +“I will hold my tongue! But don’t talk about me any more; +oh, I beg you, don’t talk about me!”</p> +<p>He locked his hands and implored them, with dread in his face. They +all stared at him, but he buried his face in Quaerts’ knees, as +though deadly frightened of something.... <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb32" href="#pb32" name="pb32">32</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">3</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">Anna had played execrably, to Suzette’s despair: +she could not even remember the winning trumps!</p> +<p>Dolf called out to his wife:</p> +<p>“Amélie, do come in for a rubber; that is, if Quaerts +doesn’t want to. You can’t give your daughter many points, +but still you’re not quite so bad!”</p> +<p>“I would rather stay and talk to Mrs. van Even,” said +Quaerts.</p> +<p>“Go and play without minding me, if you prefer, Mr. +Quaerts,” said Cecile, in the cold voice which she adopted +towards people whom she disliked.</p> +<p>Amélie dragged herself away with an unhappy face. She did not +play a brilliant game either; and Suzette always lost her temper when +she made mistakes.</p> +<p>“I have so long been hoping to make your acquaintance, +mevrouw, that I should <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb33" href="#pb33" +name="pb33">33</a>]</span>not like to miss this opportunity,” +Quaerts replied.</p> +<p>She looked at him: it troubled her that she could not understand +him. She knew him to be something of a Lothario. There were stories in +which the name of a married woman was coupled with his. Did he wish to +try his blandishments on her? She had no particular hankering for this +sort of pastime; she had never cared for flirtations.</p> +<p>“Why?” she asked, calmly, immediately regretting the +word; for her question sounded like coquetry and she intended anything +but that.</p> +<p>“Why?” he echoed.</p> +<p>He looked at her in slight surprise as he sat near her, with Jules +on the ground between them, against his knee, his eyes closed.</p> +<p>“Because ... because,” he stammered, “because you +are my friend’s sister, I <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb34" +href="#pb34" name="pb34">34</a>]</span>suppose, and I had never met you +here....”</p> +<p>She made no answer: in her seclusion she had forgotten how to talk +and she did not take the least trouble about it.</p> +<p>“I used often to see you at the theatre,” said Quaerts, +“when Mr. van Even was still alive.”</p> +<p>“At the opera,” she said.</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“Really? I didn’t know you then.”</p> +<p>“No.”</p> +<p>“I have not been out in the evening for a long time, because +of my mourning.”</p> +<p>“And I always choose the evening to come to +Dolf’s.”</p> +<p>“So that explains why we have never met.”</p> +<p>They were silent for a moment. It seemed to him that she spoke very +coldly.</p> +<p>“I should love to go to the opera!” murmured Jules, +without opening his eyes. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb35" href= +"#pb35" name="pb35">35</a>]</span>“Or no, after all, I think I +would rather not.”</p> +<p>“Dolf told me that you read a great deal,” Quaerts +continued. “Do you keep in touch with modern +literature?”</p> +<p>“A little. I don’t read so very much.”</p> +<p>“No?”</p> +<p>“Oh, no! I have two children; that leaves me very little time +for reading. Besides, it has no particular fascination for me: life is +much more romantic than any novel.”</p> +<p>“So you are a philosopher?”</p> +<p>“I? Oh, no, I assure you, Mr. Quaerts! I am the most +commonplace woman in the world.”</p> +<p>She spoke with her wicked little laugh and her cold voice: the voice +and the laugh which she employed when she feared lest she should be +wounded in her secret sensitiveness and when therefore she hid deep +within herself, offering to the outside <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb36" href="#pb36" name="pb36">36</a>]</span>world something very +different from what she really was. Jules had opened his eyes and sat +looking at her; and his steady glance troubled her.</p> +<p>“You live in a charming house, on the Scheveningen +Road.”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>She realized suddenly that her coldness amounted to rudeness; and +she did not wish this, even though she did dislike him. She threw +herself back negligently; she asked at random, quite without concern, +merely for the sake of conversation:</p> +<p>“Have you many relations in The Hague?”</p> +<p>“No; my father and mother live at Velp and the rest of my +family at Arnhem chiefly. I never fix myself anywhere; I can’t +stay long in one place. I have spent a good many years in +Brussels.”</p> +<p>“You have no occupation, I believe?” <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb37" href="#pb37" name="pb37">37</a>]</span></p> +<p>“No. As a boy, my one desire was to enter the navy, but I was +rejected on account of my eyes.”</p> +<p>Involuntarily she looked into his eyes: small, deep-set eyes, the +colour of which she could not determine. She thought they looked sly +and cunning.</p> +<p>“I have always regretted it,” he continued. “I am +a man of action. I am always longing for action. I console myself as +best I can with sport.”</p> +<p>“Sport?” she repeated, coldly.</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“Oh!”</p> +<p>“Quaerts is a Nimrod and a Centaur and a Hercules rolled into +one, aren’t you, Quaerts?” said Jules.</p> +<p>“Ah, so you’re ‘naming’ me!” said +Quaerts, with a laugh. “Where do you really ‘class’ +me?”</p> +<p>“Among the very few people that I <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb38" href="#pb38" name="pb38">38</a>]</span>really +like!” the boy answered, ardently and without hesitation. +“Taco, when are you going to teach me to ride?”</p> +<p>“Whenever you like, my son.”</p> +<p>“Yes, but you must fix the day for us to go to the +riding-school. I won’t fix a day; I hate fixing days.”</p> +<p>“Well, shall we say to-morrow? To-morrow will be +Wednesday.”</p> +<p>“Very well.”</p> +<p>Cecile noticed that Jules was still staring at her. She looked at +him back. How was it possible that the boy could like this man! How was +it possible that it irritated her and not him, all that health, that +strength, that power of muscle and rage of sport! She could make +nothing of it; she understood neither Quaerts nor Jules; and she +herself drifted away again into that mood of half-consciousness, in +which she did not know what she thought nor what at that very moment +she <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb39" href="#pb39" name= +"pb39">39</a>]</span>might say, in which she seemed to be lost and +wandering in search of herself.</p> +<p>She rose, tall, slender and frail in her crape, like a queen who +mourns, with little touches of gold in her flaxen hair, where a small +jet aigrette glittered like a black mirror.</p> +<p>“I’m going to see who’s winning,” she said +and moved to the card-table in the other room.</p> +<p>She stood behind Mrs. Hoze, appeared to be interested in the game; +but across the light of the candles she peered at Quaerts and Jules. +She saw them talking together, softly, confidentially, Jules with his +arm on Quaerts’ knee. She saw Jules looking up, as if in +adoration, into the face of this man; and then the boy suddenly threw +his arms around his friend in a wild embrace, while the other pushed +him away with a patient gesture. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb40" +href="#pb40" name="pb40">40</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +</div> +<div class="footnotes"> +<hr class="fnsep"> +<p class="footnote"><span class="label"><a class="noteref" id= +"xd20e656" href="#xd20e656src" name="xd20e656">1</a></span> Two +military staff-colleges in Holland and Java respectively.</p> +</div> +</div> +<div id="ch3" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h2 id="xd20e811" class="main">Chapter III</h2> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">1</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">Next evening, Cecile revelled even more than usual in +the luxury of being able to stay at home.</p> +<p>It was after dinner; she was sitting on the sofa in her little +boudoir with Dolf and Christie, an arm thrown round each of them, +sitting between them, so young, like an elder sister. In her low voice +she was telling them:</p> +<p>“Judah came near to him, and said, O my Lord, let me abide a +bondman instead of the lad. For our father, who is such an old man, +said to us, when we left with Benjamin, My son Joseph I have already +lost; surely he is torn in pieces by the wild beasts. And if ye take +this also from me and mischief befall him, ye shall bring <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb41" href="#pb41" name="pb41">41</a>]</span>down my +grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. Then (Judah said) I said to our +father that I would be surety for the lad and that I should bear the +blame if I did not bring Benjamin home again. And therefore I pray +thee, O my lord, let me abide a bondman, and let the lad go up with his +brethren. For how shall I go up to my father if the lad be not with +me?...”</p> +<p>“And Joseph, mamma, what did Joseph say?” asked +Christie.</p> +<p>He had nestled closely against his mother, this poor little slender +fellow of six, with his fine golden hair and his eyes of pale +forget-me-not blue; and his little fingers hooked themselves nervously +into Cecile’s gown, rumpling the crape.</p> +<p>“Then Joseph could not refrain himself before all them that +stood by him and he caused every man to leave him. And Joseph made +himself known unto his <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb42" href="#pb42" +name="pb42">42</a>]</span>brethren. And he wept aloud and said, I am +Joseph.”</p> +<p>But Cecile could not continue the story, for Christie had thrown +himself on her neck in a frenzy of despair and she heard him sobbing +against her.</p> +<p>“Christie! Darling!”</p> +<p>She was greatly distressed; she had grown interested in her own +recital and had not noticed Christie’s excitement; and now he was +sobbing against her in such violent grief that she could find no word +to quiet him, to comfort him, to tell him that it ended happily.</p> +<p>“But, Christie, don’t cry, don’t cry! It ends +happily.”</p> +<p>“And Benjamin, what about Benjamin?”</p> +<p>“Benjamin returned to his father; and Jacob went down into +Egypt to live with Joseph.”</p> +<p>The child raised his wet face from her <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb43" href="#pb43" name="pb43">43</a>]</span>shoulder and looked at +her deliberately:</p> +<p>“Was it really like that? Or are you only making it +up?”</p> +<p>“No, really, darling. Don’t, don’t cry any +more....”</p> +<p>Christie grew calmer, but he was evidently disappointed. He was not +satisfied with the end of the story; and yet it was very pretty like +that, much prettier than if Joseph had been angry and put Benjamin in +prison.</p> +<p>“What a baby, Christie, to go crying like that!” said +Dolf. “Why, it’s only a story.”</p> +<p>Cecile did not reply that the story had really happened, because it +was in the Bible. She had suddenly become very sad, in doubt of +herself. She fondly dried the child’s sad eyes with her +pocket-handkerchief:</p> +<p>“And now, children, bed! It’s late!” she said, +faintly. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb44" href="#pb44" name= +"pb44">44</a>]</span></p> +<p>She put them to bed, a ceremony which lasted a long time; a ceremony +with an elaborate ritual of undressing, washing, saying of prayers, +tucking in and kissing.</p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">2</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">When, an hour later, she was sitting downstairs again +alone, she realized for the first time how sad she felt.</p> +<p>Ah, no, she did not know! Amélie was quite right: one never +knew anything, never! She had been so happy that day; she had found +herself again, deep in the recesses of her secret self, in the essence +of her soul; all day she had seen her dreams hovering about her as an +apotheosis; all day she had felt within her that consuming love of her +children. She had told them stories out of the Bible after dinner; and +suddenly, when Christie began to cry, a doubt had arisen within her. +Was she really good to her little boys? Did she <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb45" href="#pb45" name="pb45">45</a>]</span>not, in +her love, in the tenderness of her affection for them, spoil and weaken +them? Would she not end by utterly unfitting them for practical life, +with which she did not come into contact, but in which the children, +when they grew up, would have to move? It flashed through her mind: +parting, boarding-schools, her children estranged from her, coming home +big, rough boys, smoking and swearing, with cynicism on their lips and +in their hearts: lips which would no longer kiss her, hearts in which +she would no longer have a place. She pictured them already with the +swagger of their seventeen or eighteen years, tramping across her rooms +in their cadet’s and midshipman’s uniforms, with broad +shoulders and a hard laugh, flicking the ash from their cigars upon the +carpet.... Why did Quaerts’ image suddenly rise up in the midst +of this cruelty? Was it chance or a logical <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb46" href="#pb46" name= +"pb46">46</a>]</span>consequence? She could not analyse it; she could +not explain the presence of this man, rising up through her grief in +his atmosphere of antipathy. But she felt sad, sad, sad, as she had not +felt sad since Van Even’s death; not vaguely melancholy, as she +so often felt, but sad, undoubtedly sorrowful at the thought of what +must come.... Oh! to have to part with her children! And then, to be +alone.... Loneliness, everlasting loneliness! Loneliness within +herself: that feeling of which Jules had such a dread! Withdrawn from +the world which had no charm for her, sinking away alone into +emptiness! She was thirty, she was old, an old woman. Her house would +be empty, her heart empty! Dreams, clouds of dreaming, which fly away, +which lift like smoke, revealing only emptiness. Emptiness, emptiness, +emptiness! The word each time fell hollowly, with hammer strokes, +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb47" href="#pb47" name= +"pb47">47</a>]</span>upon her breast. Emptiness, emptiness!...</p> +<p>“Why am I like this?” she asked herself. “What +ails me? What has altered?”</p> +<p>Never had she felt that word emptiness throb within her in this way: +that very afternoon she had been gently happy, as usual. And now! She +saw nothing before her: no future, no life, nothing but one great +darkness. Estranged from her children, alone within herself....</p> +<p>She rose with a little moan of pain and walked across the boudoir. +The discreet twilight troubled her, oppressed her. She turned the key +of the lace-covered lamp: a golden gleam crept over the rose folds of +the silk curtains like glistening water. A strange coolness wafted away +something of that scent of violets which hung about everything. A fire +burned on the hearth, but she felt cold. <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb48" href="#pb48" name="pb48">48</a>]</span></p> +<p>She stopped beside the low table; she took up a visiting-card, with +one corner turned down, and read:</p> +<p>“T. H. Quaerts.”</p> +<p>There was a five-balled coronet above the name.</p> +<p>“Quaerts!”</p> +<p>How short it sounded! A name like the smack of a hard hand. There +was something bad, something cruel in the name:</p> +<p>“Quaerts, Quaerts!...”</p> +<p>She threw down the bit of pasteboard, was angry with herself. She +felt cold and not herself, just as she had felt at the Van +Attemas’ last evening:</p> +<p>“I will not go out again. Never again, never!” she said, +almost aloud. “I am so contented in my own house, so contented +with my life, so beautifully happy.... That card! Why should he leave a +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb49" href="#pb49" name= +"pb49">49</a>]</span>card? What do I want with his card?...”</p> +<p>She sat down at her writing-table and opened her blotting-book. She +thought of finishing a half-written letter to India; but she was in +quite a different mood from when she had begun it. So she took from a +drawer a thick manuscript-book, her diary. She wrote the date, then +reflected a moment, tapping her teeth nervously with the silver +penholder....</p> +<p>But then, with a little ill-tempered gesture, she threw down the +pen, pushed the book aside and, letting her head fall into her hands on +the blotting-book, sobbed aloud. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb50" +href="#pb50" name="pb50">50</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +</div> +</div> +<div id="ch4" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h2 id="xd20e909" class="main">Chapter IV</h2> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">1</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">Cecile was astonished at her unusually long fit of +abstraction, that it should continue for days before she returned to +her usual condition of serenity, the delightful abode from which she +had involuntarily wandered. But she compelled herself, with gentle +compulsion, to recover the treasures of her loneliness; and she ended +by recovering them. She argued with herself that it would be some years +before she would have to part from Dolf and Christie: there was time +enough to grow accustomed to the idea of separation. Besides, nothing +had altered either about her or within her; and so she let the days +glide slowly over her, like gently flowing water. <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb51" href="#pb51" name="pb51">51</a>]</span></p> +<p>In this way, gently flowing by, a fortnight had elapsed since the +evening which she spent at Dolf’s. It was a Saturday afternoon; +she had been working with the children—she still taught them +herself—and she had walked out with them; and now she was sitting +in her favourite room waiting for the Van Attemas, who came to tea +every Saturday at half-past four. She rang for the servant, who lighted +the blue flame of methylated spirit. Dolf and Christie were with her; +they sat upon the floor on footstools, cutting the pages of a +children’s magazine to which Cecile subscribed for them. They +were sitting quietly, looking very good and well-bred, like children +who grow up in soft surroundings, in the midst of too much refinement, +too pale, with hair too long and too fair, Christie especially, whose +little temples were veined as if with azure blood. Cecile stepped by +them as she went to <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb52" href="#pb52" +name="pb52">52</a>]</span>glance over the tea-table; and the look which +she cast upon them wrapped the children in a warm embrace of devotion. +She was in her calmly happy mood: it was so pleasant to think that she +would soon see the Van Attemas come in. She liked these hours of the +afternoon, when her silver tea-kettle hissed over the blue flame. An +exquisite intimacy filled the room; she had in her long, shapely +feminine fingers that special power of witchery, that gentle art of +handling by which everything over which they merely glided acquired a +look of herself, an indefinable something, of tint, of position, of +light, which the things had not until the touch of those fingers came +across them.</p> +<p>There was a ring. She thought it rather early for the Van Attemas, +but she rarely saw any one else in her seclusion from the outer world; +therefore it must be they. In a second or two, however, Greta +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb53" href="#pb53" name= +"pb53">53</a>]</span>entered, with a card: was mevrouw at home and +could the gentleman see her?</p> +<p>Cecile recognized the card from a distance: she had seen one like it +lately. Nevertheless she took it up, glanced at it discontentedly, with +drawn eyebrows.</p> +<p>What an idea, she reflected. Why did he do it? What did it mean?</p> +<p>But she thought it unnecessary to be impolite and refuse to see him. +After all, he was a friend of Dolf’s. But such +persistence....</p> +<p>“Show meneer in,” she said, calmly.</p> +<p>Greta went; and it seemed to Cecile as though something trembled in +the intimacy which filled the room, as if the objects over which her +fingers had just passed took on another aspect, a look of shuddering. +But Dolf and Christie had not changed; they were still sitting looking +at the pictures, with occasional remarks falling softly from their +lips. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb54" href="#pb54" name= +"pb54">54</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">2</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">The door opened and Quaerts entered the room. As he +bowed to Cecile, he had his air of shyness in still greater measure +than before. To her this air was incomprehensible in him, who seemed so +strong, so determined.</p> +<p>“I hope you will not think me indiscreet, mevrouw, in taking +the liberty to come and call on you.”</p> +<p>“On the contrary, Mr. Quaerts,” she said, coldly. +“Pray sit down.”</p> +<p>He took a chair and placed his tall hat on the floor beside him:</p> +<p>“I am not disturbing you, mevrouw?”</p> +<p>“Not in the least; I am expecting Mrs. van Attema and her +daughters. You were so kind as to leave a card on me; but, as I dare +say you know, I see nobody.”</p> +<p>“I knew that, mevrouw. Perhaps it is <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb55" href="#pb55" name="pb55">55</a>]</span>to that +very reason that you owe the indiscretion of my visit.”</p> +<p>She looked at him coldly, politely, smilingly. There was a feeling +of irritation in her. She felt inclined to ask him bluntly what he +wanted with her.</p> +<p>“How so?” she asked, with her mannerly smile, which +converted her face into a mask.</p> +<p>“I was afraid that I might not see you for a very long time; +and I should consider it a great privilege to be allowed to know you +better.”</p> +<p>His tone was in the highest degree respectful. She raised her +eyebrows, as if she did not understand; but the accent of his voice was +so very courteous that she could not even find a cold word with which +to answer him.</p> +<p>“Are these your two children?” he asked, with a glance +towards Dolf and Christie. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb56" href= +"#pb56" name="pb56">56</a>]</span></p> +<p>“Yes,” she replied. “Get up, boys, and shake hands +with meneer.”</p> +<p>The children approached timidly and put out their little hands. He +smiled, looked at them penetratingly with his small, deep-set eyes and +drew them to him:</p> +<p>“Am I mistaken, or is the little one very like you?”</p> +<p>“They both resemble their father,” she replied.</p> +<p>It seemed to her she had set a protecting shield around herself, +from which the children were excluded, within which she found it +impossible to draw them. It troubled her that he was holding them so +tight, that he looked at them as he did.</p> +<p>But he released them; and they went back to their little stools, +gentle, quiet, well-behaved.</p> +<p>“Yet they both have something of you,” he insisted.</p> +<p>“Possibly,” she said. <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb57" href="#pb57" name="pb57">57</a>]</span></p> +<p>“Mevrouw,” he resumed, as if he had something important +to say to her, “I wish to ask you a direct question: tell me +honestly, quite honestly, do you think me indiscreet?”</p> +<p>“For calling to see me? No, I assure you, Mr. Quaerts. It is +very kind of you. Only ... if I may be candid ...”</p> +<p>She gave a little laugh.</p> +<p>“Of course,” he said.</p> +<p>“Then I will confess that I fear you will find little in my +house to amuse you. I never see people....”</p> +<p>“I have not called on you for the sake of the people I might +meet at your house.”</p> +<p>She bowed, smiling, as if he had paid her a compliment:</p> +<p>“Of course I am very pleased to see you. You are a great +friend of Dolf’s, are you not?”</p> +<p>She tried each time to say something different from what she +actually did say, <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb58" href="#pb58" +name="pb58">58</a>]</span>to speak more coldly, more aggressively; but +she had too much breeding and could not bring herself to do it.</p> +<p>“Yes,” he replied, “Dolf and I have known each +other ever so long. We have always been great friends, though we are +quite unlike.”</p> +<p>“I’m very fond of him; he’s always very kind to +us.”</p> +<p>She saw him look at the low table and smile. A few reviews were +scattered on it, a book or two. On the top of these lay a little volume +of Emerson’s essays, with a paper-cutter marking the page.</p> +<p>“You told me you were not a great reader!” he said, +mischievously. “I should think ...”</p> +<p>And he pointed to the books.</p> +<p>“Oh,” said she, carelessly, with a slight shrug of her +shoulders, “a little....”</p> +<p>She thought him very tiresome: why should he remark that she had +hidden herself <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb59" href="#pb59" name= +"pb59">59</a>]</span>from him? Why, indeed, <i>had</i> she hidden +herself from him?</p> +<p>“Emerson!” he read, bending forward a little. +“Forgive me,” he added quickly. “I have no right to +spy upon your pursuits. But the print is so large; I read it from +here.”</p> +<p>“You are far-sighted?” she asked, laughing.</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>His courtesy, a certain respectfulness, as if he would not venture +to touch the tips of her fingers, placed her more at her ease. She +still disliked him, but there was no harm in his knowing what she +read.</p> +<p>“Are you fond of reading?” asked Cecile.</p> +<p>“I do not read much: it is too great a delight for that; nor +do I read everything that appears. I am too hard to please.”</p> +<p>“Do you know Emerson?” <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb60" href="#pb60" name="pb60">60</a>]</span></p> +<p>“No....”</p> +<p>“I like his essays very much. They are written with such a +wide outlook. They place one on such a deliciously exalted +level....”</p> +<p>She suited her phrase with an expansive gesture; and her eyes +lighted up.</p> +<p>Then she observed that he was following her attentively, with his +respectfulness. And she recovered herself; she no longer wanted to talk +to him about Emerson.</p> +<p>“It is very fine indeed,” was all she said, to close the +conversation, in the most commonplace voice that she was able to +assume. “May I give you some tea?”</p> +<p>“No, thank you, mevrouw; I never take tea at this +time.”</p> +<p>“Do you look upon it with so much scorn?” she asked, +jestingly.</p> +<p>He was about to answer, when there was a ring at the bell; and she +cried: <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb61" href="#pb61" name= +"pb61">61</a>]</span></p> +<p>“Ah, here they are!”</p> +<p>Amélie entered, with Suzette and Anna. They were a little +surprised to see Quaerts. He said he had wanted to call on Mrs. van +Even. The conversation became general. Suzette was very merry, full of +a fancy-fair, at which she was going to assist, in a Spanish +costume.</p> +<p>“And you, Anna?”</p> +<p>“Oh, no, Auntie!” said Anna, shrinking together with +fright. “Imagine me at a fancy-fair! I should never sell anybody +anything.”</p> +<p>“Ah, it’s a gift!” said Amélie, with a +far-away look.</p> +<p>Quaerts rose: he was bowing with a single word to Cecile, when the +door opened. Jules came in, with some books under his arm, on his way +home from school.</p> +<p>“How do you do, Auntie? Hallo, Taco, are you going just as I +arrive?” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb62" href="#pb62" name= +"pb62">62</a>]</span></p> +<p>“You drive me away,” said Quaerts, laughing.</p> +<p>“Oh, Taco, do stay a little longer!” begged Jules, +enraptured to see him and lamenting that he had chosen just this moment +to leave.</p> +<p>“Jules, Jules!” cried Amélie, thinking it was the +proper thing to do.</p> +<p>Jules pressed Quaerts, took his two hands, forced him, like a spoilt +child. Quaerts only laughed. Jules in his excitement knocked a book or +two off the table.</p> +<p>“Jules, be quiet, do!” cried Amélie.</p> +<p>Quaerts picked up the books, while Jules persisted in his bad +behaviour. As Quaerts replaced the last book, he hesitated a moment; he +held it in his hand, looked at the gold lettering: +“Emerson.”</p> +<p>Cecile watched him: <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb63" href="#pb63" +name="pb63">63</a>]</span></p> +<p>“If he thinks I’m going to lend it him, he’s +mistaken,” she thought.</p> +<p>But Quaerts asked nothing: he had released himself from Jules and +said good-bye. With a quip at Jules he left.</p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">3</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">“Is this the first time he has been to see +you?” asked Amélie.</p> +<p>“Yes,” replied Cecile. “An uncalled-for civility, +don’t you think?”</p> +<p>“Taco Quaerts is always very correct in matters of +etiquette,” said Anna, defending him.</p> +<p>“Still, this visit was hardly a matter of etiquette,” +said Cecile, laughing merrily. “But Taco Quaerts seems to be +quite infallible in the eyes of all of you.”</p> +<p>“He waltzes divinely!” cried Suzette. “The other +day, at the Eekhofs’ dance....”</p> +<p>Suzette chattered on; there was no restraining <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb64" href="#pb64" name="pb64">64</a>]</span>Suzette +that afternoon; she seemed already to hear the castanets rattling in +her little brain.</p> +<p>Jules had a peevish fit on him, but he remained quietly at a window, +with the boys.</p> +<p>“You don’t much care about Quaerts, do you, +Auntie?” asked Anna.</p> +<p>“I don’t find him attractive,” said Cecile. +“You know, I am easily influenced by my first impressions. I +can’t help it, but I don’t like those very healthy, robust +people, who look so strong and manly, as if they walked straight +through life, clearing away everything that stands in their way. It may +be morbid of me, but I can’t help it; I always dislike any +excessive display of health and physical force. Those strong people +look upon others who are not so strong as themselves much as the +Spartans used to look upon their deformed children.” <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb65" href="#pb65" name="pb65">65</a>]</span></p> +<p>Jules could control himself no longer:</p> +<p>“If you think that Taco is no better than a Spartan, you know +nothing at all about him,” he said, fiercely.</p> +<p>Cecile looked at him, but, before Amélie could interpose, he +continued:</p> +<p>“Taco is the only person with whom I can talk about music and +who understands every word I say. And I don’t believe I could +talk with a Spartan.”</p> +<p>“Jules, how rude you are!” cried Suzette.</p> +<p>“I don’t care!” he exclaimed, furiously, rising +suddenly and stamping his foot. “I don’t care! I +won’t hear Taco abused; and Aunt Cecile knows it and only does it +to tease me. And I think it very mean to tease a boy, very +mean....”</p> +<p>His mother and sisters tried to bring him to reason with their +authority. But he caught up his books:</p> +<p>“I don’t care! I won’t have it!” +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb66" href="#pb66" name= +"pb66">66</a>]</span></p> +<p>He was gone in a moment, furious, slamming the door, which groaned +with the shock. Amélie was trembling in every nerve:</p> +<p>Oh, that boy!” she hissed out, shivering. “That Jules, +that Jules!...”</p> +<p>“It’s nothing,” said Cecile, gently, excusing him. +“He is just a little excitable....”</p> +<p>She had turned rather paler and glanced at her boys, Dolf and +Christie, who had looked up in dismay, their mouths wide open with +astonishment.</p> +<p>“Is Jules naughty, mamma?” asked Christie.</p> +<p>She shook her head, smiling. She felt a strange, an unspeakably +strange weariness. She did not know what it meant; but it seemed to her +as if very distant vistas were opening before her eyes and fading into +the horizon, pale, in a great light. Nor did she know what this meant; +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb67" href="#pb67" name= +"pb67">67</a>]</span>but she was not angry with Jules and it seemed to +her as if he had lost his temper, not with her, but with somebody else. +A sense of the enigmatical depth of life, the soul’s unconscious +mystery, like to a fair, bright endlessness, a far-away silvery light, +shot through her in silent rapture.</p> +<p>Then she laughed:</p> +<p>“Jules is so nice,” she said, “when he gets +excited.”</p> +<p>Anna and Suzette, upset at the incident, played with the boys, +looking over their picture-books. Cecile spoke only to her sister. But +Amélie’s nerves were still quivering.</p> +<p>“How can you defend those ways of Jules’?” she +asked, in a choking voice.</p> +<p>“I think it nice of him to stand up for people he likes. +Don’t you think so too?”</p> +<p>Amélie grew calmer. Why should she be put out if Cecile was +not? <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb68" href="#pb68" name= +"pb68">68</a>]</span></p> +<p>“I dare say,” she replied. “I don’t know. He +has a good heart I believe, but he is so unmanageable. But, who knows, +perhaps it’s my fault: if I understood things better, if I had +more tact....”</p> +<p>She grew confused; she sought for something more to say and found +nothing, wandering like a stranger through her own thoughts. Then, +suddenly, as if struck by a ray of certain knowledge, she said:</p> +<p>“But Jules is not stupid. He has a good eye for all sorts of +things and for persons too. Personally, I think you judge Taco Quaerts +wrongly. He is a very interesting man and a great deal more than a mere +sportsman. I don’t know what it is, but there’s something +about him different from other people, I can’t say exactly +what....”</p> +<p>She was silent, seeking, groping.</p> +<p>“I wish Jules got on better at school. As I say, he is not +stupid, but he learns <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb69" href="#pb69" +name="pb69">69</a>]</span>nothing. He has been two years now in the +third class. The boy has no application. He makes me despair of +him.”</p> +<p>She was silent again; and Cecile also did not speak.</p> +<p>“Ah,” said Amélie, “I dare say it is not +his fault! Very likely it is my fault. Perhaps he takes after +me....”</p> +<p>She looked straight before her: sudden, irrepressible tears filled +her eyes and fell into her lap.</p> +<p>“Amy, what’s the matter?” asked Cecile, +kindly.</p> +<p>But Amélie had risen, so that the girls, who were still +playing with the children, might not see her tears. She could not +restrain them, they streamed down and she hurried away into the +adjoining drawing-room, a big room in which Cecile never sat.</p> +<p>“What’s the matter, Amy?” Cecile repeated.</p> +<p>She had followed Amélie out and now <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb70" href="#pb70" name="pb70">70</a>]</span>threw +her arms about her, made her sit down, pressed Amélie’s +head against her shoulder.</p> +<p>“How do I know what it is?” Amélie sobbed. +“I don’t know, I don’t know.... I am wretched because +of that feeling in my head. It is more than I can bear sometimes. After +all, I am not mad, am I? Really, I don’t feel mad, or as if I +were going mad! But I feel sometimes as if everything had gone wrong in +my head, as if I couldn’t think. Everything runs through my +brain. It’s a terrible feeling!”</p> +<p>“Why don’t you see a doctor?” asked Cecile.</p> +<p>“No, no, he might tell me I was mad; and I’m not. He +might try to send me to an asylum. No, I won’t see a doctor. I +have every reason to be happy otherwise, have I not? I have a kind +husband and dear children; I have never had any great <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb71" href="#pb71" name="pb71">71</a>]</span>sorrow. +And yet I sometimes feel profoundly miserable, desperately miserable! +It is always as if I wanted to reach some place and could not succeed. +It is always as if I were hemmed in....”</p> +<p>She sobbed violently; a storm of tears rained down her face. +Cecile’s eyes, too, were moist; she liked her sister, she felt +sorry for her. Amélie was only ten years older than she; and +already she had something of an old woman about her, something withered +and shrunken, with her hair growing grey at the temples, under her +veil.</p> +<p>“Cecile, tell me, Cecile,” she said, suddenly, through +her sobs, “do you believe in God?”</p> +<p>“Why, of course I do, Amy!”</p> +<p>“I used to go to church sometimes, but it was no use.... And +I’ve stopped going.... Oh, I am so unhappy! It is very ungrateful +of me. I have so much to <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb72" href= +"#pb72" name="pb72">72</a>]</span>be grateful for.... Do you know, +sometimes I feel as if I should like to go to God at once, all at once, +just like that!”</p> +<p>“Come, Amy, don’t excite yourself so.”</p> +<p>“Ah, I wish I were like you, so calm! Do you feel +happy?”</p> +<p>Cecile smiled and nodded. Amélie sighed; she remained lying +for a moment with her head against her sister’s shoulder. Cecile +kissed her, but suddenly Amélie started:</p> +<p>“Be careful,” she whispered, “the girls might come +in. There ... there’s no need for them to see that I’ve +been crying.”</p> +<p>Rising, she arranged her hat before the looking-glass, carefully +dried her veil with her handkerchief:</p> +<p>“There, now they won’t know,” she said. +“Let’s go in again. I am quite calm. You’re a dear +thing....” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb73" href="#pb73" name= +"pb73">73</a>]</span></p> +<p>They went back to the boudoir:</p> +<p>“Come, girls, it’s time to go home,” said +Amélie, in a voice which was still a little unsettled.</p> +<p>“Have you been crying, Mamma?” Suzette at once +asked.</p> +<p>“Mamma was a bit upset about Jules,” said Cecile, +quickly. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb74" href="#pb74" name= +"pb74">74</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +</div> +</div> +<div id="ch5" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h2 id="xd20e1236" class="main">Chapter V</h2> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">Cecile was alone; the children had gone upstairs to +tidy themselves for dinner. She tried to get back her distant vistas, +fading into the pale horizon; she tried to recover the silvery +endlessness which had shot through her as a vision of light. But +instead her brain was all awhirl with a kaleidoscope of very recent +petty memories: the children, Quaerts, Emerson, Jules, Suzette, +Amélie. How strange, how strange life was!... The outer life; +the coming and going of people about us; the sounds of words which they +utter in strange accents; the endless interchange of phenomena; the +concatenation of those phenomena, one with the other; strange, too, the +presence of a soul somewhere inside us, like a god <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb75" href="#pb75" name="pb75">75</a>]</span>within +us, never to be known in our own essence. Often, as indeed now, it +seemed to Cecile that all things, even the most commonplace things, +were strange, very strange, as if nothing in the world were absolutely +commonplace, as if everything were strange: the strange form and +outward expression of a deeper life that lies hidden behind everything, +even the meanest objects; as if everything displayed itself under an +appearance, a mask of pretence, while the reality, the very truth, lay +underneath. How strange, how strange life was!... For it seemed to her +as if she, under that very usual afternoon tea, had seen something very +unusual; she did not know what, she could not express it nor even think +it thoroughly; it seemed to her as if beneath the coming and going of +those people something had glittered: a reality, an ultimate truth +under the appearance of that casual afternoon tea. <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb76" href="#pb76" name="pb76">76</a>]</span></p> +<p>“What is it? What <i>is</i> it?” she wondered. “Am +I deluding myself, or is it so? I feel that it is so....”</p> +<p>It was all very vague and yet so very clear.... It seemed to her as +though there were a vision, a haze of light behind all that had +happened there, behind Amélie and Jules and Quaerts and the book +which he had picked up from the floor and held in his hand for a +moment.... Did that vision, that haze of light mean anything, +or....</p> +<p>But she shook her head:</p> +<p>“I am dreaming, I am giving way to fancy,” she laughed, +within herself. “It was all very simple; I only make it complex +because it amuses me to do so.”</p> +<p>But she had no sooner thought this than she felt something which +denied the thought absolutely, an intuition which should have made her +guess the essence of the truth, but did not quite succeed. <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb77" href="#pb77" name="pb77">77</a>]</span>Surely +there was something, something behind it all, hiding away, lurking as +the shadow lurked behind the thing; and the shadow appeared to her as a +vision and haze of light....</p> +<p>Her thoughts still wandered over all those people and finally halted +at Taco Quaerts. She saw him sitting there again, bending slightly +forward in her direction, his hands folded and hanging between his +knees, as he looked up to her. A barrier of aversion had stood between +them like an iron bar. She saw him sitting there again, though he was +gone. That again was past: how quickly everything moved; how small was +the speck of the present!</p> +<p>She rose, sat down at her writing-table and wrote:</p> +<div class="blockquote"> +<p class="first">“Beneath me flows the sea of the past; above me +drifts the ether of the future; and I stand midway upon the one speck +of <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb78" href="#pb78" name= +"pb78">78</a>]</span>reality, so small that I must press my feet firmly +together lest I lose my hold. And from the speck of the present my +sorrow looks down upon the sea and my longing up to the sky.</p> +<p>“It is scarcely life to stand upon this speck, so small that I +hardly appreciate it, hardly feel it beneath my feet; and yet to me it +is the one reality. I am not greatly occupied about it: my eyes only +follow the rippling of those waves towards distant horizons, the +gliding of those clouds towards distant spheres, vague manifestations +of endless change, translucent ephemeras, visible incorporeities. The +present is the only thing that is, or rather that seems to be. The +speck is, or at least appears to be, but not the sea below nor the sky +above, for the sea is but a memory and the air but an illusion. Yet +memory and illusion are everything: they are the wide inheritance of +the soul, which <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb79" href="#pb79" name= +"pb79">79</a>]</span>alone can escape from the speck of the moment to +float upon the sea towards the horizons which retreat, to drift upon +the clouds towards the spheres which retreat and retreat....”</p> +</div> +<p>Then she reflected. How was it that she had written all this and +why? How had she come to write it? She went back upon her thoughts: the +present, the speck of the present, which was so small.... Quaerts, +Quaerts’ very attitude, rising up before her just now. Was he in +any way concerned with her writing down those sentences? The past a +sorrow; the future an illusion.... Why, why illusion?</p> +<p>“And Jules, who likes him,” she thought. “And +Amélie, who spoke of him ... but she knows nothing.... What is +there in him, what lurks behind him: his visionary image? Why did he +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb80" href="#pb80" name= +"pb80">80</a>]</span>come here? Why do I dislike him so? Do I dislike +him? I cannot see into his eyes....”</p> +<p>She would have liked to do this once; she would have liked to make +sure that she disliked him or that she did not: one or the other. She +was curious to see him once more, to know what she would think and feel +about him then....</p> +<p>She had risen from her writing-table and now lay at full length on +the sofa, with her arms folded behind her head. She no longer knew what +she dreamt, but she felt peacefully happy. She heard Dolf and Christie +come down the stairs. They came in, it was dinner-time.</p> +<p>“Jules was really naughty just now, wasn’t he, +Mummy?” Christie asked again, with a grave face.</p> +<p>She drew the frail little fellow gently to her, took him tightly in +her arms and <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb81" href="#pb81" name= +"pb81">81</a>]</span>fondly kissed his moist, pale-raspberry lips:</p> +<p>“No, really not, darling!” she said. “He +wasn’t naughty, really....” <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb82" href="#pb82" name="pb82">82</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +<div id="ch6" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h2 id="xd20e1293" class="main">Chapter VI</h2> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">1</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">Cecile passed through the long hall, which was almost +a gallery: footmen stood on either side of the hangings; a hum of +voices came from behind. The train of her dress rustled against the +leaves of a palm; and the sound gave a sudden jar to the strung cords +of her sensitiveness. She was a little nervous; her eyelids quivered +slightly and her mouth had a very earnest fold.</p> +<p>She walked in; there was much light, but soft light, the light of +candles only. Two officers stepped aside for her as she stood +hesitating. Her eyes glanced round in search of Mrs. Hoze; she saw her +standing among two or three of her guests, with <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb83" href="#pb83" name="pb83">83</a>]</span>her grey +hair, her kindly and yet haughty face, rosy and smooth, almost without +a wrinkle.</p> +<p>Mrs. Hoze came towards her:</p> +<p>“I can’t tell you how charming I think it of you not to +have played me false!” she said, pressing Cecile’s hand +with effusive and hospitable urbanity.</p> +<p>She introduced people to Cecile here and there; Cecile heard names +the sound of which at once escaped her.</p> +<p>“General, allow me ... Mrs. van Even,” Mrs. Hoze +whispered and left her, to speak to some one else.</p> +<p>Cecile drew a deep breath, pressed her hand to the edge of her +bodice, as though to arrange something that had slipped from its place, +answered the general cursorily. She was very pale; and her eyelids +quivered more and more. She ventured to throw a glance round the room. +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb84" href="#pb84" name= +"pb84">84</a>]</span></p> +<p>She stood next to the general, forcing herself to listen, so as not +to give answers that would sound strikingly foolish. She was very tall, +slender, and straight, with her shoulders, white as sunlit marble, +blossoming out of a sombre vase of black: fine, black, trailing tulle, +sprinkled all over with small jet spangles; glittering black on dull +transparent black. A girdle with tassels of jet, hanging low, was wound +about her waist. So she stood, blonde: blonde and black; a little +sombre amid the warmth and light of other toilettes; and, for unique +relief, two diamonds in her ears, like dewdrops.</p> +<p>Her thin suêde-covered fingers trembled as she manipulated her +fan, a black tulle transparency, on which the same jet spangles +glittered with black lustre. Her breath came short behind the strokes +of the diaphanous fan as she talked with the general, a spare, bald, +distinguished-looking <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb85" href="#pb85" +name="pb85">85</a>]</span>man, not in uniform, but wearing his +decorations.</p> +<p>Mrs. Hoze’s guests walked about, greeting one another here and +there, with a continuous hum of voices. Cecile saw Taco Quaerts come up +to her; he bowed before her; she bowed coldly in return, not offering +him her hand. He lingered by her for a moment, spoke a word or two and +then passed on, greeting other acquaintances.</p> +<p>Mrs. Hoze had taken the arm of an old gentleman; a procession formed +slowly. The servants threw back the doors; a table glittered beyond, +half-visible. The general offered Cecile his arm, as she stood looking +behind her with a listless turn of her neck. She closed her eyelids for +a second, to prevent their quivering. Her brows contracted with a sense +of disappointment; but smilingly she laid the tips of her fingers on +the general’s arm and <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb86" href= +"#pb86" name="pb86">86</a>]</span>with her closed fan smoothed away a +crease from the tulle of her train.</p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">2</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">When Cecile was seated she found Quaerts sitting on +her right. Then her disappointment vanished, the disappointment which +she had felt at not being taken in to dinner by him; but her look +remained cold, as usual. And yet she had what she wished; the +expectation with which she had come to this dinner was fulfilled. Mrs. +Hoze had seen Cecile at the Van Attemas’ and had gladly +undertaken to restore the young widow to society. Cecile knew that +Quaerts was a frequent visitor at Mrs. Hoze’s; she had heard from +Amélie that he was invited to the dinner; and she had accepted. +That Mrs. Hoze, remembering that Cecile had met Quaerts before, had +placed him next to her was easy to understand. <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb87" href="#pb87" name="pb87">87</a>]</span></p> +<p>Cecile was very inquisitive about herself. How would she feel? At +least interested: she could not disguise that from herself. She was +certainly interested in him, remembering what Jules had said, what +Amélie had said. She already felt that behind the mere sportsman +there lurked another, whom she longed to know. Why should she? What +concern was it of hers? She could not tell; but, in any case, as a +matter of curiosity, as a puzzle, it awoke her interest. And, at the +same time, she remained on her guard, for she did not think that his +visit to her was strictly in order; and there were stories in which the +name of that married woman was coupled with his.</p> +<p>She succeeded in freeing herself from her conversation with the +general, who seemed to feel called upon to entertain her, and it was +she who spoke first to Quaerts: <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb88" +href="#pb88" name="pb88">88</a>]</span></p> +<p>“Have you begun to give Jules his riding-lessons?” she +asked, with a smile.</p> +<p>He looked at her, evidently a little surprised at her voice and her +smile, which were both new to him. He returned a bare answer:</p> +<p>“Yes, mevrouw, we were at the riding-school +yesterday....”</p> +<p>She at once thought him clumsy, to let the conversation drop like +that; but he enquired with that slight shyness which became a charm in +him who was so manly:</p> +<p>“So you are going out again, mevrouw?”</p> +<p>She thought—she had indeed thought so before—that his +questions were sometimes questions which people do not ask. This was +one of the strange things about him.</p> +<p>“Yes,” she replied, simply, not knowing what else to +say.</p> +<p>“Forgive me,” he said, seeing that his <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb89" href="#pb89" name="pb89">89</a>]</span>words +had embarrassed her a little. “I asked, because ...”</p> +<p>“Because?” she echoed, with wide-open eyes.</p> +<p>He took courage and explained:</p> +<p>“When Dolf spoke of you, he used always to say that you lived +so quietly.... And I could never picture you to myself returning to +society, mixing with many people; I had formed an idea of you; and it +now seems that this idea was a mistaken one.”</p> +<p>“An idea?” she asked. “What idea?”</p> +<p>“Perhaps you will be angry when I tell you. Perhaps, even as +it is, you are none too well pleased with me!” he replied, +jestingly.</p> +<p>“I have not the slightest reason to be either pleased or +displeased with you,” she jested in return. “But tell me, +what was your idea?”</p> +<p>“Then you are interested in it?” <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb90" href="#pb90" name="pb90">90</a>]</span></p> +<p>“If you will answer candidly, yes. But you must be +candid!” and she threatened him with her finger.</p> +<p>“Well,” he began, “I thought of you as a very +cultured woman, as a very interesting woman—I still think all +that—<i>and</i> ... as a woman who cared nothing for the world +beyond her own sphere; and this ... this I can no longer think. And I +feel almost inclined to say, at the risk of your looking on me as very +strange, that I am sorry no longer to be able to think of you in that +way. I would almost rather not have met you here....”</p> +<p>He laughed, to soften what might sound strange in his words. She +looked at him, her eyelashes flickering with amazement, her lips +half-opened; and suddenly it struck her that she was looking into his +eyes for the first time. She looked into his eyes and saw that they +were a dark, very dark grey around the black depth of <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb91" href="#pb91" name="pb91">91</a>]</span>the +pupil. There was something in his eyes, she could not say what, but +something magnetic, as though she could never again take away her own +from them.</p> +<p>“How strange you can be sometimes!” she said +mechanically: the words came intuitively.</p> +<p>“Oh, please don’t be angry!” he almost implored +her. “I was so glad when you spoke kindly to me. You were a +little distant to me when I saw you last; and I should be so sorry if I +put you out. Perhaps I am strange, but how could I possibly be +commonplace with you? How could I possibly, even if you were to take +offence?... <i>Have</i> you taken offence?”</p> +<p>“I ought to, but I suppose I must forgive you, if only for +your candour!” she said, laughing. “Otherwise your remarks +were anything but gallant.”</p> +<p>“And yet I did not mean it ungallantly.” <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb92" href="#pb92" name="pb92">92</a>]</span></p> +<p>“Oh, no doubt!” she jested.</p> +<p>She remembered that she was at a big dinner-party. The guests ranged +before and around her; the footmen waiting behind; the light of the +candles gleaming on the silver and touching the glass with all the hues +of the rainbow; on the table prone mirrors, like sheets of water +surrounded by flowers, little lakes amidst moss-roses and lilies of the +valley. She sat silent a moment, still smiling, looking at her hand, a +pretty hand, like a white precious thing upon the tulle of her gown: +one of the fingers bore several rings, scintillating sparks of blue and +white.</p> +<p>The general turned to her again; they exchanged a few words; the +general was delighted that Mrs. van Even’s right-hand neighbour +was keeping her entertained and enabling him to get on quietly with his +dinner. Quaerts turned to the lady on his right. <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb93" href="#pb93" name="pb93">93</a>]</span></p> +<p>Both of them were glad when they were able to resume their +conversation:</p> +<p>“What were we talking about just now?” she asked.</p> +<p>“I know!” he replied, mischievously.</p> +<p>“The general interrupted us.”</p> +<p>“You were <i>not</i> angry with me!” he jested.</p> +<p>“Oh, of course,” she replied, laughing softly, “it +was about your idea of me, was it not? Why could you no longer picture +me returning to society?”</p> +<p>“I thought that you had become a person apart.”</p> +<p>“But why?”</p> +<p>“From what Dolf said, from what I myself thought, when I saw +you.”</p> +<p>“And why are you now sorry that I am not ‘a person +apart,’ as you call it?” she asked, still laughing.</p> +<p>“From vanity; because I made a mistake. <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb94" href="#pb94" name="pb94">94</a>]</span>And yet +perhaps I have not made a mistake....”</p> +<p>They looked at each other; and both of them, although each thought +it in a different way, now thought the same thing, namely, that they +must be careful with their words, because they were speaking of +something very delicate and tender, something as frail as a +soap-bubble, which could easily break if they spoke of it too loudly; +the mere breath of their words might be sufficient. Yet she ventured to +ask:</p> +<p>“And why ... do you believe ... that perhaps ... you are not +mistaken?”</p> +<p>“I don’t quite know. Perhaps because I wish it so. +Perhaps, too, because it is so true as to leave no room for doubt. Oh, +yes, I am almost sure that I judged rightly! Do you know why? Because +otherwise I should have hidden myself and been commonplace; +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb95" href="#pb95" name= +"pb95">95</a>]</span>and I find this impossible with you. I have given +you more of myself in this short moment than I have given people whom I +have known for years in the course of all those years. Therefore surely +you must be a person apart.”</p> +<p>“What do you mean by ‘a person apart’?”</p> +<p>He smiled, he opened his eyes; she looked into them again, +deeply.</p> +<p>“You understand, surely!” he said.</p> +<p>Fear for the delicate thing that might break came between them +again. They understood each other as with a freemasonry of feeling. Her +eyes were magnetically held upon his.</p> +<p>“You are very strange!” she again said, +automatically.</p> +<p>“No,” he said, calmly, shaking his head, with his eyes +in hers. “I am certain that I am not strange to you, even though +you may think so for the moment.” <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb96" href="#pb96" name="pb96">96</a>]</span></p> +<p>She was silent.</p> +<p>“I am so glad to be able to talk to you like this!” he +whispered. “It makes me very happy. And see, no one knows +anything of it. We are at a big dinner; the people next to us can even +catch our words; and yet there is not one among them who understands us +or grasps the subject of our conversation. Do you know the +reason?”</p> +<p>“No,” she murmured.</p> +<p>“I will tell you; at least, I think it is like this. Perhaps +you know better, for you <i>must</i> know things better than I, you are +so much subtler. I personally believe that each person has a circle +about him, an atmosphere, and that he meets other people who have +circles or atmospheres about them, sympathetic or antipathetic to his +own.”</p> +<p>“This is pure mysticism!” she said.</p> +<p>“No,” he replied, “it is quite simple. +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb97" href="#pb97" name= +"pb97">97</a>]</span>When the two circles are antipathetic, each repels +the other; but, when they are sympathetic, they glide and overlap in +smaller or larger curves of sympathy. In some cases the circles almost +coincide, but they always remain separate.... Do you really think this +so very mystical?”</p> +<p>“One might call it the mysticism of sentiment. But ... I have +thought something of the sort myself....”</p> +<p>“Yes, yes, I can understand that,” he continued, calmly, +as if he expected it. “I believe that those around us would not +be able to understand us, because we two alone have sympathetic +circles. But my atmosphere is of a much grosser texture than yours, +which is very delicate.”</p> +<p>She was silent again, remembering her former aversion to him: did +she still feel it?</p> +<p>“What do you think of my theory?” he asked. <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb98" href="#pb98" name="pb98">98</a>]</span></p> +<p>She looked up; her white fingers trembled in the tulle of her gown. +She made a poor effort to smile:</p> +<p>“I think you go too far!” she stammered.</p> +<p>“You think I rush into hyperbole?”</p> +<p>She would have liked to say yes, but could not:</p> +<p>“No,” she said; “not that.”</p> +<p>“Do I bore you?...”</p> +<p>She looked at him, looked deep into his eyes. She shook her head, by +way of saying no. She would have liked to say that he was too +unconventional just now; but she could not find the words. A faintness +oppressed her whole being. The table, the people, the whole +dinner-party appeared to her as through a haze of light. When she +recovered herself again, she perceived that a pretty woman opposite had +been staring at her and was now looking away, out of politeness. She +did not <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb99" href="#pb99" name= +"pb99">99</a>]</span>know how or why this interested her, but she asked +Quaerts:</p> +<p>“Who is the lady over there, in pale blue, with the dark +hair?”</p> +<p>She saw that he started.</p> +<p>“That is young Mrs. Hijdrecht!” he said, calmly, a +little distantly.</p> +<p>She too was perturbed; she turned pale; her fan flapped nervously to +and fro in her fingers.</p> +<p>He had named the woman whom rumour said to be his mistress.</p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">3</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">It seemed to Cecile as though that delicate, frail +thing, that soap-bubble, had burst. She wondered if he had spoken to +that dark-haired woman also of circles of sympathy. So soon as she was +able, Cecile observed Mrs. Hijdrecht. She had a warm, dull-gold +complexion, dark, glowing eyes, a mouth as of fresh blood. <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb100" href="#pb100" name="pb100">100</a>]</span>Her +dress was cut very low; her throat and the slope of her breast showed +insolently handsome, brutally luscious. A row of diamonds encompassed +her neck with a narrow line of white flame.</p> +<p>Cecile felt ill at ease. She felt as if she were playing with fire. +She looked away from the young woman and turned to Quaerts, in +obedience to some magnetic force. She saw a cloud of melancholy +stealing over the upper half of his face, over his forehead and his +eyes, which betrayed a slight look of age. And she heard him say:</p> +<p>“Now what do you care about that lady’s name? We were +just in the middle of such a charming conversation....”</p> +<p>She too felt sad now, sad because of the soap-bubble that had burst. +She did not know why, but she felt pity for him, a sudden, deep, +intense pity. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb101" href="#pb101" name= +"pb101">101</a>]</span></p> +<p>“We can resume our conversation,” she said, softly.</p> +<p>“Ah no, don’t let us take it up where we left it!” +he rejoined, with feigned airiness. “I was becoming +tedious.”</p> +<p>He spoke of other things. She answered little; and their +conversation languished. They each occupied themselves with their +neighbours. The dinner came to an end. Mrs. Hoze rose, took the arm of +the gentleman beside her. The general escorted Cecile to the +drawing-room, in the slow procession of the others.</p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">4</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">The ladies remained alone; the men went to the +smoking-room with young Hoze. Cecile saw Mrs. Hoze come towards her. +She asked her if she had not been bored at dinner; they sat down +together, in a confidential <i>tête-à-tête</i>.</p> +<p>Cecile made the necessary effort to reply <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb102" href="#pb102" name="pb102">102</a>]</span>to +Mrs. Hoze; but she would have liked to go somewhere and weep quietly, +because everything passed so quickly, because the speck of the present +was so small. Gone was the sweet charm of their conversation during +dinner about sympathy, a fragile intimacy amid the worldly show about +them. Gone was that moment, never, never to return: life sped over it +with its constant flow, as with a torrent of all-obliterating water. +Oh, the sorrow of it, to think how quickly, like an intangible perfume, +everything speeds away, everything that is dear to us!...</p> +<p>Mrs. Hoze left her; Suzette van Attema came to talk to Cecile. She +was dressed in pink; and she glittered in all her aspect as if +gold-dust had poured all over her, upon her movements, her eyes, her +words. She spoke volubly to Cecile, telling interminable tales, to +which Cecile did not always listen. Suddenly, through Suzette’s +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb103" href="#pb103" name= +"pb103">103</a>]</span>prattle, Cecile heard the voices of two women +whispering behind her; she only caught a word here and there:</p> +<p>“Emilie Hijdrecht, you know....”</p> +<p>“Only gossip, I think; Mrs. Hoze does not seem to heed +it....”</p> +<p>“Ah, but I know it as a fact!”</p> +<p>The voices were lost in the hum of the others. Cecile just caught a +sound like Quaerts’ name. Then Suzette asked, suddenly:</p> +<p>“Do you know young Mrs. Hijdrecht, Auntie?”</p> +<p>“No.”</p> +<p>“Over there, with the diamonds. You know, they talk about her +and Quaerts. Mamma doesn’t believe it. At any rate, he’s a +great flirt. You sat next to him, didn’t you?”</p> +<p>Cecile suffered severely in her innermost sensitiveness. She shrank +into herself entirely, doing all that she could to <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb104" href="#pb104" name= +"pb104">104</a>]</span>appear different from what she was. Suzette saw +nothing of her discomfiture.</p> +<p>The men returned. Cecile looked to see whether Quaerts would speak +to Mrs. Hijdrecht. But he wholly ignored her presence and even, when he +saw Suzette sitting with Cecile, came over to them to pay a compliment +to Suzette, to whom he had not yet spoken.</p> +<p>It was a relief to Cecile when she was able to go. She was yearning +to be alone, to recover herself, to return from her abstraction. In her +brougham she scarcely dared breathe, fearful of something, she could +not say what. When she reached home she felt a stifling heaviness which +seemed to paralyse her; and she dragged herself languidly up the stairs +to her dressing-room.</p> +<p>And yet, on the stairs, there fell over her, as from the roof of her +house, a haze of protecting safety. Slowly she went <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb105" href="#pb105" name="pb105">105</a>]</span>up, +her hand, holding a long glove, pressing the velvet banister of the +stairway. She felt as if she were about to swoon:</p> +<p>“But, Heaven help me ... I am fond of him, I love him, I love +him!” she whispered between her trembling lips, in sudden +amazement.</p> +<p>It was as in a rhythm of astonishment that she wearily mounted the +stairs, higher and higher, in a silent surprise of sudden light.</p> +<p>“But I am fond of him, I love him, I love him!”</p> +<p>It sounded like a melody through her weariness.</p> +<p>She reached her dressing-room, where Greta had lighted the gas; she +dragged herself inside. The door of the nursery stood half open; she +went in, threw back the curtain of Christie’s little bed, dropped +on her knees and looked at the child. The boy partly awoke, still in +the warmth of a <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb106" href="#pb106" +name="pb106">106</a>]</span>deep sleep; he crept a little from between +the sheets, laughed, threw his arms about Cecile’s bare neck:</p> +<p>“Mummy dear!”</p> +<p>She pressed him tightly in the embrace of her slender, white arms; +she kissed his raspberry mouth, his drowsed eyes. And meantime the +refrain sang on in her heart, right across the weariness which seemed +to break her by the bedside of her child:</p> +<p>“But I am fond of him, I love him, I love him, I love +him...!”</p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">5</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">The mystery! Suddenly, on the staircase, it had beamed +open before her in her soul, like a great flower of light, a mystic +rose with glistening petals, into whose golden heart she now looked for +the first time. The analysis to which she was so much inclined was no +longer possible: this was the riddle of love, the eternal riddle, +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb107" href="#pb107" name= +"pb107">107</a>]</span>which had beamed open within her, transfixing +with its rays the very width of her soul, in the midst of which it had +burst forth like a sun in a universe; it was too late to ask the reason +why; it was too late to ponder and dream upon it; it could only be +accepted as the inexplicable phenomenon of the soul; it was a creation +of sentiment, of which the god who created it would be as impossible to +find in the inner essence of his reality as the God who had created the +world out of chaos. It was light breaking forth from darkness; it was +heaven disclosed above the earth. And it existed: it was reality and +not a fairy-tale! For it was wholly and entirely within her, a sudden, +incontestable, everlasting truth, a felt fact, so real in its ethereal +incorporeity that it seemed to her as if, until that moment, she had +never known, never thought, never felt. It was the beginning, the +opening out of herself, the dawn <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb108" +href="#pb108" name="pb108">108</a>]</span>of her soul’s life, the +joyful miracle, the miraculous inception of love, love focussed in the +midst of her soul.</p> +<p>She passed the following days in self-contemplation, wandering +through her dreams as through a new country, rich with great light, +where distant landscapes paled into a wan radiance, like fantastic +meteors in the night, quivering in incandescence on the horizon. It +seemed to her as though she, a pious and glad pilgrim, were making her +way along paradisaical oases towards those distant scenes, there to +find even more, the goal.... Only a little while ago, the prospect +before her had been narrow and forlorn—her children gone from +her, her loneliness wrapping her about like a night—and now, now +she saw stretching in front of her a long road, a wide horizon, +glittering with light, nothing but light....</p> +<p>That <i>was</i>, all that <i>was</i>! It was no fine poets’ +fancy; it existed, it gleamed in her <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb109" href="#pb109" name="pb109">109</a>]</span>heart like a sacred +jewel, like a mystic rose with stamina of light! A freshness as of dew +fell over her, over her whole life: over the life of her senses; over +the life of outward appearances; over the life of her soul; over the +life of the indwelling truth. The world was new, fresh with young dew, +the very Eden of Genesis; and her soul was a soul of newness, born anew +in a metempsychosis of greater perfection, of closer approach to the +goal, that distant goal, far away yonder, hidden like a god in the +sanctuary of its ecstasy of light, as in the radiance of its own being. +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb110" href="#pb110" name= +"pb110">110</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +</div> +</div> +<div id="ch7" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h2 id="xd20e1613" class="main">Chapter VII</h2> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">1</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">Cecile did not go out for a few days; she saw nobody. +One morning she received a note; it ran:</p> +<div class="blockquote"> +<p class="first salute">“<span class="sc">Mevrouw</span>,</p> +<p>“I do not know if you were offended by my mystical utterances. +I cannot recall distinctly what I said, but I remember that you told me +that I was going too far. I trust that you did not take my indiscretion +amiss.</p> +<p>“It would be a great pleasure to me to come to see you. May I +hope that you will permit me to call on you this afternoon?</p> +<p>“With most respectful regards,</p> +<p class="signed">“<span class="sc">Quaerts</span>.”</p> +</div> +<p><span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb111" href="#pb111" name= +"pb111">111</a>]</span></p> +<p>As the bearer was waiting for a reply, she wrote back in answer:</p> +<div class="blockquote"> +<p class="first salute">“<span class="sc">Dear Sir</span>,</p> +<p>“I shall be very pleased to see you this afternoon.</p> +<p class="signed">“<span class="sc">Cecile van +Even.</span>”</p> +</div> +<p>When she was alone, she read his note over and over again; she +looked at the paper with a smile, looked at the handwriting:</p> +<p>“How strange,” she thought. “This note ... and +everything that happens. How strange everything is, everything, +everything!”</p> +<p>She remained dreaming a long time, with the note in her hand. Then +she carefully folded it up, rose, walked up and down the room, sought +with her dainty fingers in a bowl full of visiting-cards, taking out +two which she looked at for some time. <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb112" href="#pb112" name= +"pb112">112</a>]</span>“Quaerts.” The name sounded +differently from before.... How strange it all was! Finally she locked +away the note and the two cards in a little empty drawer of her +writing-table.</p> +<p>She stayed at home and sent the children out with the nurse. She +hoped that no one else would call, neither Mrs. Hoze nor the Van +Attemas. And, staring before her, she reflected for a long, long while. +There was so much that she did not understand: properly speaking, she +understood nothing. So far as she was concerned, she had fallen in love +with him: there was no analysing that; it must simply be accepted. But +he, what did he feel, what were his emotions?</p> +<p>Her earlier aversion? Sport: he was fond of sport she remembered.... +His visit, which was an impertinence: he seemed now to be wishing to +atone for it, not to repeat his call without her permission.... +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb113" href="#pb113" name= +"pb113">113</a>]</span>His mystical conversation at the +dinner-party.... And Mrs. Hijdrecht....</p> +<p>“How strange he is!” she reflected. “I do not +understand him; but I love him, I cannot help it. Love, love: how +strange that it should exist! I never realized that it existed! I am no +longer myself; I am becoming some one else!... What does he want to see +me for?... And how singular: I have been married, I have two children! +How singular that I should have two children! I feel as if I had none. +And yet I am so fond of my little boys! But the other thing is so +beautiful, so bright, so transparent, as if that alone were truth. +Perhaps love <i>is</i> the only truth.... It is as if everything in and +about me were turning to crystal!”</p> +<p>She looked around her, surprised and troubled that her surroundings +should have remained the same: the rosewood furniture, <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb114" href="#pb114" name="pb114">114</a>]</span>the +folds of the curtains, the withered landscape of the Scheveningen Road +outside. But it was snowing, silently and softly, with great +snow-flakes falling heavily, as though they meant to purify the world. +The snow was fresh and new, but yet the snow was not real nature to +her, who always saw her distant landscape, like a <i>fata morgana</i>, +quivering in pure incandescence of light.</p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">2</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">He came at four o’clock. She saw him for the +first time since the self-revelation which had flashed upon her +astounded senses. And when he came she felt the singularly rapturous +feeling that in her eyes he was a demigod, that he perfected himself in +her imagination, that everything in him was good. Now that he sat there +before her, she saw him for the first time and she saw that he was +physically <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb115" href="#pb115" name= +"pb115">115</a>]</span>beautiful. The strength of his body was exalted +into the strength of a young god, broad and yet slender, sinewed as +with the marble sinews of a statue; and all this seemed so strange +beneath the modernity of his morning coat.</p> +<p>She saw his face completely for the first time. The cut of it was +Roman, the head that of a Roman emperor, with its sensual profile, its +small, full mouth, living red under the brown gold of his curly +moustache. The forehead was low, the hair cut very close, like an +enveloping black casque; and over that forehead, with its single +furrow, hovered sadness, like a mist of age, strangely contradicting +the wanton youthfulness of his mouth and chin. And then his eyes, which +she already knew, his eyes of mystery, small and deep-set, with the +depth of their pupils, which seemed now to veil themselves and then +again to look out. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb116" href="#pb116" +name="pb116">116</a>]</span></p> +<p>But the strangest thing was that from all his beauty, from all his +being, from all his attitude, as he sat there with his hands folded +between his knees, a magnetism emanated, dominating her, drawing her +irresistibly towards him, as though she had suddenly, from the first +moment of her self-revelation, become <i>his</i>, to serve him in all +things. She felt this magnetism attracting her so violently that every +power in her melted into listlessness and weakness. A weakness as if he +might take her and carry her away, anywhere, wherever he pleased; a +weakness as if she no longer possessed her own thoughts, as if she had +become nothing, apart from <i>him</i>.</p> +<p>She felt this intensely; and then, then came the very strangest +thing of all, as he continued to sit there, at a respectful distance, +his eyes looking up to her in reverence, his voice falling in +reverential accents. This was the very strangest thing <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb117" href="#pb117" name="pb117">117</a>]</span>of +all that she saw him beneath her, while she felt him above her; that +she wished to be his inferior and that he seemed to consider her higher +than himself. She did not know how she suddenly came to realize this so +intensely, but she did realize it; and it was the first pain that her +love gave her.</p> +<p>“It is very kind of you not to be angry with me,” he +began.</p> +<p>There was often something caressing in his voice; it was not clear +and was even now and then a little broken, but this just gave it a +certain charm of quality.</p> +<p>“Why?” she asked.</p> +<p>“In the first place, I did wrong to pay you that visit. In the +second place, I was ill-mannered at Mrs. Hoze’s +dinner.”</p> +<p>“A whole catalogue of sins!” she laughed.</p> +<p>“Surely!” he continued. “And you are very good to +bear me no malice.” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb118" href= +"#pb118" name="pb118">118</a>]</span></p> +<p>“Perhaps that is because I always hear so much good about you +at Dolf’s.”</p> +<p>“Have you never noticed anything odd in Dolf?” he +asked.</p> +<p>“No. What do you mean?”</p> +<p>“Has it never struck you that he has more of an eye for the +great aggregate of political problems as a whole than for the details +of his own surroundings?”</p> +<p>She looked at him, with a smile of surprise:</p> +<p>“Yes,” she said. “You are quite right. You know +him well.”</p> +<p>“Oh, we have known one another from boyhood! It is curious: he +never sees the things that lie close to his hand; he does not penetrate +them. He is intellectually far-sighted.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” she assented.</p> +<p>“He does not know his wife, nor his daughters, nor Jules. He +does not see what they have in them. He identifies <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb119" href="#pb119" name="pb119">119</a>]</span>each +of them by means of an image which he fixes in his mind; and he forms +these images out of two prominent characteristics, which are generally +a little opposed. Mrs. van Attema appears to him a woman with a heart +of gold, but not very practical: so much for her; Jules, a musical +genius, but an untractable boy: that settles <i>him</i>!”</p> +<p>“Yes, he does not go very deeply into character,” she +said. “For there is a great deal more in +Amélie....”</p> +<p>“And he is quite wrong about Jules,” said Quaerts. +“Jules is thoroughly tractable and anything but a genius. Jules +is nothing more than an exceedingly receptive boy, with a little +rudimentary talent. And you ... he misconceives you too!”</p> +<p>“Me?”</p> +<p>“Entirely! Do you know what he thinks of you?” +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb120" href="#pb120" name= +"pb120">120</a>]</span></p> +<p>“No.”</p> +<p>“He thinks you—let me begin by telling you +this—very, very lovable and a dear little mother to your boys. +But he thinks also that you are incapable of growing very fond of any +one; he looks upon you as a woman without passion and melancholy for no +reason, except that you are bored. He thinks you bore +yourself!”</p> +<p>She looked at him in utter dismay and saw him laughing +mischievously.</p> +<p>“I am never bored!” she said, joining in his laughter, +with full conviction.</p> +<p>“No, of course you’re not!” he replied.</p> +<p>“How can <i>you</i> know?” she asked.</p> +<p>“I feel it!” he answered. “And, what is more, I +know that the basis of your character is not melancholy, not dark, but, +on the contrary, very light.”</p> +<p>“I am not so sure of that myself,” she scarcely +murmured, slackly, with that weakness within her, but happy that he +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb121" href="#pb121" name= +"pb121">121</a>]</span>should estimate her so exactly. “And do +you too,” she continued, airily, “think me incapable of +loving any one very much?”</p> +<p>“Now that is a matter of which I am not competent to +judge,” he said, with such frankness that his whole countenance +suddenly grew younger and the crease disappeared from his forehead. +“How can <i>I</i> tell?”</p> +<p>“You seem to know a great deal about me otherwise,” she +laughed.</p> +<p>“I have seen you so often.”</p> +<p>“Barely four times!”</p> +<p>“That is very often.”</p> +<p>She laughed brightly:</p> +<p>“Is this a compliment?”</p> +<p>“It is meant for one,” he replied. “You do not +know how much it means to me to see you.”</p> +<p>It meant much to him to see her! And she felt herself so small, so +weak; and him so great, so perfect. With what decision <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb122" href="#pb122" name="pb122">122</a>]</span>he +spoke, how certain he seemed of it all! It almost saddened her that it +meant so much to him to see her once in a while. He placed her too +high; she did not wish to be placed so high.</p> +<p>And that delicate, fragile something hung between them again, as it +had hung between them at the dinner. Then it had been broken by one +ill-chosen word. Oh, that it might not be broken now!</p> +<p>“And now let us talk about yourself!” she said, +affecting an airy vivacity. “Do you know that you are taking all +sorts of pains to fathom me and that I know nothing whatever about you? +That’s not fair.”</p> +<p>“If you knew how much I have given you already! I give myself +to you entirely; from others I always conceal myself.”</p> +<p>“Why?”</p> +<p>“Because I am afraid of the others!” <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb123" href="#pb123" name="pb123">123</a>]</span></p> +<p>“<i>You</i> ... afraid?”</p> +<p>“Yes. You think that I do not look as if I could feel afraid? +I have something....”</p> +<p>He hesitated.</p> +<p>“Well?” she asked.</p> +<p>“I have something that is very dear to me and about which I am +very much afraid lest any should touch it.”</p> +<p>“And that is...?”</p> +<p>“My soul. I am not afraid of your touching it, for you would +not hurt it. On the contrary, I know that it is very safe with +you.”</p> +<p>She would have liked once more, mechanically, to reproach him with +his strangeness: she could not. But he guessed her thoughts:</p> +<p>“You think me a very odd person, do you not? But how can I be +otherwise with you?”</p> +<p>She felt her love expanding within her <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb124" href="#pb124" name="pb124">124</a>]</span>heart, widening it to +its full capacity within her. Her love was as a domain in which he +wandered.</p> +<p>“I do not understand you yet; I do not know you yet!” +she said, softly. “I do not see you yet....”</p> +<p>“Would you be in any way interested to know me, to see +me?”</p> +<p>“Surely.”</p> +<p>“Let me tell you then; I should like to do so; it would be a +great joy to me.”</p> +<p>“I am listening to you most attentively.”</p> +<p>“One question first: you cannot endure people who go in for +sport?”</p> +<p>“On the contrary, I like to see the display and development of +strength, so long as it is not too near me. Just as I like to hear a +storm, when I am safely within doors. And I can even find pleasure in +watching acrobats.” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb125" href= +"#pb125" name="pb125">125</a>]</span></p> +<p>He laughed quietly:</p> +<p>“Nevertheless you held my particular predilection in great +aversion?”</p> +<p>“Why should you think that?”</p> +<p>“I felt it.”</p> +<p>“You feel everything,” she said, almost in alarm. +“You are a dangerous person.”</p> +<p>“So many think that. Shall I tell you why I believe that you +took a special aversion in my case?”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“Because you did not understand it in me, even though you may +have observed that physical exercise is one of my hobbies.”</p> +<p>“I do not understand you at all.”</p> +<p>“I think you are right.... But don’t let me talk about +myself like this: I would rather talk of you.”</p> +<p>“And I of you. So be nice to me for <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb126" href="#pb126" name="pb126">126</a>]</span>the +first time in our acquaintance and speak ... of yourself.”</p> +<p>He bowed, with a smile:</p> +<p>“You will not think me tiresome?”</p> +<p>“Not at all. You were telling me of yourself. You were +speaking of your love of exercise....”</p> +<p>“Ah, yes!... Can you understand that there are in me two +distinct individuals?”</p> +<p>“Two distinct....”</p> +<p>“Yes. My soul, which I regard as my real self; and then ... +there remains the other.”</p> +<p>“And what is that other?”</p> +<p>“Something ugly, something common, something grossly +primitive. In one word, the brute.”</p> +<p>She shrugged her shoulders lightly:</p> +<p>“How dark you paint yourself. The same thing is more or less +true of everybody.” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb127" href= +"#pb127" name="pb127">127</a>]</span></p> +<p>“Yes, but it troubles me more than I can tell you. I suffer; +that brute within me hurts my soul, hurts it even more than the whole +world hurts it. Now do you know why I feel such a sense of security +when I am with you? It is because I do not feel the brute that is in +me.... Let me go on a little longer, let me confess; it does me good to +tell you all this. You thought I had only seen you four times? But I +used to see you so often formerly, in the theatre, in the street, +everywhere. It was always rather strange to me when I saw you in the +midst of accidental surroundings. And always, when I looked at you, I +felt as if I were being lifted to something more beautiful. I cannot +express myself more clearly. There is something in your face, in your +eyes, in your movements, I don’t know what, but something better +than in other people, something that addressed itself, <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb128" href="#pb128" name="pb128">128</a>]</span>most +eloquently, to my soul only. All this is so subtle and so strange; I +can hardly put it more plainly. But you are no doubt once more thinking +that I am going too far, are you not? Or that I am raving?”</p> +<p>“Certainly, I should never have thought you such an idealist, +such a sensitivist,” said Cecile, softly.</p> +<p>“Have I leave to speak to you like this?”</p> +<p>“Why not?” she asked, to escape the necessity of +replying.</p> +<p>“You might perhaps fear that I should compromise +you....”</p> +<p>“I do not fear that for an instant!” she replied, +haughtily, as in utter contempt of the world.</p> +<p>They were silent for a moment. That delicate, fragile thing, which +might so easily break, still hung between them, thin, like a gossamer, +lightly joining them together. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb129" +href="#pb129" name="pb129">129</a>]</span>An atmosphere of +embarrassment hovered about them. They felt that the words which had +passed between them were full of significance. Cecile waited for him to +continue; but, as he was silent, she boldly took up the +conversation:</p> +<p>“On the contrary, I value it highly that you have spoken to me +like this. You are right: you have indeed given me much of yourself. I +want to assure you that whatever you have given me will be quite safe +with me. I believe that I understand you better now that I see you +better.”</p> +<p>“I want very much to ask you something,” he said, +“but I dare not.”</p> +<p>She smiled, to encourage him.</p> +<p>“No, really I dare not,” he repeated.</p> +<p>“Shall I guess?” Cecile asked, jestingly.</p> +<p>“Yes; what do you think it is?”</p> +<p>She glanced round the room until her eye rested on the little table +covered with books. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb130" href="#pb130" +name="pb130">130</a>]</span></p> +<p>“The loan of Emerson’s essays?” she hazarded.</p> +<p>But Quaerts shook his head and laughed:</p> +<p>“No, thank you,” he said. “I bought the volume +long ago. No, no, it is a much greater favour than the loan of a +book.”</p> +<p>“Be brave then and ask it,” Cecile went on, still +jestingly.</p> +<p>“I dare not,” he said again. “I should not know +how to put my request into words.”</p> +<p>She looked at him earnestly, into his eyes, which gazed steadily +upon her; and then she said:</p> +<p>“I know what you want to ask me, but I will not say it. +<i>You</i> must do that: so seek your words.”</p> +<p>“If you know, will you then permit me to say it?”</p> +<p>“Yes, for, if it is what I think, it is nothing that you are +not entitled to ask.” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb131" href= +"#pb131" name="pb131">131</a>]</span></p> +<p>“And yet it would be a great favour.... But let me warn you +beforehand that I look upon myself as some one of a much lower order +than you.”</p> +<p>A shadow passed across her face, her mouth had a little contraction +of pain and she pressed him, a little unnerved:</p> +<p>“I beg you, ask. Just ask me simply.”</p> +<p>“It is a wish, then, that sympathy might be sealed between you +and me. Would you allow me to come to you when I am unhappy? I always +feel so happy in your presence, so soothed, so different from the state +of ordinary life, for with you I live only my better, my real self: you +know what I mean.”</p> +<p>Everything within her again melted into weakness and slackness; he +was placing her upon too high a pedestal; she was happy, because of +what he asked her, but sad, that he felt himself so much lower than +she. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb132" href="#pb132" name= +"pb132">132</a>]</span></p> +<p>“Very well,” she said, nevertheless, with a clear voice. +“It shall be as you wish. Let us seal a bond of +sympathy.”</p> +<p>And she gave him her hand, her beautiful, long, white hand, where on +one white finger gleamed the sparks of jewels, white and blue. For a +second, very reverently, he pressed her finger-tips between his +own:</p> +<p>“Thank you,” he said, in a hushed voice, a voice that +was a little broken.</p> +<p>“Are you often unhappy?” asked Cecile.</p> +<p>“Always,” he replied, almost humbly and as though +embarrassed at having to confess it. “I don’t know why, but +it has always been so. And yet from my childhood I have enjoyed much +that people call happiness. But yet, yet ... I suffer through myself. +It is I who do myself the most hurt. And after that the world ... and I +have always to hide myself. To the world, to people generally I +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb133" href="#pb133" name= +"pb133">133</a>]</span>only show the individual who rides and fences +and hunts, who goes into society and is very dangerous to young married +women....”</p> +<p>He laughed with his bad, low laugh, looking aslant into her eyes; +she remained calmly gazing at him.</p> +<p>“Beyond that I give them nothing. I hate them; I have nothing +in common with them, thank God!”</p> +<p>“You are too proud,” said Cecile. “Each of those +people has his own sorrow, just as you have: the one suffers a little +more subtly, the other a little more coarsely; but they all suffer. And +in that they all resemble yourself.”</p> +<p>“Each taken by himself, perhaps. But that is not how I take +them: I take them in the lump and therefore I hate them. Don’t +you?”</p> +<p>“No,” she said calmly. “I don’t believe that +I am capable of hating.” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb134" +href="#pb134" name="pb134">134</a>]</span></p> +<p>“You are very strong within yourself. You suffice unto +yourself.”</p> +<p>“No, no, not that, really not; but you ... you are unjust +towards the world.”</p> +<p>“Possibly; but why does it always give me pain? Alone with +you, I forget that it exists, the outside world. Do you understand now +why I was so sorry to see you at Mrs. Hoze’s? You seemed to me to +have lowered yourself. And it was because ... because of that special +quality which I saw in you that I did not seek your acquaintance +earlier. The acquaintance was fatally bound to come; and so I +waited....”</p> +<p>Fate? What would it bring her? thought Cecile. But she could not +pursue the thought: she seemed to herself to be dreaming of beautiful +and subtle things which did not exist for other people, which only +floated between them two. And those beautiful things were already +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb135" href="#pb135" name= +"pb135">135</a>]</span>there: it was no longer necessary to look upon +them as illusions; it was as if she had overtaken the future! For one +brief moment only did this happiness endure; then again she felt pain, +because of his reverence.</p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">3</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">He was gone and she was alone, waiting for the +children. She neglected to ring for the lamp to be lighted; and the +twilight of the late afternoon darkened into the room. She sat +motionless, looking out before her at the leafless trees.</p> +<p>“Why should <i>I</i> not be happy?” she thought. +“He is happy with me; he is himself with me only; he cannot be so +among other people. Why then can <i>I</i> not be happy?”</p> +<p>She felt pain; her soul suffered and it seemed to her as if her soul +were suffering for the first time, perhaps because now, for +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb136" href="#pb136" name= +"pb136">136</a>]</span>the first time, her soul had not been itself but +another. It seemed to her as if another woman and not she had spoken to +him, to Quaerts, just now. An exalted woman, a woman of illusions; the +woman, in fact, whom he saw in her and not the woman that she was, a +humble woman, a woman of love. Ah, she had had to restrain herself not +to ask him:</p> +<p>“Why do you speak to me like that? Why do you raise up your +beautiful thoughts to me? Why do you not rather let them drip down upon +me? For see, I do not stand so high as you think; and see, I am at your +feet and my eyes seek you above me.”</p> +<p>Ought she to have told him that he was deceiving himself? Ought she +to have asked him:</p> +<p>“Why do I lower myself when I mix with other people? What do +you see in me after all? Behold, I am only a woman, <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb137" href="#pb137" name="pb137">137</a>]</span>a +woman of weakness and dreams; and I have come to love you, I +don’t know why.”</p> +<p>Ought she to have opened his eyes and said to him:</p> +<p>“Look upon your own soul in a mirror; look upon yourself and +see how you are a god walking the earth, a god who knows everything +because he feels it, who feels everything because he knows +it....”</p> +<p>Everything?... No, not everything; for he deceived himself, this +god, and thought to find an equal in her, who was but his creature.</p> +<p>Ought she to have declared all this, at the cost of her modesty and +his happiness? For his happiness—she felt perfectly +assured—lay in seeing her in the way in which he saw her.</p> +<p>“With me he is happy!” she thought. “And sympathy +is sealed between us.... It was not friendship, nor did he <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb138" href="#pb138" name= +"pb138">138</a>]</span>speak of love; he called it simply sympathy.... +With me he feels only his real self and not that other ... the brute +that is within him!... The brute!...”</p> +<p>Then there came drifting over her a gloom as of gathering clouds; +and she shuddered at something that suddenly rolled through her: a +broad stream of blackness, as though its waters were filled with mud, +which bubbled up in troubled rings, growing larger and larger. And she +took fear before this stream and tried not to see it; but it swallowed +up all her landscapes—so bright before, with their luminous +horizons—now with a sky of ink smeared above, like a foul +night.</p> +<p>“How loftily he thinks, how noble his thoughts are!” +Cecile still forced herself to imagine, in spite of it all....</p> +<p>But the magic was gone: her admiration of his lofty thoughts tumbled +away into <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb139" href="#pb139" name= +"pb139">139</a>]</span>an abyss; then suddenly, by a lightning flash +through the night of that inky sky, she saw clearly that this loftiness +of thought was a supreme sorrow to her in him.</p> +<p>It was quite dark in the room. Cecile, afraid of the lightning which +revealed her to herself, had thrown herself back upon the cushions of +the couch. She hid her face in her hands, pressing her eyes, as though +she wished, after this moment of self-revelation, to be blind for +ever.</p> +<p>But demoniacally it raged through her, a hurricane of hell, a storm +of passion, which blew out of the darkness of the landscape, lashing +the tossed waves of the stream towards the inky sky.</p> +<p>“Oh!” she moaned. “I am unworthy of him ... +unworthy!...” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb140" href="#pb140" +name="pb140">140</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +</div> +</div> +<div id="ch8" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h2 id="xd20e2052" class="main">Chapter VIII</h2> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">1</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">Quaerts lived on the Plein, above a tailor, where he +occupied two small rooms furnished in the most ordinary style. He could +have had much better lodgings if he chose, but he was indifferent to +comfort: he never gave it a thought in his own place; when he came +across it elsewhere, it did not attract him. But it distressed Jules +that Quaerts should live in this fashion; and the boy had long wanted +to improve the sitting-room. He was now busy hanging some trophies on +an armour-rack, standing on a pair of steps, humming a tune which he +remembered from some opera. But Quaerts paid no heed to what Jules was +doing: he lay <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb141" href="#pb141" name= +"pb141">141</a>]</span>without moving on the sofa, at full length, in +his pyjamas, unshorn, with his eyes fixed upon the Renascence +decorations of the Law Courts, tracing a background of architecture +behind the leafless trees of the Plein.</p> +<p>“Look, Taco, will this do?” asked Jules, after hanging +an Algerian sabre between two Malay creeses and draping the folds of a +Javanese sarong between.</p> +<p>“Yes, beautifully,” replied Quaerts.</p> +<p>But he did not look at the rack of arms and continued gazing at the +Law Courts. He lay back motionless. There was no thought in him, +nothing but listless dissatisfaction with himself and consequent +sadness. For three weeks he had led a life of debauch, to deaden +consciousness, or perhaps he did not know precisely what: something +that was in him, something that was beautiful but tedious, in ordinary +life. He had begun by shooting over a friend’s <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb142" href="#pb142" name="pb142">142</a>]</span>land +in North Brabant. It lasted a week; there were eight of them; sport in +the open air, followed by sporting dinners, with not only a great deal +of wine, certainly the best, but still more geneva, also of the finest, +like a liqueur. Ragging-excursions on horseback in the neighbourhood; +follies at a farm—the peasant-woman carried round in a barrel and +locked up in the cow-house—mischievous exploits, worthy only of +unruly boys and savages and ending in a summons before a magistrate, +with a fine and damages. Wound up to a pitch of excitement with too +much sport, too much oxygen and too much drink, five of the pack, +including Quaerts, had gone on to Brussels, where one of them had a +mistress. There they stayed nearly a fortnight, leading a life of +continual excess, with endless champagne and larking: a wild joy of +living, which, natural enough at first, had in the <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb143" href="#pb143" name="pb143">143</a>]</span>end +to be screwed up and screwed up higher still, to make it last a couple +of days longer; the last nights spent weariedly over +écarté, with none but the fixed idea of winning, the +exhaustion of all their violence already pulsing through their bodies, +like a nervous relaxation, and their eyes gazing without expression at +the cards.</p> +<p>During that time Quaerts had only once thought of Cecile; and he had +not followed up the thought. She had no doubt arisen three or four +times in his brain, as a vague image, white and transparent, an +apparition which had vanished again immediately, leaving no trace of +its passage. All this time too he had not written to her; and it had +only once struck him that a silence of three weeks, after their last +conversation, must seem strange to her. There it had remained. He was +back now; he had lain three days long at home <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb144" href="#pb144" name="pb144">144</a>]</span>on +his bed, on his sofa, tired, feverish, dissatisfied, disgusted with +everything, everything; then, one morning, remembering that it was +Wednesday, he had thought of Jules and his riding-lesson.</p> +<p>He sent for Jules, but, too lazy to shave or dress, he remained +lying where he was. And he still lay there, realizing nothing. There +before him were the Law Courts, with the Privy Council adjoining. At +the side he could see the Witte<a class="noteref" id="xd20e2077src" +href="#xd20e2077" name="xd20e2077src">1</a> and William the Silent +standing on his pedestal in the middle of the Plein: that was all +exceedingly interesting. And Jules was hanging up trophies: also +interesting. And the most interesting of all was the stupid life he had +been leading. What a tense effort to lull his boredom! Had he really +amused himself during that time? No; he had made a pretence of being +amused: the episode of the peasant-woman <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb145" href="#pb145" name="pb145">145</a>]</span>and the +écarté had excited him; the sport was bad, the wine good, +but he had drunk too much of it. And then the filthy champagne of that +wench, at Brussels!...</p> +<p>Well, what then? He had absolute need of it, of a life like that, of +sport and wild enjoyment; it served to balance the other thing in him, +which became impossible in everyday life.</p> +<p>But why could he not preserve some sort of mean in both? He was +perfectly well-equipped for ordinary life; and with that he possessed +something in addition, something that was very beautiful in his soul: +why could he not remain balanced between those two inner spheres? Why +was he always tossed from one to the other, as a thing that belonged to +neither? How fine he could have made his life with just the least tact, +the least self-restraint! How he might have lived in a healthy delight +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb146" href="#pb146" name= +"pb146">146</a>]</span>of purified animal existence, tempered by a +higher joyousness of soul! But tact, self-restraint: he had none of all +this; he lived according to his impulses, always in extremes; he was +incapable of half-measures. And in this lay his pride as well as his +regret: his pride that he felt this or that thing “wholly,” +that he was unable to compromise with his emotions; and his regret that +he could <i>not</i> compromise and bring into harmony the elements +which for ever waged war within him.</p> +<p>When he had met Cecile and had seen her again and yet once again, he +had felt himself carried wholly to the one extreme, the summit of +exaltation, of pure crystal sympathy, in which the circle of his +atmosphere—as he had said—glided in sympathy over hers, in +a caress of pure chastity and spirituality, as two stars, spinning +closer together, might mingle their atmospheres <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb147" href="#pb147" name="pb147">147</a>]</span>for +a moment, like breaths. What smiling happiness had not been within his +reach, as it were a grace from Heaven!</p> +<p>Then, then he had felt himself toppling down, as if he had rocked +over the balancing-point; and he had longed for earthly pleasures, for +great simplicity of emotion, for primitive enjoyment of life, for flesh +and blood. He now remembered how, two days after his last conversation +with Cecile, he had seen Emilie Hijdrecht, here, in these very rooms, +where at length, stung by his neglect, she had ventured to come to him +one evening, heedless of all caution. With a line of cruelty round his +mouth he recalled how she had wept at his knees, how in her jealousy +she had complained against Cecile, how he had ordered her to be silent +and forbidden her to pronounce Cecile’s name. Then, their mad +embrace, an embrace of cruelty: cruelty <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb148" href="#pb148" name="pb148">148</a>]</span>on her part against +the man whom time after time she lost when she thought him secured for +good, whom she could not understand and to whom she clung with all the +violence of her brutal passion, a purely animal passion of primitive +times; cruelty on his part against the woman he despised, while in his +passion he almost stifled her in his embrace.</p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">2</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">Yes, what then? How was he to find the mean between +the two poles of his nature? He shrugged his shoulders. He knew that he +could never find it. He lacked some quality, or a certain power, +necessary to find it. He could do nothing but allow himself to swing to +and fro. Very well then: he would let himself swing; there was no help +for it. For now, in the lassitude following his outburst of savagery, +he began to experience <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb149" href= +"#pb149" name="pb149">149</a>]</span>again a violent longing, like one +who, after a long evening passed in a ball-room heavy with the foul air +of gaslight and the stifling closeness and mustiness of human breath, +craves a high heaven and width of atmosphere: a violent longing for +Cecile. And he smiled, glad that he knew her, that he was able to go to +her, that it was now his privilege to enter into the chaste sanctuary +of her environment, as into a temple; he smiled, glad that he felt his +longing and proud of it, exalting himself above other men. Already he +tasted the pleasure of confessing to her honestly how he had lived +during the last three weeks; and already he heard her voice, though he +could not distinguish the words....</p> +<p>Jules climbed down the steps. He was disappointed that Quaerts had +not followed his arranging of the weapons upon the rack and his draping +of the stuffs around them. But he had quietly continued <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb150" href="#pb150" name="pb150">150</a>]</span>his +work and, now that it was finished, he climbed down and came and sat on +the floor quietly, with his head against the foot of the couch on which +his friend lay thinking. Jules said never a word; he looked straight +before him, a little sulkily, knowing that Quaerts was looking at +him.</p> +<p>“Jules,” said Quaerts.</p> +<p>But Jules did not answer, still staring.</p> +<p>“Tell me, Jules, what makes you like me so much?”</p> +<p>“How should I know?” answered Jules, with thin lips.</p> +<p>“Don’t you know?”</p> +<p>“No. How can you know why you are fond of any one?”</p> +<p>“You oughtn’t to be so fond of me, Jules. It’s not +good.”</p> +<p>“Very well, I will be less so in the future.”</p> +<p>Jules rose suddenly and took his hat. <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb151" href="#pb151" name="pb151">151</a>]</span>He put out his hand; +but Quaerts held him back with a laugh:</p> +<p>“You see, scarcely any one is fond of me, except ... you and +your father. Now I know why your father likes me, but not why you +do.”</p> +<p>“You want to know everything.”</p> +<p>“Is that so very wrong?”</p> +<p>“Certainly. You’ll never be satisfied. Mamma always says +that no one knows anything.”</p> +<p>“And you?”</p> +<p>“I?... Nothing....”</p> +<p>“How do you mean, nothing?”</p> +<p>“I know nothing at all.... Let me go.”</p> +<p>“Are you cross, Jules?”</p> +<p>“No, but I have an engagement.”</p> +<p>“Can’t you wait till I’m dressed? Then we can go +together. I am going to Aunt Cecile’s.”</p> +<p>Jules objected: <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb152" href="#pb152" +name="pb152">152</a>]</span></p> +<p>“All right, provided you hurry.”</p> +<p>Quaerts got up. He now saw the arrangement of the weapons, which he +had entirely forgotten:</p> +<p>“You’ve done it very nicely, Jules,” he said, in +an admiring tone. “Thank you very much.”</p> +<p>Jules did not answer; and Quaerts went through into his +dressing-room. The lad sat down on the sofa, bolt upright, looking out +at the Law Courts, across the bare trees. His eyes filled with great +round tears, which ran down his cheeks. Sitting stiff and motionless, +he wept. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb153" href="#pb153" name= +"pb153">153</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +</div> +<div class="footnotes"> +<hr class="fnsep"> +<p class="footnote"><span class="label"><a class="noteref" id= +"xd20e2077" href="#xd20e2077src" name="xd20e2077">1</a></span> The +leading club at The Hague.</p> +</div> +</div> +<div id="ch9" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h2 id="xd20e2167" class="main">Chapter IX</h2> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">1</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">Cecile had passed those three weeks in a state of +ignorance which had filled her with pain. She had, it is true, heard +through Dolf that Quaerts was away shooting, but beyond that nothing. A +thrill of joy electrified her when the door behind the screen opened +and she saw him enter the room. He was standing in front of her before +she could recover herself; and, as she was trembling, she did not rise, +but, still sitting, reached out her hand to him, her fingers quivering +imperceptibly.</p> +<p>“I have been out of town,” he began.</p> +<p>“So I heard.”</p> +<p>“Have you been well all this time?”</p> +<p>“Quite well, thank you.” <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb154" href="#pb154" name="pb154">154</a>]</span></p> +<p>He noticed that she was somewhat pale, that she had a light blue +shadow under her eyes and that there was lassitude in all her +movements. But he came to the conclusion that there was nothing +extraordinary in this, or that perhaps she merely looked pale in the +creamy whiteness of her soft, white dress, like silky wool, even as her +figure became yet slighter in the constraint of the scarf about her +waist, with its long white fringe falling to her feet. She was sitting +alone with Christie, the child upon his footstool with his head in her +lap and a picture-book on his knees.</p> +<p>“You two are a perfect Madonna and Child,” said +Quaerts.</p> +<p>“Little Dolf has gone out to walk with his god-father,” +she said, looking fondly upon her child and motioning to him +gently.</p> +<p>At this bidding the boy stood up and <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb155" href="#pb155" name="pb155">155</a>]</span>shyly approached +Quaerts, offering him a hand. Quaerts lifted him up and set him on his +knee:</p> +<p>“How light he is!”</p> +<p>“He is not strong,” said Cecile.</p> +<p>“You coddle him too much.” She laughed:</p> +<p>“Pedagogue!” she laughed. “How do I coddle +him?”</p> +<p>“I always find him nestling against your skirts. He must come +with me one of these days: I should make him do some +gymnastics.”</p> +<p>“Jules horse-riding and Christie gymnastics!” she +exclaimed.</p> +<p>“Yes ... sport, in fact!” he answered, with a meaning +look of fun.</p> +<p>She glanced back at him; and sympathy smiled from the depths of her +gold-grey eyes. He felt thoroughly happy and, with the child still upon +his knees, said: <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb156" href="#pb156" +name="pb156">156</a>]</span></p> +<p>“I have come to confess to you ... Madonna!”</p> +<p>Then, as though startled, he put the child away from him.</p> +<p>“To confess?”</p> +<p>“Yes.... There, Christie, go back to Mamma; I mustn’t +keep you by me any longer.”</p> +<p>“Very well,” said Christie, with great, wondering eyes, +and caught hold of the cord of Quaerts’ eyeglass.</p> +<p>“The Child would forgive too easily,” said Quaerts.</p> +<p>“And I, have I anything to forgive you?” she asked.</p> +<p>“I shall be only too happy if you will see it in that +light.”</p> +<p>“Then begin your confession.”</p> +<p>“But the Child ...” he hesitated.</p> +<p>Cecile stood up; she took the child, kissed him and sat him on a +stool by the <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb157" href="#pb157" name= +"pb157">157</a>]</span>window with his picture-book. Then she came back +to the sofa:</p> +<p>“He will not hear....”</p> +<p>And Quaerts began the story, choosing his words: he spoke of the +shooting, of the ragging-parties and the peasant-woman and of Brussels. +She listened attentively, with dread in her eyes at the violence of +such a life, the echo of which reverberated in his words, even though +the echo was softened by his reverence.</p> +<p>“And is all this a sin calling for absolution?” she +asked, when he had finished.</p> +<p>“Is it not?”</p> +<p>“I am no Madonna, but ... a woman with fairly emancipated +views. If you were happy in what you did, it was no sin, for happiness +is good.... Were you happy, I ask you? For in that case what you did +was ... good.”</p> +<p>“Happy?” he asked. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb158" +href="#pb158" name="pb158">158</a>]</span></p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“No.... Therefore I have sinned, sinned against myself, have I +not? Forgive me ... Madonna.”</p> +<p>She was troubled at the sound of his voice, which, gently broken, +wrapped her about as with a spell; she was troubled to see him sitting +there, filling with his body, his personality, his existence a place in +her room, beside her. In a single second she lived through hours, +feeling her calm love lying heavy within her, like a sweet weight; +feeling a longing to throw her arms about him and tell him that she +worshipped him; feeling also an intense sorrow at what he had admitted, +that once again he had been unhappy. Hardly able to control herself in +her compassion, she rose, moved towards him and laid her hand upon his +shoulder:</p> +<p>“Tell me, do you mean all this? Is <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb159" href="#pb159" name="pb159">159</a>]</span>it +all true? Is it true that you have been living as you say and yet have +not been happy?”</p> +<p>“Perfectly true, on my soul.”</p> +<p>“Then why did you do it?”</p> +<p>“I couldn’t help it.”</p> +<p>“You were unable to force yourself to be more +moderate?”</p> +<p>“Absolutely.”</p> +<p>“Then I should like to teach you.”</p> +<p>“And I should not like to learn, from <i>you</i>. For it is +and always will be my best happiness to be immoderate also where you +are concerned, immoderate in the life of my real self, my soul, just as +I have now been immoderate in the life of my apparent self.”</p> +<p>Her eyes grew dim; she shook her head, her hand still upon his +shoulder:</p> +<p>“That is not right,” she said, in deep distress. +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb160" href="#pb160" name= +"pb160">160</a>]</span></p> +<p>“It is a joy ... for both those beings. I have to be like +that, I have to be immoderate: they both demand it.”</p> +<p>“But that is not right,” she insisted. “Pure +enjoyment ...”</p> +<p>“The lowest, but also the highest....”</p> +<p>A shiver passed through her, a deadly fear for him.</p> +<p>“No, no,” she persisted. “Don’t think that. +Don’t do it. Neither the one nor the other. Really, it is all +wrong. Pure joy, unbridled joy, even the highest, is not good. In that +way you force your life. When you speak so, I am afraid for your sake. +Try to recover moderation. You have so many possibilities of being +happy.”</p> +<p>“Oh, yes!...”</p> +<p>“Yes, but what I mean is that you must not be fanatical. And +... and also, for the love of God, don’t run quite so madly after +pleasure.” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb161" href="#pb161" +name="pb161">161</a>]</span></p> +<p>He looked up at her; he saw her beseeching him with her eyes, with +the expression of her face, with her whole attitude, as she stood +bending slightly forward. He <i>saw</i> her beseeching him, even as he +<i>heard</i> her; and then he knew that she loved him. A feeling of +bright rapture came upon him, as though something high were descending +upon him to guide him. He did not stir—he felt her hand thrilling +at his shoulder—afraid lest with the smallest movement he should +drive that rapture away. It did not occur to him for a moment to speak +a word of tenderness to her or to take her in his arms and press her to +him: she was so profoundly transfigured in his eyes that any such +profane desire remained far removed from him. And yet he felt at that +moment that he loved her, but as he had never yet loved any one before, +so completely and exclusively, with the noblest elements that lie +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb162" href="#pb162" name= +"pb162">162</a>]</span>hidden away in the soul, often unknown even to +itself. He felt that he loved her with new-born feelings of frank youth +and fresh vigour and pure unselfishness. And it seemed to him that it +was all a dream of something which did not exist, a dream lightly woven +about him, a web of sunbeams.</p> +<p>“Madonna!” he whispered. “Forgive +me....”</p> +<p>“Promise then....”</p> +<p>“Willingly, but I shall not be able to keep my promise. I am +weak....”</p> +<p>“No.”</p> +<p>“Ah, I am! But I give you my promise; and I promise also to +try my utmost to keep it. Will you forgive me now?”</p> +<p>She nodded to him; her smile fell on him like a ray of sunlight. +Then she went to the child, took it in her arms and brought it to +Quaerts: <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb163" href="#pb163" name= +"pb163">163</a>]</span></p> +<p>“Put your arms round his neck, Christie, and give him a +kiss.”</p> +<p>He took the child from her; it threw its little arms about his neck +and kissed him on the forehead.</p> +<p>“The Madonna forgives me ... and the Child!” he +whispered.</p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">2</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">They stayed long talking to each other; and no one +came to disturb them. The child had gone back to sit by the window. +Twilight began to strew pale ashes in the room. He saw Cecile sitting +there, sweetly white; the kindly melody of her half-breathed words came +rippling towards him. They talked of many things: of Emerson; of Van +Eeden’s new poem in the <i lang="nl">Nieuwe Gids</i>; of their +respective views of life. He accepted a cup of tea, only for the +pleasure of seeing her move with <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb164" +href="#pb164" name="pb164">164</a>]</span>the yielding lines of her +graciousness, standing before the tea-table in the corner. In her white +dress, she had something about her of marble grown lissom with +inspiration and warm life. He sat motionless, listening reverently, +swathed in a still rapture of delight. It was a mood which defied +analysis, without a visible origin, springing from their sympathetic +fellowship as a flower springs from an invisible seed after a drop of +rain and a kiss of the sunshine. She too was happy; she no longer felt +the pain which his reverence had caused her. True, she was a little sad +by reason of what he had told her, but she was happy for the sake of +this speck of the present. Nor did she any longer see that dark stream, +that inky sky, that night landscape: everything that she now saw was +bright and calm. And happiness breathed about her, a tangible +happiness, like a living caress. Sometimes <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb165" href="#pb165" name="pb165">165</a>]</span>they +ceased speaking and both of them looked towards the child, as it sat +reading; or Christie would ask them something and they would answer. +Then they smiled one to the other, because the child was so good and +did not disturb them.</p> +<p>“If only this could continue for ever,” he ventured to +say, though still fearing lest a word might break the crystalline +transparency of their happiness. “If you could only see into me +now, how all in me is peace. I don’t know why, but that is how I +feel. Perhaps because of your forgiveness. Really the Catholic religion +is delightful, with its absolution. What a comfort that must be for +people of weak character!”</p> +<p>“But I cannot think your character weak. And it is not. You +tell me that you sometimes know how to place yourself above ordinary +life, whence you can look down upon its grief as on a comedy +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb166" href="#pb166" name= +"pb166">166</a>]</span>which makes one laugh sadly for a minute, but +which is not true. I too believe that life, as we see it, is no more +than a symbol of a truer life, concealed beneath it, which we do not +see. But I cannot rise beyond the symbol, while you can. Therefore you +are very strong and feel yourself very great.”</p> +<p>“How strange, when I just think myself weak and you great and +powerful. You dare to be what you are, in all your harmony; and I am +always hiding and am afraid of people individually, though sometimes I +am able to rise above life in the mass. But these are riddles which it +is vain for me to attempt to solve; and, though I have not the power to +solve them, at this moment I feel nothing but happiness. Surely I may +say that once aloud, may I not, quite aloud?”</p> +<p>She smiled to him in the bliss which she felt of making him happy. +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb167" href="#pb167" name= +"pb167">167</a>]</span></p> +<p>It is the first time I have felt happiness in this way,” he +continued. “Indeed it is the first time I have felt it at +all....”</p> +<p>“Then don’t analyse it.”</p> +<p>“There is no need. It is standing before me in all its +simplicity. Do you know why I am happy?”</p> +<p>“Don’t analyse, don’t analyse,” she repeated +in alarm.</p> +<p>“No,” he said, “but may I tell you, without +analysing?”</p> +<p>“No, don’t,” she stammered, “because ... +because I know....”</p> +<p>She besought him, very pale, with folded, trembling hands. The child +looked at them; it had closed its book, and come to sit down on its +stool by its mother, with a look of gay sagacity in its pale-blue +eyes.</p> +<p>“Then I obey you,” said Quaerts, with some +difficulty.</p> +<p>And they were both silent, their eyes <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb168" href="#pb168" name="pb168">168</a>]</span>expanded as with the +lustre of a vision. It seemed to be gently beaming about them through +the pale ashen twilight. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb169" href= +"#pb169" name="pb169">169</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +</div> +</div> +<div id="ch10" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h2 id="xd20e2374" class="main">Chapter X</h2> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">This evening Cecile had written a great deal into her +diary; and she now paced up and down in her room, with locked hands +hanging before her and her head slightly bowed and a fixed look in her +eyes. There was anxiety about her mouth. Before her was the vision, as +she had conceived it. He loved her with his soul alone, not as a woman +who is pretty and good, but with a higher love than that, with the +finest nervous fibres of his being—his real being—with the +supreme emotion of the very essence of his soul. Thus she felt that he +loved her and in no other way, with contemplation, with adoration. Thus +she felt it actually, through a sympathetic power of divination by +which each of them <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb170" href="#pb170" +name="pb170">170</a>]</span>was able to guess what actually passed +within the other. And this was his happiness—his first, as he +said—thus to love her and in no other way. Oh, she well +understood him! She understood his illusion, which he saw in her; and +she now knew that, if she really wished to love him for his sake and +not for her own, she must needs appear to be nothing else to him, she +must preserve his illusion of a woman not of flesh, one who desired +none of the earthly things that other women did, one who should be soul +alone, a sister soul to his. But, while she saw before her this vision +of her love, calm and radiant, she saw also the struggle which awaited +her, the struggle with herself, with her own distress: distress because +he thought of her so highly and named her Madonna, the while she longed +only to be lowly and his slave. She would have to seem the woman he saw +in her, for <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb171" href="#pb171" name= +"pb171">171</a>]</span>the sake of his happiness, and the part would be +a heavy one for her to support, for she loved him, ah, with such +simplicity, with all her woman’s heart, wishing to give herself +to him entirely, as only once in her life a woman gives herself, +whatever the sacrifice might cost her, the sacrifice made in ignorance +of herself and perhaps afterwards to be made in bitterness and sorrow! +The outward appearance of her conduct and her inward consciousness of +herself: the conflict of these would fall heavily upon her, but she +thought upon the struggle with a smile, with joy beaming through her +heart, for this bitterness would be endured for <i>him</i>, +deliberately for him and for him alone. Oh, the luxury to suffer for +one whom she loved as she loved him; to be tortured with inner longing, +that he might not come to her with the embrace of his arms and the kiss +of his mouth; and to feel that <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb172" +href="#pb172" name="pb172">172</a>]</span>the torture was for the sake +of his happiness, his! To feel that she loved him enough to go to him +with open arms and beg for the alms of his caresses; but also to feel +that she loved him more than that and more highly and that—not +from pride or bashfulness, which are really egoism, but solely from +sacrifice of herself to his happiness—she never would, never +could, be a suppliant before him!</p> +<p>To suffer, to suffer for him! To wear a sword through her soul for +him! To be a martyr for her god, for whom there was no happiness on +earth save through her martyrdom! And she had passed her life, had +spent long, long years, without feeling until this day that such luxury +could exist, not as a fantasy in rhymes, but as a reality in her heart. +She had been a young girl and had read the poets and what they rhyme of +love; and she had thought she understood it all, with a subtle +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb173" href="#pb173" name= +"pb173">173</a>]</span>comprehension and yet without ever having had +the least acquaintance with emotion itself. She had been a young woman, +had been married, had borne children. Her married life flashed through +her mind in a lightning-flicker of memory; and she stopped still before +the portrait of her dead husband, standing there on its easel, draped +in sombre plush. The mask it wore was of ambition: an austere, refined +face, with features sharp, as if engraved in fine steel; +coldly-intelligent eyes with a fixed portrait look; thin, clean-shaven +lips, closed firmly like a lock. Her husband! And she still lived in +the same house where she had lived with him, where she had had to +receive her many guests when he was Foreign Minister. Her receptions +and dinners flickered up in her mind, so many scenes of worldliness; +and she clearly recalled her husband’s eye taking in everything +with a quick glance of <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb174" href= +"#pb174" name="pb174">174</a>]</span>approval or disapproval: the +arrangement of her rooms, her dress, the ordering of her parties. Her +marriage had not been unhappy; her husband was a little cold and +unexpansive, wrapped wholly in his ambition; but he was attached to her +after his fashion and even tenderly; she too had been fond of him; she +thought at the time that she was marrying him for love: her dependent +womanliness loved the male, the master. Of a delicate constitution, +probably undermined by excessive brain-work, he had died after a short +illness. Cecile remembered her sorrow, her loneliness with the two +children, as to whom he had already feared that she would spoil them. +And her loneliness had been sweet to her, among the clouds of her +dreaming....</p> +<p>This portrait—a handsome life-size photograph; a carbon +impression dark with a Rembrandt shadow—why had she <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb175" href="#pb175" name= +"pb175">175</a>]</span>never had it copied in oils, as she had at first +intended? The intention had faded away within her; for months she had +not given it a thought; now suddenly it recurred to her.... And she +felt no self-reproach or remorse. She would not have the painting made +now. The portrait was well enough as it was. She thought of the dead +man without sorrow. She had never had cause to complain of him; he had +never had anything with which to reproach her. And now she was free; +she became conscious of the fact with a great exultation. Free, to feel +what she would! Her freedom arched above her as a blue firmament in +which new love ascended with a dove’s immaculate flight. Freedom, +air, light! She turned from the portrait with a smile of rapture; she +thrust her arms above her head as if she would measure her freedom, the +width of the air, as if she would go to meet the light. Love, +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb176" href="#pb176" name= +"pb176">176</a>]</span>she was in love! There was nothing but love; +nothing but the harmony of their souls, the harmony of her +handmaiden’s soul with the soul of her god, an exile upon earth. +Oh, what a mercy that this harmony could exist between him so exalted +and her so lowly! But he must not see her lowliness; she must remain +the Madonna, remain the Madonna for his sake, in the martyrdom due to +his reverence, in the dizziness of the high place, the heavenly throne +to which he raised her, beside himself. She felt this dizziness +shuddering about her like rings of light. And she flung herself on her +sofa and locked her fingers; her eyelids quivered; then she remained +staring before her, towards some very distant point. <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb177" href="#pb177" name="pb177">177</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +<div id="ch11" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h2 id="xd20e2401" class="main">Chapter XI</h2> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">Jules had been away from school for a day or two with +a bad headache, which had made him look very pale and given him an air +of sadness; but he was a little better now and, feeling bored in his +own room, he went downstairs to the empty drawing-room and sat at the +piano. Papa was at work in his study, but it would not interfere with +Papa if he played. Dolf spoilt him, seeing in his son something that +was wanting in himself and therefore attracted him, even as possibly it +had formerly attracted him in his wife also: Jules could do no wrong in +his eyes; and, if the boy had only been willing, Dolf would have spared +no expense to give him a careful musical education. But Jules violently +opposed himself <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb178" href="#pb178" +name="pb178">178</a>]</span>to anything resembling lessons and besides +maintained that it was not worth while. He had no ambition; his vanity +was not tickled by his father’s hopes of him or his appreciation +of his playing: he played only for himself, to express himself in the +vague language of musical sounds. At this moment he felt alone and +abandoned in the great house, though he knew that Papa was at work two +rooms off and that when he pleased he could take refuge on Papa’s +great couch; at this moment he had within himself an almost physical +feeling of dread at his loneliness, which caused something to reel +about him, an immense sense of utter desolation.</p> +<p>He was fourteen years old, but he felt himself neither child nor +boy: a certain feebleness, an almost feminine need of dependency, of +devotion to some one who would be everything to him had already, in his +earliest childhood, struck at his <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb179" +href="#pb179" name="pb179">179</a>]</span>virility; and he shivered in +his dread of this inner loneliness, as if he were afraid of himself. He +suffered greatly from vague moods in which that strange something +oppressed and stifled him; then, not knowing where to hide his inner +being, he would go to play, so that he might lose himself in the great +sound-soul of music. His thin, nervous fingers would grope hesitatingly +over the keys; he himself would suffer from the false chords which he +struck in his search; then he would let himself go, find a single, very +short motive, of plaintive, minor melancholy, and caress that motive in +his joy at possessing it, at having found it, caress it until it +returned each moment as a monotony of sorrow. He would think the motive +so beautiful that he could not part with it; those four or five notes +expressed so well everything that he felt that he would play them over +and over again, until Suzette <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb180" +href="#pb180" name="pb180">180</a>]</span>burst into the room and made +him stop, saying that otherwise she would be driven mad.</p> +<p>Thus he sat playing now. And it was pitiful at first: he hardly +recognized the notes; cacophonous discords wailed and cut into his poor +brain, still smarting from the headache. He moaned as if he were in +pain afresh; but his fingers were hypnotized, they could not desist, +they still sought on; and the notes became purer: a short phrase +released itself with a cry, a cry which returned continually on the +same note, suddenly high after the dull bass of the prelude. And this +note came as a surprise to Jules; that fair cry of sorrow frightened +him; and he was glad to have found it, glad to have so sweet a sorrow. +Then he was no longer himself; he played on until he felt that it was +not he who was playing but another, within him, who compelled him; he +found the full, pure <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb181" href="#pb181" +name="pb181">181</a>]</span>chords as by intuition; through the sobbing +of the sounds ran the same musical figure, higher and higher, with +silver feet of purity, following the curve of crystal rainbows lightly +spanned on high; reaching the topmost point of the arch it struck a +cry, this time in very drunkenness, out into the major, throwing up +wide arms in gladness to heavens of intangible blue. Then it was like +souls of men, which first live and suffer and utter their complaint and +then die, to glitter in forms of light whose long wings spring from +their pure shoulders in sheets of silver radiance; they trip one behind +the other over the rainbows, over the bridges of glass, blue and rose +and yellow; and there come more and more, kindreds and nations of +souls; they hurry their silver feet, they press across the rainbow, +they laugh and sing and push one another; in their jostling their wings +clash together, scattering silver down. Now <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb182" href="#pb182" name="pb182">182</a>]</span>they +stand all on the top of the arc and look up, with the great wondering +of their laughing child-eyes; and they dare not, they dare not; but +others press on behind them, innumerous, more and more and yet more; +they crowd upwards to the topmost height, their wings straight in the +air, close together. And now, now they must; they may hesitate no +longer. One of them, taking deep breaths, spreads his flight and with +one shock springs out of the thick throng into the ether. Soon many +follow, one after another, till their shapes swoon in the blue; all is +gleam about them. Now, far below, thin as a thin thread, the rainbow +arches itself, but they do not look at it; rays fall towards them: +these are souls, which they embrace; they go with them in locked +embraces. And then the light: light beaming over all; all things liquid +in everlasting light; nothing but light: the sounds sing the light, the +sounds <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb183" href="#pb183" name= +"pb183">183</a>]</span>are the light, there is nothing now but the +light everlasting....</p> +<p>“Jules!”</p> +<p>He looked up vacantly.</p> +<p>“Jules! Jules!”</p> +<p>He smiled now, as if awakened from a dream-sleep; he rose, went to +her, to Cecile. She stood in the doorway; she had remained standing +there while he played; it had seemed to her that he was playing a part +of herself.</p> +<p>“What were you playing, Jules?” she asked.</p> +<p>He was quite awake now and distressed, fearing that he must have +made a terrible noise in the house....</p> +<p>“I don’t know, Auntie,” he said.</p> +<p>She hugged him, suddenly, violently, in gratitude.... To him she +owed it, the great mystery, since the day when he had broken out in +anger against her.... <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb184" href= +"#pb184" name="pb184">184</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +<div id="ch12" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h2 id="xd20e2441" class="main">Chapter <span class="corr" id= +"xd20e2443" title="Source: XI">XII</span></h2> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">1</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">“Oh, for that which cannot be told, because +words are so few, always the same combinations of a few letters and +sounds; oh, for that which cannot be thought of in the narrow limits of +comprehension; that which at best can only be groped for with the +antennæ of the soul; essence of the essences of the ultimate +elements of our being!...”</p> +<p class="tb"></p> +<p>She wrote no more, she knew no more: why write that she had no words +and yet seek them?</p> +<p>She was waiting for him and she now looked out of the open window to +see if <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb185" href="#pb185" name= +"pb185">185</a>]</span>he was coming. She remained there for a long +time; then she felt that he would come immediately and so he did: she +saw him approaching along the Scheveningen Road; he pushed open the +iron gate of the villa and smiled to her as he raised his hat.</p> +<p>“Wait!” she cried. “Stay where you are!”</p> +<p>She ran down the steps, into the garden, where he stood. She came +towards him, beaming with happiness and so lovely, so delicately frail; +her blonde head so seemly in the fresh green of May; her figure like a +young girl’s in the palest grey gown, with black velvet ribbon +and here and there a touch of silver lace.</p> +<p>“I am so glad that you have come! You have not been to see me +for so long!” she said, giving him her hand.</p> +<p>He did not answer at once; he merely smiled. <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb186" href="#pb186" name="pb186">186</a>]</span></p> +<p>“Let us sit in the garden, behind: the weather is so +lovely.”</p> +<p>“Let us,” he said.</p> +<p>They walked into the garden, by the mesh of the garden-paths, the +jasmine-vines starring white as they passed. In an adjoining villa a +piano was playing; the sounds came to them of Rubinstein’s +Romance.</p> +<p>“Listen!” said Cecile, starting. “What is +that?”</p> +<p>“What?” he asked.</p> +<p>“What they are playing.”</p> +<p>“Something of Rubinstein’s, I believe,” he +said.</p> +<p>“Rubinstein?...” she repeated, vaguely. +“Yes....”</p> +<p>And she relapsed into the wealth of memories of ... what? Once +before, in this way, she had walked along these same paths, past +jasmine-vines like these, long, ever so long ago; she had walked +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb187" href="#pb187" name= +"pb187">187</a>]</span>with him, with him.... Why? Could the past +repeat itself, after centuries?...</p> +<p>“It is three weeks since you have been to see me,” she +said, simply, recovering herself.</p> +<p>“Forgive me,” he replied.</p> +<p>“What was the reason?”</p> +<p>He hesitated throughout his being, seeking an excuse:</p> +<p>“I don’t know,” he answered, softly. “You +will forgive me, will you not? One day it was this, another day that. +And then ... I don’t know. Many reasons together. It is not good +that I should see you often. Not good for you, nor for me.”</p> +<p>“Let us begin with the second. Why is it not good for +you?”</p> +<p>“No, let us begin with the first, with what concerns you. +People ...”</p> +<p>“People?” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb188" href= +"#pb188" name="pb188">188</a>]</span></p> +<p>“People are talking about us. I am looked upon as an +irretrievable rake. I will not have your name linked profanely with +mine.”</p> +<p>“And is it?”</p> +<p>“Yes....”</p> +<p>She smiled:</p> +<p>“I don’t mind.”</p> +<p>“But you must mind; if not for your own sake ...”</p> +<p>He stopped. She knew he was thinking of her boys; she shrugged her +shoulders.</p> +<p>“And now, why is it not good for you?”</p> +<p>“A man must not be happy too often.”</p> +<p>“What a sophism! Why not?”</p> +<p>“I don’t know; but I feel I am right. It spoils him; it +is too much for him.”</p> +<p>“Are you happy here, then?”</p> +<p>He smiled and gently nodded yes.</p> +<p>They were silent for very long. They were now sitting at the end of +the garden, <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb189" href="#pb189" name= +"pb189">189</a>]</span>on a seat which stood in a semicircle of +flowering rhododendrons: the great purple-satin blossoms shut them in +with a tall hedge of closely-clustered bouquets, rising from the paths +and overtopping their heads; standard roses flung their incense before +them. They sat still, happy in each other, happy in the sympathy of +their atmospheres mingling together; yet in their happiness there was +the invincible melancholy which is an integral part of all life, even +in happiness.</p> +<p>“I don’t know how I am to tell you,” he said. +“But suppose that I were to see you every day, every moment that +I thought of you.... That would not do. For then I should become so +refined, so subtle, that for pure happiness I should not be able to +live; my other being would receive nothing and would suffer like a +beast that is left to starve. I am bad, I am selfish, to be able to +speak like this, but I must tell <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb190" +href="#pb190" name="pb190">190</a>]</span>you the truth, that you may +not think too well of me. And so I only seek your company as something +very beautiful which I allow myself to enjoy just once in a +way.”</p> +<p>She was silent.</p> +<p>“Sometimes ... sometimes, too, I imagine that in doing this I +am not behaving well to you, that in some way or other I offend or hurt +you. Then I sit brooding about it, until I begin to think that it would +be best to take leave of you for ever.”</p> +<p>She was still silent; motionless she sat, with her hands lying +slackly in her lap, her head slightly bowed, a smile about her +mouth.</p> +<p>“Speak to me,” he begged.</p> +<p>“You do not offend me, nor hurt me,” she said. +“Come to me whenever you feel the need. Do always as you think +best; and I shall think that best too: you must not doubt that.” +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb191" href="#pb191" name= +"pb191">191</a>]</span></p> +<p>“I should so much like to know in what way you like +me?”</p> +<p>“In what way? Surely, as a Madonna does a sinner who repents +and gives her his soul,” she said, archly. “Am I not a +Madonna?”</p> +<p>“Are you content to be so?”</p> +<p>“Can you be so ignorant about women as not to know how every +one of us has a longing to solace and relieve, in fact, to play at +being a Madonna?”</p> +<p>“Do not speak like that,” he said, with pain in his +voice.</p> +<p>“I am speaking seriously....”</p> +<p>He looked at her; a doubt rose within him, but she smiled to him; a +calm glory was about her; she sat amidst the bouquets of the +rhododendrons as in the blossoming tenderness of one great mystic +flower. The wound of his doubt was soothed with balsam. He surrendered +himself wholly to his happiness; an atmosphere wafted <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb192" href="#pb192" name= +"pb192">192</a>]</span>about him of the sweet calm of life, an +atmosphere in which life becomes dispassionate and restful and smiling, +like the air which is rare about the gods. It began to grow dark; a +violet dusk fell from the sky like crape falling upon crape; quietly +the stars lighted up. The shadows in the garden, between the shrubs +among which they sat, flowed into one another; the piano in the next +villa had stopped. And happiness drew a veil between his soul and the +outside world: the garden with its design of plots and paths; the villa +with curtains at its windows and its iron gate; the road behind, with +the rattle of carriages and trams. All this withdrew itself far back; +all ordinary life retreated far from him; vanishing behind the veil, it +died away. It was no dream nor conceit: reality to him was the +happiness that had come while the world died away; the happiness that +was rare, invisible, intangible, <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb193" +href="#pb193" name="pb193">193</a>]</span>coming from the love which +alone is sympathy, calm and without passion, the love which exists +purely of itself, without further thought either of taking anything or +even of giving anything, the love of the gods, which is the soul of +love itself. High he felt himself: the equal of the illusion which he +had of her, which she wished to be for his sake, of which he also was +now absolutely certain. For he could not know that what had given him +happiness—his illusion—so perfect, so crystal-clear, might +cause her some sort of grief; he could not at this moment penetrate +without sin into the truth of the law which insists on equilibrium, +which takes away from one what it offers to another, which gives +happiness and grief together; he could not know that, if happiness was +with him, with her there was anguish, anguish in that she had to make a +pretence and deceive him <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb194" href= +"#pb194" name="pb194">194</a>]</span>for his own sake, anguish in that +she wanted what was earthly, that she craved for what was earthly, that +she yearned for earthly pleasures!... And still less could he know +that, notwithstanding all this, there was nevertheless voluptuousness +in her anguish: that to suffer through him, to suffer for him made of +her anguish all voluptuousness.</p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">2</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">It was dark and late; and they were still sitting +there.</p> +<p>“Shall we go for a walk?” she asked.</p> +<p>He hesitated, with a smile; but she repeated her suggestion:</p> +<p>“Why not, if you care to?”</p> +<p>And he could no longer refuse.</p> +<p>They rose and went along by the back of the house; and Cecile said +to the maid, whom she saw sitting with her needle-work by the +kitchen-door: <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb195" href="#pb195" name= +"pb195">195</a>]</span></p> +<p>“Greta, fetch me my little black hat, my black-lace shawl and +a pair of gloves.”</p> +<p>The servant rose and went into the house. Cecile noticed how a +trifle of shyness was emphasized in Quaerts’ hesitation, now that +they stood loitering, waiting among the flower-beds. She smiled, +plucked a rose and placed it in her waist-band.</p> +<p>“Have the boys gone to bed?” he asked.</p> +<p>“Yes,” she replied, still smiling, “long +ago.”</p> +<p>The servant returned; Cecile put on the little black hat, threw the +lace about her neck, but refused the gloves which Greta offered +her:</p> +<p>“No, not these; get me a pair of grey ones....”</p> +<p>The servant went into the house again; and as Cecile looked at +Quaerts her gaiety increased. She gave a little laugh:</p> +<p>“What is the matter?” she asked, mischievously, +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb196" href="#pb196" name= +"pb196">196</a>]</span>knowing perfectly well what it was.</p> +<p>“Nothing, nothing!” he said, vaguely, and waited +patiently until Greta returned.</p> +<p>Then they went through the garden-gate into the Woods. They walked +slowly, without speaking; Cecile played with her long gloves, not +putting them on.</p> +<p>“Really ...” he began, hesitating.</p> +<p>“Come, what is it?”</p> +<p>“You know; I told you the other day: it’s not +right....”</p> +<p>“What isn’t?”</p> +<p>“What we are doing now. You risk too much.”</p> +<p>“Too much, with you?”</p> +<p>“If any one were to see us....”</p> +<p>“And what then?”</p> +<p>He shook his head:</p> +<p>“You are wilful; you know quite well.”</p> +<p>She clinched her eyes; her mouth grew <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb197" href="#pb197" name="pb197">197</a>]</span>serious; she +pretended to be a little angry:</p> +<p>“Listen, you mustn’t be anxious if <i>I’m</i> not. +I am doing no harm. Our walks are not secret: Greta at least knows +about them. And, besides, I am free to do as I please.”</p> +<p>“It’s my fault: the first time we went for a walk in the +evening, it was at my request....”</p> +<p>“Then do penance and be good; come now, without scruple, at +<i>my</i> request,” she said, with mock emphasis.</p> +<p>He yielded, feeling far too happy to wish to make any sacrifice to a +convention which at that moment did not exist.</p> +<p>They walked on silently. Cecile’s sensations always came to +her in shocks of surprise. So it had been when Jules had grown suddenly +angry with her; so also, midway on the stair, after that conversation +at dinner of circles of sympathy. And now, precisely in the same way, +with <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb198" href="#pb198" name= +"pb198">198</a>]</span>the shock of sudden revelation, came this new +sensation, that after all she was not suffering so seriously as she had +at first thought; that her agony, being a voluptuousness, could not be +a martyrdom; that she was happy, that happiness had come about her in +the fine air of his atmosphere, because they were together, +together.... Oh, why wish for anything more, above all for things less +pure? Did he not love her and was not his love already a fact and was +not his love earthly enough for her, now that it was a fact? Did he not +love her with a tenderness which feared for anything that might trouble +her in the world, through her ignoring that world and wandering about +with him alone in the dark? Did he not love her with tenderness, but +also with the lustre of his soul’s divinity, calling her Madonna +and by this title—unconsciously, perhaps, in his +simplicity—making her the equal of all that <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb199" href="#pb199" name="pb199">199</a>]</span>was +divine in him? Did he not love her? Heavens above, did he not love her? +Well, what did she want more? No, no, she wanted nothing more: she was +happy, she shared happiness with him; he gave it to her just as she +gave it to him; it was a sphere that moved with them wherever they +went, seeking their way along the darkling paths of the Woods, she +leaning on his arm, he leading her, for she could see nothing in the +dark, which yet was not dark, but pure light of their happiness. And so +it was as if it were not evening, but day, noonday, noonday in the +night, hour of light in the dusk!</p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">3</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">And the darkness was light; the night dawned with +light which beamed on every side. Calmly it beamed, the light, like one +solitary planet, beaming with the soft radiance of purity, bright in a +heaven of <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb200" href="#pb200" name= +"pb200">200</a>]</span>still, white, silver light, a heaven where they +walked along milky ways of light and music; it beamed and sounded +beneath their feet; it welled in seas of ether high above their heads +and beamed and sounded there, high and clear. And they were alone in +their heaven, in their infinite heaven, which was as space, endless +beneath them and above and around them, with endless spaces of light +and music, of light that was music. Their heaven lay eternal on every +side with blissful vistas of white radiance, fading away in lustre and +vanishing landscapes, like oases of flowers and plants beside waters of +light, still and clear and hushed with peace. For its peace was the +ether in which all desire is dissolved and becomes transparent and +crystal; and their life was a limpid existence in unruffled peace; they +walked on, in heavenly sympathy of fellowship, close together, hemmed +in one narrow circle, a <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb201" href= +"#pb201" name="pb201">201</a>]</span>circle of radiance which embraced +them both. Barely was there a recollection in them of the world which +had died out in the glitter of their heaven; there was naught in them +but the ecstasy of their love, which had become their soul, as if they +no longer had any soul, as if they were only love; and, when they +looked about them and into the light, they saw that their heaven, in +which their happiness was the light, was nothing but their love, and +they saw that the landscapes—the flowers and plants by waters of +light—were nothing but their love and that the endless space, the +eternities of light and space, of spaces full of light and music, +stretching on every hand, beneath them and above and around them, that +all this was nothing but their love, which had grown into heaven and +happiness.</p> +<p>And now they came into the very midst, to the very sun-centre, the +very goal which <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb202" href="#pb202" +name="pb202">202</a>]</span>Cecile had once foreseen, concealed in the +distance, in the irradiance of innate divinity. Up to the very goal +they stepped; and on every side it shot its endless rays into each and +every eternity, as if their love were becoming the centre of the +universe...</p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">4</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">But they sat on a bench, in the dark, not knowing that +it was dark, for their eyes were full of the light. They sat against +each other, silently at first, till, remembering that he had a voice +and could still speak words, he said:</p> +<p>“I have never lived through such a moment as this. I forget +where we are and who we are and that we are human. We were, were we +not? I seem to remember that we once were?”</p> +<p>“Yes, but we are that no longer,” she said, smiling; and +her eyes, grown <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb203" href="#pb203" +name="pb203">203</a>]</span>big, looked into the darkness that was +light.</p> +<p>“Once we were human, suffering and desiring, in a world where +certainly much was beautiful, but where much also was ugly.”</p> +<p>“Why speak of that now?” she asked; and her voice +sounded to herself as coming from very far and low beneath her.</p> +<p>“I seemed to remember it.”</p> +<p>“I wanted to forget it.”</p> +<p>“Then I will do so too. But may I not thank you in human +speech for lifting me above humanity?”</p> +<p>“Have I done so?”</p> +<p>“Yes. May I thank you for it ... on my knees?”</p> +<p>He knelt down and reverently took her hands. He could just +distinguish the outline of her figure, seated motionless and still upon +the bench; above them was a <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb204" href= +"#pb204" name="pb204">204</a>]</span>pearl-grey twilight of stars, +between the black boughs. She felt her hands in his and then his mouth, +his kiss, upon her hand. Very gently, she released herself; and then, +with a great soul of modesty, full of desireless happiness, very gently +she bent her arms about his neck, took his head against her and kissed +him on the forehead:</p> +<p>“And I, I thank you too!” she whispered, +rapturously.</p> +<p>He was still; and she held him fast in her embrace.</p> +<p>“I thank you,” she said, “for teaching me this and +how to be happy as we are and no otherwise. You see, when I still lived +and was human, when I was a woman, I thought that I had lived before I +met you, for I had had a husband and I had children of whom I was very +fond. But from you I first learnt to live, to live without egoism and +without desire; I <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb205" href="#pb205" +name="pb205">205</a>]</span>learnt that from you this evening or ... +this day, which is it? You have given me life and happiness and +everything. And I thank you, I thank you! You see, you are so great and +so strong and so clear and you have borne me towards your own +happiness, which should also be mine, but it was so far above me that, +without you, I should never have attained it! For there was a barrier +for me which did not exist for you. You see, when I was still +human”—and she laughed, clasping him more +tightly—“I had a sister; and she too felt that there was a +barrier between her happiness and herself; and she felt that she could +not surmount this barrier and was so unhappy because of it that she +feared lest she should go mad. But I, I do not know: I dreamed, I +thought, I hoped, I waited, oh, I waited; and then you came; and you +made me understand at once that you could be no man, no husband +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb206" href="#pb206" name= +"pb206">206</a>]</span>for me, but that you could be more for me: my +angel, O my deliverer, who would take me in his arms and bear me over +the barrier into his own heaven, where he himself was god, and make me +his Madonna! Oh, I thank you, I thank you! I do not know how to thank +you; I can only say that I love you, that I adore you, that I lay +myself at your feet. Remain as you are and let me adore you, while you +kneel where you are. I may adore you, may I not, while you yourself are +kneeling? You see, I too must confess, as you used to do,” she +continued, for now she could not but confess. “I have not always +been straightforward with you; I have sometimes pretended to be the +Madonna, knowing all the time that I was but an ordinary woman, a woman +who frankly loved you. But I deceived you for your own happiness, did I +not? You wished me so, you were happy when I was <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb207" href="#pb207" name="pb207">207</a>]</span>so +and no otherwise. And now, now too you must forgive me, because now I +need no longer pretend, because that is past and has died away, because +I myself have died away from myself, because now I am no longer a +woman, no longer human for myself, but only what you wish me to be: a +Madonna and your creature, an atom of your own essence and divinity. So +will you forgive me the past? May I thank you for my happiness, for my +heaven, my light, O my master, for my joy, my great, my immeasurable +joy?”</p> +<p>He rose and sat beside her, taking her gently in his arms:</p> +<p>“Are you happy?” he asked.</p> +<p>“Yes,” she said, laying her head on his shoulder in a +giddiness of light. “And you?”</p> +<p>“Yes,” he answered; and he asked again, “And do +you desire ... nothing more?” <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb208" href="#pb208" name="pb208">208</a>]</span></p> +<p>“No, nothing!” she stammered. “I want nothing but +this, nothing but what is mine, oh, nothing, nothing more!”</p> +<p>“Swear it to me ... by something sacred!”</p> +<p>“I swear it to you ... by yourself!” she declared.</p> +<p>He pressed her head to his shoulder again. He smiled; and she did +not see that there was sadness in his laugh, for she was blinded with +light.</p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">5</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">They were long silent, sitting there. She remembered +having said many things, she no longer knew what. About her she saw +that it was dark, with only that pearl-grey twilight of stars above +their heads, between the black boughs. She felt that she was lying with +her head on his shoulder; she heard his breath. A sort of chill crept +down her shoulders, notwithstanding <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb209" href="#pb209" name="pb209">209</a>]</span>the warmth of his +embrace; she drew the lace closer about her throat and felt that the +bench on which they sat was moist with dew.</p> +<p>“I thank you, I love you so, you make me so happy,” she +repeated.</p> +<p>He was silent; he pressed her to him very gently, with sheer +tenderness. Her last words still sounded in her ears after she had +spoken them. Then she was bound to acknowledge to herself that they had +not been spontaneous, like all that she had told him before, as he +knelt before her with his head at her breast. She had spoken them to +break the silence: formerly that silence had never troubled her; why +should it now?</p> +<p>“Come!” he said gently; and even yet she did not hear +the sadness of his voice, in this single word.</p> +<p>They rose and walked on. It came to him that it was late, that they +must return <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb210" href="#pb210" name= +"pb210">210</a>]</span>by the same path; beyond that, his thoughts were +sorrowful with many things which he could not have expressed; a poor +twilight had come about him, after the blinding light of their heaven +of but now. And he had to be cautious: it was very dark here; and he +could only just see the path, lying very pale and undecided at their +feet; they brushed against the trunks of the trees as they passed.</p> +<p>“I can see nothing,” said Cecile, laughing. “Can +you see the way?”</p> +<p>“Rely upon me: I can see quite well in the dark,” he +replied. “I have eyes like a lynx....”</p> +<p>Step by step they went on and she felt a sweet joy in being guided +by him; she clung close to his arm, saying laughingly that she was +afraid and that she would be terrified if he were suddenly to leave +hold of her.</p> +<p>“And suppose I were suddenly to run <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb211" href="#pb211" name="pb211">211</a>]</span>away +and leave you alone?” said Quaerts, jestingly.</p> +<p>She laughed; she besought him with a laugh not to do so. Then she +was silent, angry with herself for laughing; a burden of sadness bore +her down because of her jesting and laughter. She felt as if she were +unworthy of that into which, in radiant light, she had just been +received.</p> +<p>And he too was filled with sadness: the sadness of having to lead +her through the dark, by invisible paths, past rows of invisible +tree-trunks which might graze and wound her; of having to lead her +through a dark wood, through a black sea, through an ink-dark sphere, +when they were returning from a heaven where all had been light and all +happiness, without sadness or darkness.</p> +<p>And so they were silent in that sadness, until they reached the +highroad, the old Scheveningen Road. <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb212" href="#pb212" name="pb212">212</a>]</span></p> +<p>They approached the villa. A tram went by; two or three people +passed on foot; it was a fine evening. He brought her home and waited +until the door opened to his ring. The door remained unopened; meantime +he pressed her hand tightly and hurt her a little, involuntarily. Greta +must have fallen asleep, she thought:</p> +<p>“Ring again, would you?”</p> +<p>He rang again, louder this time; after a moment, the door opened. +She gave him her hand once more, with a smile.</p> +<p>“Good-night, mevrouw,” he said, taking her fingers +respectfully and raising his hat.</p> +<p>Now, now she could hear the sound of his voice, with its note of +sadness.... <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb213" href="#pb213" name= +"pb213">213</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +</div> +</div> +<div id="ch13" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h2 id="xd20e2777" class="main">Chapter <span class="corr" id= +"xd20e2779" title="Source: XII">XIII</span></h2> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">1</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">Then she knew, next day, when she sat alone, wrapped +in reflection, that the sphere of happiness, the highest and brightest, +may not be trod; that it may only beam upon us as a sun; and that we +may not enter into it, into the sacred sun-centre. They had done +that....</p> +<p>Listless she sat, with her children by her side, Christie looking +pale and languid. Yes, she spoiled them; but how could she change +herself?</p> +<p>Weeks passed; and Cecile heard nothing from Quaerts. It was always +so: after he had been with her, weeks would drag by without her ever +seeing him. For he was much too happy with her, it was more than +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb214" href="#pb214" name= +"pb214">214</a>]</span>he could bear. He looked upon her society as a +rare pleasure to be very jealously indulged. And she, she loved him +simply, with the innermost essence of her soul, loved him frankly, as a +woman loves a man.... She always wanted him, every day, every hour, at +every pulse of her life.</p> +<p>Then she met him by chance, at Scheveningen, where she had gone one +evening with Amélie and Suzette. Then once again at a reception +at Mrs. Hoze’s. He seemed shy with her; and a certain pride in +her kept her from asking him to call. Yes, something was changed in +what had been woven between them. But she suffered sorely, suffered +also because of that foolish pride, because she had not humbly begged +him to come to her. Was he not her god? Whatever he did was good.</p> +<p>So she did not see him for weeks and <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb215" href="#pb215" name="pb215">215</a>]</span>weeks. Life went on: +each day she had her little occupations, in her household, with her +children; Mrs. Hoze reproached her for her withdrawal from society and +she began to think more about her friends, to please Mrs. Hoze, who had +asked this of her. There were flashes in her memory; in those flashes +she saw the dinner-party, their conversations and walks, all her love +for him, all his reverence for her whom he called Madonna; their last +evening of light and ecstasy. Then she smiled; and the smile itself +beamed over her anguish, her anguish in that she no longer saw him, in +that she felt proud and cherished a little inward bitterness. Yet all +things must be well, as he wished them to be.</p> +<p>Oh, the evenings, the summer evenings, cooling after the warm days, +the evenings when she sat alone, staring out from her room, where the +onyx lamp burnt with a subdued flame, staring out of the open +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb216" href="#pb216" name= +"pb216">216</a>]</span>windows at the trams which, with their tinkling +bells, came and went to Scheveningen, full, full of people! Waiting, +the endless long waiting, evening after evening in solitude, after the +children had gone to bed! Waiting, when she simply sat still, staring +fixedly before her, looking at the trams, the tedious, everlasting +trams! Where was her modulated joy of dreaming happiness? And where, +where was her radiant happiness? Where was her struggle within herself +between what she was and what he saw in her? This struggle no longer +existed, this struggle also had been overcome; she no longer felt the +force of passion; she only longed to see him come as he had always +come, as he no longer came. Why did he not come? Happiness palled; +people were talking about them.... It was not right that they should +see much of each other—he had said so the evening before that +highest <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb217" href="#pb217" name= +"pb217">217</a>]</span>happiness—not good for him and not good +for her.</p> +<p>So she sat and thought; and great silent tears fell from her eyes, +for she knew that, though he remained away partly for his own sake, it +was above all for hers that he did not come. What had she not said to +him that evening on the bench in the Woods, when her arms were about +his neck! Oh, she should have been silent, she felt it now! She should +not have uttered her rapture, but have enjoyed it secretly within +herself; she should have let him utter himself: she herself should have +remained his Madonna. But she had been too full, too happy; and in that +over-brimming happiness she had been unable to be other than true and +clear as a bright mirror.</p> +<p>He had glanced into her and read her entirely: she knew that, she +was certain of it. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb218" href="#pb218" +name="pb218">218</a>]</span></p> +<p>He knew now in what manner she loved him; she herself had revealed +it to him. But, at the same time, she had made known to him that this +was all past, that she was now what he wished her to be. And this had +been true then, clear at that time and true.... But now? Does ecstasy +endure only for one moment and did he know it? Did he know that her +soul’s flight had reached its limit and must now descend again to +a commoner sphere? Did he know that she loved him again now, quite +ordinarily, with all her being, wholly and entirely, no longer as +widely as the heavens, only as widely as her arms could reach out and +embrace? And could he not return this love, this so petty love of hers, +and was that why he did not come to her?</p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">2</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">Then she received his letter: <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb219" href="#pb219" name="pb219">219</a>]</span></p> +<p>“Forgive me if I put off from day to day coming to see you; +forgive me if even to-day I cannot decide to come and if I write to you +instead. Forgive me if I even venture to ask you whether it may not be +necessary that we see each other no more. If I hurt you and offend you, +if I—which may God forbid—cause you pain, forgive me, +forgive me! Perhaps I procrastinated a little from indecision, but much +more because I considered that I had no other choice.</p> +<p>“There has been between our two lives, between our two souls, +a rare moment of happiness which was a special boon, a special grace of +heaven. Do you not think so too? Oh, if only I had the words to tell +you how grateful I am in my innermost soul for that happiness! If later +I ever look back upon my life, I shall always see that happiness +gleaming in between the ugliness and the blackness, like a star +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb220" href="#pb220" name= +"pb220">220</a>]</span>of light. We received it as such, as a gift of +light. And I venture to ask you if that gift is not a thing for you and +me to keep sacred?</p> +<p>“Can we do that if I continue to see you? You, yes, I have no +doubt of you: you will be strong to keep it sacred, our sacred +happiness, especially because you have already had your struggle, as +you confided to me on that sacred evening. But I, can I too be strong, +especially now that I know that you have been through the struggle? I +doubt myself, I doubt my own force; I am afraid of myself. There is +cruelty in me, a love of destruction, something of a savage. As a boy I +took pleasure in destroying beautiful things, in breaking and soiling +them. The other day, Jules brought me some roses to my room; in the +evening, as I sat alone, thinking of you and of our +happiness—yes, at that very moment—my fingers began to +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb221" href="#pb221" name= +"pb221">221</a>]</span>fumble with a rose whose petals were loose; and, +when I saw that one rose dispetalled, there came a cruel frenzy within +me to tear and destroy them all; and I rumpled every one of them. I +only give you a small instance, because I do not wish to give you +larger instances, from vanity, lest you should know how bad I am. I am +afraid of myself. If I saw you again and again and yet again, what +should I begin to feel and think and wish, unconsciously? Which would +be the stronger, my soul or the beast that is in me? Forgive me for +laying bare my dread before you and do not despise me for it. Up to the +present I have <i>not</i> attempted a struggle, in the sacred world of +our happiness. I saw you, I saw you often before I knew you; I guessed +you as you were; I was permitted to speak to you; it was given me to +love you with my soul alone: I beseech you, let it remain so. +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb222" href="#pb222" name= +"pb222">222</a>]</span>Let me continue to keep my happiness like this, +to keep it sacred, a thousand times sacred. I think it worth while to +have lived, now that I have known <i>that</i>: happiness, the highest. +And I am afraid of the struggle which would probably come and pollute +that sacred thing.</p> +<p>“Will you believe me when I swear to you that I have reflected +deeply on all this? Will you believe me when I swear to you that I +suffer at the thought of never being permitted to see you again? And, +above all, will you forgive me when I swear to you that I am acting in +this way because I think that I am doing right? Oh, I am grateful to +you and I love you as a soul of light alone, of nothing but light!</p> +<p>“Perhaps I am wrong to send you this letter. I do not know. +Perhaps presently I will tear up what I have written....” +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb223" href="#pb223" name= +"pb223">223</a>]</span></p> +<p>Yet he had sent her the letter.</p> +<p>There was great bitterness within her. She had struggled once, had +conquered herself and, in a sacred moment, had confessed both struggle +and conquest; she knew that fate had compelled her to do so; she now +knew what she would lose through her confession. For a short moment, a +single evening perhaps, she had been worthy of her god and his equal. +Now she was so no longer; for this reason also she felt bitter. And she +felt bitterest of all because the thought dared to rise within her:</p> +<p>“A god! Is he a god? Is a god afraid of the +struggle?”</p> +<p>Then her threefold bitterness changed to despair, black despair, a +night which her eyes sought to penetrate in order to see something +where they saw nothing, nothing; and she moaned low and wrung her +hands, sinking into a heap before the <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb224" href="#pb224" name="pb224">224</a>]</span>window and staring at +the trams which, with the tinkling of their bells, ran pitilessly to +and fro. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb225" href="#pb225" name= +"pb225">225</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +</div> +</div> +<div id="ch14" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h2 id="xd20e2852" class="main">Chapter <span class="corr" id= +"xd20e2854" title="Source: XIII">XIV</span></h2> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">She shut herself up; she saw little of her children; +she told her friends that she was ill. She was at home to no visitors. +She guessed intuitively that people in their circles were speaking of +Quaerts and herself. Life hung dull about her in a closely-woven web of +tiresome, tedious meshes; and she remained motionless in her corner, to +avoid entangling herself in those meshes. Once Jules forced his way to +her; he went upstairs, in spite of Greta’s protests; he sought +her in the little boudoir and, not finding her, went resolutely to her +bedroom. He knocked without receiving a reply, but entered +nevertheless. The room was half in darkness, for she kept the blinds +lowered; in the shadow of the canopy which rose above the bedstead, +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb226" href="#pb226" name= +"pb226">226</a>]</span>with its hangings of old-blue brocade, Cecile +lay sleeping. Her tea-gown was open over her breast; the train trailed +from the bed and lay creased over the carpet; her hair spread loosely +over the pillows; one of her hands was clutching nervously at the tulle +bed-curtains.</p> +<p>“Auntie!” cried Jules. “Auntie!”</p> +<p>He shook her by the arm; and she woke heavily, with heavy, blue-girt +eyes. She did not recognize him at first and thought that he was little +Dolf.</p> +<p>“It’s me, Auntie; Jules....”</p> +<p>She knew him now, asked how he came there, what was the matter and +if he did not know that she was ill?</p> +<p>“I knew, but I wanted to speak to you. I came to speak to you +about ... him....”</p> +<p>“Him?”</p> +<p>“About Taco. He asked me to tell you. He couldn’t write +to you, he said. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb227" href="#pb227" +name="pb227">227</a>]</span>He is going on a long journey with his +friend from Brussels; he will be away a long time and he would like ... +he would like to take leave of you.”</p> +<p>“To take leave?”</p> +<p>“Yes; and he told me to ask you if he might see you once +more?”</p> +<p>She had half-raised herself and was looking at Jules with a vacant +air. In an instant the memory ran through her brain of the long look +which Jules had directed on her so strangely when she saw Quaerts for +the first time and spoke to him coolly and distantly:</p> +<p>“Have you many relations in The Hague?... You have no +occupation, I believe?... Sport?... Oh!...”</p> +<p>Then came the memory of Jules playing the piano, of +Rubinstein’s Romance, of the ecstasy of his fantasia: the +glittering rainbows and the souls turning to angels. <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb228" href="#pb228" name="pb228">228</a>]</span></p> +<p>“To take leave?” she repeated.</p> +<p>Jules nodded:</p> +<p>“Yes, Auntie, he is going away for ever so long.”</p> +<p>He could have shed tears himself and there were tears in his voice, +but he would not give way and his eyes merely grew moist.</p> +<p>“He told me to ask you,” he repeated, with +difficulty.</p> +<p>“If he can come and take leave?”</p> +<p>“Yes, Auntie.”</p> +<p>She made no reply, but lay staring before her. An emptiness began to +stretch before her, in endless vistas. It was a shadowy image of their +evening of rapture, but no light beamed out of the shadow.</p> +<p>“Emptiness!” she muttered through her closed lips.</p> +<p>“What, Auntie?” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb229" +href="#pb229" name="pb229">229</a>]</span></p> +<p>She would have liked to ask Jules whether he was still, as formerly, +afraid of the emptiness within himself; but a gentleness of pity, a +soft feeling, a sweetening of the bitterness which filled her being, +stayed her.</p> +<p>“To take leave?” she repeated, with a smile of +melancholy; and the big tears fell heavily, drop by drop, upon her +fingers wrung together.</p> +<p>“Yes, Auntie....”</p> +<p>He could no longer restrain himself: a single sob convulsed his +throat, but he gave a cough to conceal it. Cecile threw her arm round +his neck:</p> +<p>“You are very fond of ... Taco, are you not?” she asked; +and it struck her that this was the first time that she had pronounced +the name, for she had never called Quaerts by it: she had never called +him by any name. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb230" href="#pb230" +name="pb230">230</a>]</span></p> +<p>He did not answer at first, but nestled in her arm, in her embrace, +and began to cry:</p> +<p>“Yes, I can’t tell you how fond I am of him,” he +said.</p> +<p>“I know,” she said; and she thought of the rainbows and +the angels: he had played as out of her own soul.</p> +<p>“May he come?” asked Jules, loyally remembering his +instructions.</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“He asks if he might come this evening?”</p> +<p>“Very well.”</p> +<p>“Auntie, he is going away, because of ... because of +...”</p> +<p>“Because of what, Jules?”</p> +<p>“Because of you: because you don’t like him and will not +marry him! Mamma says so....”</p> +<p>She made no reply; she lay sobbing, with her head against +Jules’ head. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb231" href="#pb231" +name="pb231">231</a>]</span></p> +<p>“Is it true, Auntie? No, it is not true, is it?...”</p> +<p>“No.”</p> +<p>“Why then?”</p> +<p>She raised herself suddenly, conquering herself, and looked at him +fixedly:</p> +<p>“He is going away because he must, Jules. I cannot tell you +why. But what he does is right. All that he does is right.”</p> +<p>The boy looked at her, motionless, with large wet eyes, full of +astonishment:</p> +<p>“Is right?” he repeated.</p> +<p>“Yes. He is better than any one of us. If you go on loving +him, Jules, it will bring you happiness, even if ... if you never see +him again.”</p> +<p>“Do you think so?” he asked. “Does he bring +happiness? Even in that case?...”</p> +<p>“Even in that case.”</p> +<p>She listened to her own words as she <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb232" href="#pb232" name="pb232">232</a>]</span>spoke: it was to her +as if another were speaking, another who consoled not only Jules but +herself as well and who would perhaps give her the strength to take +leave of Taco in the manner which would be best, without despair. +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb233" href="#pb233" name= +"pb233">233</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +<div id="ch15" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h2 id="xd20e2972" class="main">Chapter <span class="corr" id= +"xd20e2974" title="Source: XIV">XV</span></h2> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">1</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">“So you are going on a long journey?” she +asked.</p> +<p>He sat facing her, motionless, with anguish on his face. Outwardly +she was very calm, only there was a sadness in her look and in her +voice. In her white dress, with the girdle falling before her feet, she +lay back among the three pillows of the <i>rose-moiré</i> sofa; +the tips of her little slippers were buried in the white sheepskin rug. +On the table before her lay a great bouquet of loose roses, pink, white +and yellow, bound together with a broad riband. He had brought them for +her and she had not yet placed them. There was a great calm about her; +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb234" href="#pb234" name= +"pb234">234</a>]</span>the exquisite atmosphere of the boudoir seemed +unchanged.</p> +<p>“Tell me, am I not paining you severely?” he asked, with +the anguish in his eyes, the eyes which she now knew so well.</p> +<p>She smiled:</p> +<p>“No,” she said. “I will be honest with you. I have +suffered, but I suffer no longer. I have struggled with myself for the +second time and I have conquered myself. Will you believe +me?”</p> +<p>“If you knew the remorse that I feel....”</p> +<p>She rose and went to him:</p> +<p>“What for?” she asked, in a clear voice. “Because +you read me and gave me happiness?”</p> +<p>“Did I?”</p> +<p>“Have you forgotten?”</p> +<p>“No,” he said, “but I thought....”</p> +<p>“What?” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb235" href= +"#pb235" name="pb235">235</a>]</span></p> +<p>“I don’t know; I thought that you would ... would suffer +so ... and I ... I cursed myself!...”</p> +<p>She shook her head gently, with smiling disapproval:</p> +<p>“For shame!” she said. “Do not +blaspheme!...”</p> +<p>“Can you forgive me?”</p> +<p>“I have nothing to forgive. Listen to me. Swear to me that you +believe me, that you believe that you have given me happiness and that +I am not suffering.”</p> +<p>“I ... I swear.”</p> +<p>“I trust that you are not swearing this merely to satisfy my +wish.”</p> +<p>“You have been the highest thing in my life,” he said, +gently.</p> +<p>A rapture shot through her soul.</p> +<p>“Tell me only....” she began.</p> +<p>“What?”</p> +<p>“Tell me if you believe that I, I, <i>I</i> ... <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb236" href="#pb236" name= +"pb236">236</a>]</span>shall always remain the highest thing in your +life.”</p> +<p>She stood before him, tall, in her clinging white. She seemed to +shed radiance; never had he seen her so beautiful.</p> +<p>“I am certain of that,” he said. “Certain, oh, +certain!... My God, how can I convey the certainty of it to +you?”</p> +<p>“But I believe you, I believe you!” she exclaimed.</p> +<p>She laughed a laugh of rapture. In her soul a sun seemed to be +shooting forth rays on every side. She placed her arm tenderly about +his neck and kissed his forehead with a chaste caress.</p> +<p>For one moment he seemed to forget everything. He too rose, took her +in his arms, almost savagely, and clasped her suddenly to him, as if he +were about to crush her against his breast. She just caught sight of +his sad eyes; then she saw nothing more, blinded by the kisses of +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb237" href="#pb237" name= +"pb237">237</a>]</span>his mouth, which scorched her whole face as +though with sparks of fire. With the sun-rapture of her soul was +mingled a bliss of earth, a yielding to the violence of his embrace. +But the thought flashed across her of what she would lose if she +yielded. She released herself, put him away and said:</p> +<p>“And now ... go.”</p> +<p>He felt stunned; he understood that he had no choice:</p> +<p>“Yes, yes, I am going,” he said. “I may write to +you, may I not?”</p> +<p>She nodded yes, with her smile:</p> +<p>“Write to me, I shall write to you too,” she said. +“Let me always hear from you....”</p> +<p>“Then these are not to be the last words between us? This ... +this ... is not the end?”</p> +<p>“No.”</p> +<p>“Thank you. Good-bye, mevrouw, <span class="pagenum">[<a id= +"pb238" href="#pb238" name="pb238">238</a>]</span>good-bye ... Cecile. +Ah, if you knew what this moment costs me!”</p> +<p>“It must be. It cannot be otherwise. Go, go. You must go. Do +go....”</p> +<p>She gave him her hand again, for the last time. A moment later he +was gone.</p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= +"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> +<div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="main">2</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">She looked about her strangely, with bewildered eyes, +with hands locked together:</p> +<p>“Go, go....” she repeated, like one raving.</p> +<p>Then she noticed the roses. With something like a faint scream she +sank down before the little table and buried her face in his gift, +until the thorns wounded her face. The pain—two drops of blood +which fell from her forehead—brought her back to her senses. +Standing before the Venetian mirror hanging over her <span class= +"pagenum">[<a id="pb239" href="#pb239" name= +"pb239">239</a>]</span>writing-table, she wiped away the red spots with +her handkerchief.</p> +<p>“Happiness!” she stammered to herself. “His +happiness! The highest thing in his life! So he knew happiness, though +short it was. But now ... now he suffers, now he will suffer again, as +he did before. The remembrance of happiness cannot do everything. Ah, +if it could only do that, then everything would be well, everything!... +I wish for nothing more, I have had my life, my own life, my own +happiness; I now have my children; I now belong to them. To him I must +no longer be anything....”</p> +<p>She turned away from the mirror and sat down on the settee, as +though tired with a great space traversed, and she closed her eyes, as +though blinded with too great a light. She folded her hands together, +like one in prayer; her face <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb240" href= +"#pb240" name="pb240">240</a>]</span>beamed in its fatigue, from smile +to smile.</p> +<p>“Happiness!” she repeated, faltering between her smiles. +“The highest thing in his life! O my God, happiness! I thank +Thee, O God, I thank Thee!...”</p> +<p class="trailer xd20e3094">THE END</p> +</div> +</div> +</div> +</div> +</div> +<div class="back"> +<div class="div1" id="toc"> +<h2 class="main">Table of Contents</h2> +<ul> +<li><a href="#note">Translator’s Note</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch1">Chapter I</a> <span class= +"tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e240">1</a></span></li> +<li><a href="#ch2">Chapter II</a> <span class= +"tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e416">16</a></span></li> +<li><a href="#ch3">Chapter III</a> <span class= +"tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e811">40</a></span></li> +<li><a href="#ch4">Chapter IV</a> <span class= +"tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e909">50</a></span></li> +<li><a href="#ch5">Chapter V</a> <span class= +"tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e1236">74</a></span></li> +<li><a href="#ch6">Chapter VI</a> <span class= +"tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e1293">82</a></span></li> +<li><a href="#ch7">Chapter VII</a> <span class= +"tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e1613">110</a></span></li> +<li><a href="#ch8">Chapter VIII</a> +<span class="tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href= +"#xd20e2052">140</a></span></li> +<li><a href="#ch9">Chapter IX</a> <span class= +"tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e2167">153</a></span></li> +<li><a href="#ch10">Chapter X</a> <span class= +"tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e2374">169</a></span></li> +<li><a href="#ch11">Chapter XI</a> <span class= +"tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e2401">177</a></span></li> +<li><a href="#ch12">Chapter XII</a> +<span class="tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href= +"#xd20e2441">184</a></span></li> +<li><a href="#ch13">Chapter XIII</a> +<span class="tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href= +"#xd20e2777">213</a></span></li> +<li><a href="#ch14">Chapter XIV</a> +<span class="tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href= +"#xd20e2852">225</a></span></li> +<li><a href="#ch15">Chapter XV</a> <span class= +"tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e2972">233</a></span></li> +</ul> +</div> +<div class="transcribernote"> +<h2 class="main">Colophon</h2> +<h3 class="main">Availability</h3> +<p class="first">This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no +cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. 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Note that the division in chapters and sections of this +translation deviates from the Dutch original.</p> +<p>Scans of this work are available in the Internet Archive (copy +<a class="exlink xd20e41" title="External link" href= +"http://www.archive.org/details/ecstasystudyofha00coup">1</a>, +<a class="exlink xd20e41" title="External link" href= +"http://www.archive.org/details/ecstasystudyofha00coupuoft">2</a>, +<a class="exlink xd20e41" title="External link" href= +"http://www.archive.org/details/ecstasyastudyof00coup">3</a>).</p> +<p>Related Library of Congress catalog page: <a class="catlink" href= +"http://lccn.loc.gov/19015679">19015679</a>.</p> +<p>Related Open Library catalog page (for source): <a class="catlink" +href="http://openlibrary.org/books/OL7219926M">OL7219926M</a>.</p> +<p>Related Open Library catalog page (for work): <a class="catlink" +href="http://openlibrary.org/works/OL1456875W">OL1456875W</a>.</p> +<p>Related WorldCat catalog page: <a class="catlink" href= +"http://www.worldcat.org/oclc/1845503">1845503</a>.</p> +<h3 class="main">Encoding</h3> +<p class="first">The second chapter XI has been renumbered to chapter +XII, and all following chapter numbers have been adjusted +accordingly.</p> +<h3 class="main">Revision History</h3> +<ul> +<li>2011-10-15 Started.</li> +</ul> +<h3 class="main">External References</h3> +<p>This Project Gutenberg eBook contains external references. These +links may not work for you.</p> +<h3 class="main">Corrections</h3> +<p>The following corrections have been applied to the text:</p> +<table class="correctiontable" summary= +"Overview of corrections applied to the text."> +<tr> +<th>Page</th> +<th>Source</th> +<th>Correction</th> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e491">21</a></td> +<td class="width40 bottom">[<i>Not in source</i>]</td> +<td class="width40 bottom">”</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e2443">184</a></td> +<td class="width40 bottom">XI</td> +<td class="width40 bottom">XII</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e2779">213</a></td> +<td class="width40 bottom">XII</td> +<td class="width40 bottom">XIII</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e2854">225</a></td> +<td class="width40 bottom">XIII</td> +<td class="width40 bottom">XIV</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e2974">233</a></td> +<td class="width40 bottom">XIV</td> +<td class="width40 bottom">XV</td> +</tr> +</table> +</div> +</div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Ecstasy: A Study of Happiness, by Louis Couperus + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ECSTASY: A STUDY OF HAPPINESS *** + +***** This file should be named 37770-h.htm or 37770-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/7/7/37770/ + +Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project +Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously +made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Ecstasy: A Study of Happiness + A Novel + +Author: Louis Couperus + +Translator: Alexander Teixeira de Mattos + +Release Date: October 16, 2011 [EBook #37770] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ECSTASY: A STUDY OF HAPPINESS *** + + + + +Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project +Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously +made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + + + + ECSTASY: + A STUDY OF HAPPINESS + A Novel + + + + By + LOUIS COUPERUS + + Author of "Small Souls," "Old People + and the Things that Pass," etc. + + Translated by + Alexander Teixeira de Mattos + + + + New York + Dodd, Mead and Company + 1919 + + + + + + + +TRANSLATOR'S NOTE + + +This delicate story is Louis Couperus' third novel. It appeared in the +original Dutch some twenty-seven years ago and has not hitherto been +published in America. At the time when it was written, the author was +a leading member of what was then known as the "sensitivist" school +of Dutch novelists; and the reader will not be slow in discovering +that the story possesses an elusive charm of its own, a charm marking +a different tendency from that of the later books. + + + Alexander Teixeira de Mattos + + Chelsea, 2 June, 1919 + + + + + + + +ECSTASY: A STUDY OF HAPPINESS + +CHAPTER I + + +1 + +Dolf Van Attema, in the course of an after-dinner stroll, had called on +his wife's sister, Cecile van Even, on the Scheveningen Road. He was +waiting in her little boudoir, pacing up and down, among the rosewood +chairs and the vieux rose moire ottomans, over and over again, with +three or four long steps, measuring the width of the tiny room. On +an onyx pedestal, at the head of a sofa, burned an onyx lamp, glowing +sweetly within its lace shade, a great six-petalled flower of light. + +Mevrouw was still with the children, putting them to bed, the maid had +told him; so he would not be able to see his godson, little Dolf, that +evening. He was sorry. He would have liked to go upstairs and romp with +Dolf where he lay in his little bed; but he remembered Cecile's request +and his promise on an earlier occasion, when a romp of this sort with +his uncle had kept the boy awake for hours. So Dolf van Attema waited, +smiling at his own obedience, measuring the little boudoir with his +steps, the steps of a firmly-built man, short, broad and thick-set, +no longer in his first youth, showing symptoms of baldness under his +short brown hair, with small blue-grey eyes, kindly and pleasant of +glance, and a mouth which was firm and determined, in spite of the +smile, in the midst of the ruddy growth of his crisp Teutonic beard. + +A log smouldered on the little hearth of nickel and gilt; and two +little flames flickered discreetly: a fire of peaceful intimacy in +that twilight atmosphere of lace-shielded lamplight. Intimacy and +discreetness shed over the whole little room an aroma as of violets; +a suggestion of the scent of violets nestled, too, in the soft tints of +the draperies and furniture--rosewood and rose moire--and hung about +the corners of the little rosewood writing-table, with its silver +appointments and its photographs under smooth glass frames. Above +the writing-table hung a small white Venetian mirror. The gentle +air of modest refinement, the subdued and almost prudish tenderness +which floated about the little hearth, the writing-table and the +sofa, gliding between the quiet folds of the faded hangings, had +something soothing, something to quiet the nerves, so that Dolf +presently ceased his work of measurement, sat down, looked around +him and finally remained staring at the portrait of Cecile's husband, +the minister of State, dead eighteen months back. + +After that he had not long to wait before Cecile came in. She advanced +towards him smiling, as he rose from his seat, pressed his hand, +excused herself that the children had detained her. She always put them +to sleep herself, her two boys, Dolf and Christie, and then they said +their prayers, one beside the other in their little beds. The scene +came back to Dolf as she spoke of the children; he had often seen it. + +Christie was not well, she said; he was so listless; she hoped it +might not turn out to be measles. + + + + +2 + +There was motherliness in her voice, but she did not seem a mother as +she reclined, girlishly slight, on the sofa, with behind her the soft +glow of the lace flower of light on its stem of onyx. She was still +in the black of her mourning. Here and there the light at her back +touched her flaxen hair with a frail golden halo; the loose crape +tea-gown accentuated the maidenly slimness of her figure, with the +gently curving lines of her long neck and somewhat narrow shoulders; +her arms hung with a certain weariness as her hands lay in her lap; +gently curving, too, were the lines of her girlish youth of bust and +slender waist, slender as a vase is slender, so that she seemed a +still expectant flower of maidenhood, scarcely more than adolescent, +not nearly old enough to be the mother of her children, her two boys +of six and seven. + +Her features were lost in the shadow--the lamplight touching her +hair with gold--and Dolf could not at first see into her eyes; but +presently, as he grew accustomed to the shade, these shone softly +out from the dusk of her features. She spoke in her low-toned voice, +a little faint and soft, like a subdued whisper; she spoke again of +Christie, of his god-child Dolf and then asked for news of Amelie, +her sister. + +"We are all well, thank you," he replied. "You may well ask how we are: +we hardly ever see you." + +"I go out so little," she said, as an excuse. + +"That is just where you make a mistake: you do not get half enough +air, not half enough society. Amelie was saying so only at dinner +to-day; and that's why I've looked in to ask you to come round to us +to-morrow evening." + +"Is it a party?" + +"No; nobody." + +"Very well, I will come. I shall be very pleased." + +"Yes, but why do you never come of your own accord?" + +"I can't summon up the energy." + +"Then how do you spend your evenings?" + +"I read, I write, or I do nothing at all. The last is really the most +delightful: I only feel myself alive when I am doing nothing." + +He shook his head: + +"You're a funny girl. You really don't deserve that we should like +you as much as we do." + +"How?" she asked, archly. + +"Of course, it makes no difference to you. You can get on just as +well without us." + +"You mustn't say that; it's not true. Your affection means a great +deal to me, but it takes so much to induce me to go out. When I am +once in my chair, I sit thinking, or not thinking; and then I find +it difficult to stir." + +"What a horribly lazy mode of life!" + +"Well, there it is!... You like me so much: can't you forgive me my +laziness? Especially when I have promised you to come round to-morrow." + +He was captivated: + +"Very well," he said, laughing. "Of course you are free to live as +you choose. We like you just the same, in spite of your neglect of us." + +She laughed, reproached him with using ugly words and rose slowly to +pour him out a cup of tea. He felt a caressing softness creep over +him, as if he would have liked to stay there a long time, talking and +sipping tea in that violet-scented atmosphere of subdued refinement: +he, the man of action, the politician, member of the Second Chamber, +every hour of whose day was filled up with committees here and +committees there. + +"You were saying that you read and wrote a good deal: what do you +write?" he asked. + +"Letters." + +"Nothing but letters?" + +"I love writing letters. I write to my brother and sister in India." + +"But that is not the only thing?" + +"Oh, no!" + +"What else do you write then?" + +"You're growing a bit indiscreet, you know." + +"Nonsense!" he laughed back, as if he were quite within his +right. "What is it? Literature?" + +"Of course not! My diary." + +He laughed loudly and gaily: + +"You keep a diary! What do you want with a diary? Your days are all +exactly alike!" + +"Indeed they are not." + +He shrugged his shoulders, quite non-plussed. She had always been a +riddle to him. She knew this and loved to mystify him: + +"Sometimes my days are very nice and sometimes very horrid." + +"Really?" he said, smiling, looking at her out of his kind little eyes. + +But still he did not understand. + +"And so sometimes I have a great deal to write in my diary," she +continued. + +"Let me see some of it." + +"By all means ... after I'm dead." + +A mock shiver ran through his broad shoulders: + +"Brr! How gloomy!" + +"Dead! What is there gloomy about that?" she asked, almost merrily. + +But he rose to go: + +"You frighten me," he said, jestingly. "I must be going home; I have +a lot to do still. So we see you to-morrow?" + +"Thanks, yes: to-morrow." + +He took her hand; and she struck a little silver gong, for him to +be let out. He stood looking at her a moment longer, with a smile in +his beard: + +"Yes, you're a funny girl, and yet ... and yet we all like you!" he +repeated, as if he wished to excuse himself in his own eyes for +this affection. + +And he stooped and kissed her on the forehead: he was so much older +than she. + +"I am very glad that you all like me," she said. "Till to-morrow, +then. Good-bye." + + + + +3 + +He went; and she was alone. The words of their conversation seemed +still to be floating in the silence, like vanishing atoms. Then the +silence became complete; and Cecile sat motionless, leaning back in +the three little cushions of the sofa, black in her crape against the +light of the lamp, her eyes gazing out before her. All around her a +vague dream descended as of little clouds, in which faces shone for +an instant, from which low voices issued without logical sequence of +words, an aimless confusion of recollection. It was the dreaming of +one on whose brain lay no obsession either of happiness or of grief, +the dreaming of a mind filled with peaceful light: a wide, still, +grey Nirvana, in which all the trouble of thinking flows away and +the thoughts merely wander back over former impressions, taking them +here and there, without selecting. For Cecile's future appeared to +her as a monotonous sweetness of unruffled peace, in which Dolf and +Christie grew up into jolly boys, young undergraduates, men, while she +herself remained nothing but the mother, for in the unconsciousness +of her spiritual life she did not know herself entirely. She did not +know that she was more wife than mother, however fond she might be +of her children. Swathed in the clouds of her dreaming, she did not +feel that there was something missing, by reason of her widowhood; +she did not feel loneliness, nor a need of some one beside her, nor +regret that yielding air alone flowed about her, in which her arms +might shape themselves and grope in vain for something to embrace. The +capacity for these needs was there, but so deep hidden in her soul's +unconsciousness that she did not know of its existence nor suspect +that one day it might assert itself and rise up slowly, up and up, +an apparition of more evident melancholy. For such melancholy as was +in her dreaming seemed to her to belong to the past, to the memory of +the dear husband whom she had lost, and never, never, to the present, +to an unrealized sense of her loneliness. + +Whoever had told her now that something was wanting in her life +would have roused her indignation; she herself imagined that she had +everything that she wanted; and she valued highly the calm happiness of +the innocent egoism in which she and her children breathed, a happiness +which she thought complete. When she dreamed, as now, about nothing +in particular--little dream-clouds fleeing across the field of her +imagination, with other cloudlets in their wake--sometimes great tears +would well into her eyes and trickle slowly down her cheek; but to +her these were only tears of an unspeakably vague melancholy, a light +load upon her heart, barely oppressive and there for some reason which +she did not know, for she had ceased to mourn the loss of her husband. + +In this manner she could pass whole evenings, simply sitting dreaming, +never wearying of herself, nor reflecting how the people outside +hurried and tired themselves, aimlessly, without being happy, whereas +she was happy, happy in the cloudland of her dreams. + +The hours sped and her hand was too slack to reach for the book upon +the table beside her; slackness at last permeated her so thoroughly +that one o'clock arrived and she could not yet decide to get up and +go to her bed. + + + + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +1 + +Next evening, when Cecile entered the Van Attemas' drawing-room, +slowly with languorous steps, in the sinuous black of her crape, +Dolf at once came to her and took her hand: + +"I hope you won't be annoyed. Quaerts called; and Dina had told the +servants that we were at home. I'm sorry...." + +"It doesn't matter!" she whispered. + +Nevertheless, she was a little irritated, in her sensitiveness, at +unexpectedly meeting this stranger, whom she did not remember ever to +have seen at Dolf's and who now rose from where he had been sitting +with Dolf's great-aunt, old Mrs. Hoze, Amelie and the two daughters, +Anna and Suzette. Cecile kissed the old lady and greeted the rest +of the circle in turn, welcomed with a smile by all of them. Dolf +introduced: + +"My friend Taco Quaerts.... Mrs. van Even, my sister-in-law." + +They sat a little scattered round the great fire on the open hearth, +the piano close to them in the corner, its draped back turned to them, +and Jules, the youngest boy, sitting behind it, playing a romance by +Rubinstein and so absorbed that he had not heard his aunt come in. + +"Jules!..." Dolf called out. + +"Leave him alone," said Cecile. + +The boy did not reply and went on playing. Cecile, across the piano, +saw his tangled hair and his eyes abstracted in the music. A feebleness +of melancholy slowly rose within her, like a burden, like a burden that +climbed up her breast and stifled her breathing. From time to time, +forte notes falling suddenly from Jules' fingers gave her little +shocks in her throat; and a strange feeling of uncertainty seemed +winding her about as with vague meshes: a feeling not new to her, +one in which she seemed no longer to possess herself, to be lost and +wandering in search of herself, in which she did not know what she +was thinking, nor what at this very moment she might say. Something +melted in her brain, like a momentary weakness. Her head sank a +little; and, without hearing distinctly, it seemed to her that once +before she had heard this romance played so, exactly so, as Jules was +now playing it, very, very long ago, in some former existence ages +agone, in just the same circumstances, in this very circle of people, +before this very fire.... The tongues of flame shot up with the same +flickerings as from the logs of ages back; and Suzette blinked with +the same expression which she had worn then on that former occasion.... + +Why was it that Cecile should be sitting here again now, in the midst +of them all? Why was it necessary, to sit like this round a fire, +listening to music? How strange it was and what strange things there +were in this world!... Still, it was pleasant to be in this cosy +company, so agreeably quiet, without many words, the music behind +the piano dying away plaintively, until it suddenly stopped. + +Mrs. Hoze's voice had a ring of sympathy as she murmured in Cecile's +ear: + +"So we are getting you back, dear? You are coming out of your shell +again?" + +Cecile pressed her hand, with a little laugh: + +"But I never hid myself from you! I have always been in to you!" + +"Yes, but we had to come to you. You always stayed at home, didn't +you?" + +"You're not angry with me, are you?" + +"No, darling, of course not; you have had such a great sorrow." + +"Oh, I have still: I seem to have lost everything!" + +How was it that she suddenly realized this? She never had that sense of +loss in her own home, among the clouds of her day-dreams, but outside, +among other people, she immediately felt that she had lost everything, +everything.... + +"But you have your children." + +"Yes." + +She answered faintly, wearily, with a sense of loneliness, of terrible +loneliness, like one floating aimlessly in space, borne upon thinnest +air, in which her yearning arms groped in vain. + +Mrs. Hoze stood up. Dolf came to take her into the other room, +for whist. + +"You too, Cecile?" he asked. + +"No, you know I never touch a card!" + +He did not press her; there were Quaerts and the girls to make up. + +"What are you doing there, Jules?" he asked, glancing across the piano. + +The boy had remained sitting there, forgotten. He now rose and +appeared, tall, grown out of his strength, with strange eyes. + +"What were you doing?" + +"I ... I was looking for something ... a piece of music." + +"Don't sit moping like that, my boy!" growled Dolf, kindly, with his +deep voice. "What's become of those cards again, Amelie?" + +"I don't know," said his wife, looking about vaguely. "Where are the +cards, Anna?" + +"Aren't they in the box with the counters?" + +"No," Dolf grumbled. "Nothing is ever where it ought to be." + +Anna got up, looked, found the cards in the drawer of a buhl +cabinet. Amelie also had risen, stood arranging the music on the +piano. She was for ever ordering things in her rooms and immediately +forgetting where she had put them, tidying with her fingers and +perfectly absent in her mind. + +"Anna, come and draw a card too. You can play in the next rubber," +cried Dolf, from the other room. + +The two sisters remained alone, with Jules. + +The boy had sat down on a stool at Cecile's feet: + +"Mamma, do leave my music alone." + +Amelie sat down beside Cecile: + +"Is Christie better?" + +"He is a little livelier to-day." + +"I'm glad. Have you never met Quaerts before?" + +"No." + +"Really? He comes here so often." + +Cecile looked through the open folding-doors at the card-table. Two +candles stood upon it. Mrs. Hoze's pink face was lit up clearly, with +its smooth and stately features; her hair gleamed silver-grey. Quaerts +sat opposite her: Cecile noticed the round, vanishing silhouette of his +head, the hair cut very close, thick and black above the glittering +white streak of his collar. His arms made little movements as he +threw down a card or gathered up a trick. His person had something +about it of great power, something energetic and robust, something +of every-day life, which Cecile disliked. + +"Are the girls fond of cards?" + +"Suzette is, Anna not so very: she's not so brisk." + +Cecile saw that Anna sat behind her father, looking on with eyes +which did not understand. + +"Do you take them out much nowadays?" Cecile asked next. + +"Yes, I have to. Suzette likes going out, but not Anna. Suzette will +be a pretty girl, don't you think?" + +"Suzette's an awful flirt!" said Jules. "At our last dinner-party...." + +He stopped suddenly: + +"No, I won't tell you. It's not right to tell tales, is it, Auntie?" + +Cecile smiled: + +"No, of course it's not." + +"I want always to do what's right." + +"That is very good." + +"No, no!" he said deprecatingly. "Everything seems to me so bad, +do you know. Why is everything so bad, Auntie?" + +"But there is much that is good too, Jules." + +He shook his head: + +"No, no!" he repeated. "Everything is bad. Everything is very +bad. Everything is selfishness. Just mention something that's not +selfish!" + +"Parents' love for their children." + +But Jules shook his head again: + +"Parents' love is ordinary selfishness. Children are a part of their +parents, who only love themselves when they love their children." + +"Jules!" cried Amelie. "Your remarks are always much too decided. You +know I don't like it: you are much too young to talk like that. One +would think you knew everything!" + +The boy was silent. + +"And I always say that we never know anything. We never know anything, +don't you agree, Cecile? I, at least, never know anything, never...." + +She looked round the room absently. Her fingers smoothed the fringe +of her chair, tidying. Cecile put her arm softly round Jules' neck. + + + + +2 + +It was Quaerts' turn to sit out from the card-table; and, though Dolf +pressed him to go on playing, he rose: + +"I want to go and talk to Mrs. van Even," Cecile heard him say. + +She saw him come towards the big drawing-room, where she was still +sitting with Amelie--Jules still at her feet--engaged in desultory +talk, for Amelie could never maintain a conversation, always wandering +and losing the threads. She did not know why, but Cecile suddenly +assumed a most serious expression, as though she were discussing very +important matters with her sister; and yet all that she said was: + +"Jules ought really to take lessons in harmony, when he composes +so nicely...." + +Quaerts had approached; he sat down beside them, with a scarcely +perceptible shyness in his manner, a gentle hesitation in the brusque +force of his movements. + +But Jules fired up: + +"No, Auntie, I want to be taught as little as possible! I don't want +to be learning names and principles and classifications. I couldn't +do it. I only compose like this, like this...." And he suited his +phrase with a vague movement of his fingers. + +"Jules can hardly read, it's a shame!" said Amelie. + +"And he plays so nicely," said Cecile. + +"Yes, Auntie, I remember things, I pick them out on the piano. Oh, +it's not really clever: it just comes out of myself, you know!" + +"But that's so splendid!" + +"No, no! You have to know the names and principles and +classifications. You want that in everything. I shall never learn +technique; I'm no good." + +He closed his eyes for a moment; a look of sadness flitted across +his restless face. + +"You know a piano is so ... so big, a great piece of furniture, isn't +it? But a violin, oh, how delightful! You hold it to you like this, +against your neck, almost against your heart; it is almost part of you; +and you stroke it, like this, you could almost kiss it! You feel the +soul of the violin quivering inside its body. And then you only have +just a string or two, two or three strings which sing everything. Oh, +a violin, a violin!" + +"Jules...." Amelie began. + +"And, oh, Auntie, a harp! A harp, like this, between your legs, a harp +which you embrace with both your arms: a harp is exactly like an angel, +with long golden hair.... Ah, I've never yet played on a harp!" + +"Jules, leave off!" cried Amelie, sharply. "You drive me silly with +that nonsense! I wonder you're not ashamed, before Mr. Quaerts." + +Jules looked up in surprise: + +"Before Taco? Do you think I've anything to be ashamed of, Taco?" + +"Of course not, my boy." + +The sound of his voice was like a caress. Cecile looked at him, +astonished; she would have expected him to make fun of Jules. She +did not understand him, but she disliked him exceedingly, so healthy +and strong, with his energetic face and his fine, expressive mouth, +so different from Amelie and Jules and herself. + +"Of course not, my boy." + +Jules glanced at his mother with a slight look of disdain, as if to +say that he knew better: + +"You see! Taco's a good fellow." + +He turned his footstool round towards Quaerts and laid his head +against his knee. + +"Jules!" + +"Pray let him be, mevrouw." + +"Every one spoils that boy...." + +"Except yourself," said Jules. + +"I! I!" cried Amelie, indignantly. "I spoil you out and out! I wish I +knew how not to give way to you! I wish I could send you to Kampen or +Deli! [1] That would make a man of you! But I can't do it by myself; +and your father spoils you too.... I can't think what's going to +become of you!" + +"What is going to become of you, Jules?" asked Quaerts. + +"I don't know. I mustn't go to college, I am too weak a doll to do +much work." + +"Would you like to go to Deli some day?" + +"Yes, with you.... Not alone; oh, to be alone, always alone! You will +see: I shall always be alone; and it is so terrible to be alone!" + +"But, Jules, you are not alone now!" said Cecile, reproachfully. + +"Oh, yes, yes, in myself I am alone, always alone...." + +He pressed himself against Quaerts' knee. + +"Jules, don't talk so stupidly," cried Amelie, nervously. + +"Yes, yes!" cried Jules, with a sudden half sob. "I will hold my +tongue! But don't talk about me any more; oh, I beg you, don't talk +about me!" + +He locked his hands and implored them, with dread in his face. They +all stared at him, but he buried his face in Quaerts' knees, as though +deadly frightened of something.... + + + + +3 + +Anna had played execrably, to Suzette's despair: she could not even +remember the winning trumps! + +Dolf called out to his wife: + +"Amelie, do come in for a rubber; that is, if Quaerts doesn't want +to. You can't give your daughter many points, but still you're not +quite so bad!" + +"I would rather stay and talk to Mrs. van Even," said Quaerts. + +"Go and play without minding me, if you prefer, Mr. Quaerts," said +Cecile, in the cold voice which she adopted towards people whom +she disliked. + +Amelie dragged herself away with an unhappy face. She did not play +a brilliant game either; and Suzette always lost her temper when she +made mistakes. + +"I have so long been hoping to make your acquaintance, mevrouw, +that I should not like to miss this opportunity," Quaerts replied. + +She looked at him: it troubled her that she could not understand +him. She knew him to be something of a Lothario. There were stories in +which the name of a married woman was coupled with his. Did he wish +to try his blandishments on her? She had no particular hankering for +this sort of pastime; she had never cared for flirtations. + +"Why?" she asked, calmly, immediately regretting the word; for her +question sounded like coquetry and she intended anything but that. + +"Why?" he echoed. + +He looked at her in slight surprise as he sat near her, with Jules +on the ground between them, against his knee, his eyes closed. + +"Because ... because," he stammered, "because you are my friend's +sister, I suppose, and I had never met you here...." + +She made no answer: in her seclusion she had forgotten how to talk +and she did not take the least trouble about it. + +"I used often to see you at the theatre," said Quaerts, "when Mr. van +Even was still alive." + +"At the opera," she said. + +"Yes." + +"Really? I didn't know you then." + +"No." + +"I have not been out in the evening for a long time, because of +my mourning." + +"And I always choose the evening to come to Dolf's." + +"So that explains why we have never met." + +They were silent for a moment. It seemed to him that she spoke +very coldly. + +"I should love to go to the opera!" murmured Jules, without opening +his eyes. "Or no, after all, I think I would rather not." + +"Dolf told me that you read a great deal," Quaerts continued. "Do +you keep in touch with modern literature?" + +"A little. I don't read so very much." + +"No?" + +"Oh, no! I have two children; that leaves me very little time for +reading. Besides, it has no particular fascination for me: life is +much more romantic than any novel." + +"So you are a philosopher?" + +"I? Oh, no, I assure you, Mr. Quaerts! I am the most commonplace +woman in the world." + +She spoke with her wicked little laugh and her cold voice: the voice +and the laugh which she employed when she feared lest she should be +wounded in her secret sensitiveness and when therefore she hid deep +within herself, offering to the outside world something very different +from what she really was. Jules had opened his eyes and sat looking +at her; and his steady glance troubled her. + +"You live in a charming house, on the Scheveningen Road." + +"Yes." + +She realized suddenly that her coldness amounted to rudeness; and +she did not wish this, even though she did dislike him. She threw +herself back negligently; she asked at random, quite without concern, +merely for the sake of conversation: + +"Have you many relations in The Hague?" + +"No; my father and mother live at Velp and the rest of my family at +Arnhem chiefly. I never fix myself anywhere; I can't stay long in +one place. I have spent a good many years in Brussels." + +"You have no occupation, I believe?" + +"No. As a boy, my one desire was to enter the navy, but I was rejected +on account of my eyes." + +Involuntarily she looked into his eyes: small, deep-set eyes, the +colour of which she could not determine. She thought they looked sly +and cunning. + +"I have always regretted it," he continued. "I am a man of action. I am +always longing for action. I console myself as best I can with sport." + +"Sport?" she repeated, coldly. + +"Yes." + +"Oh!" + +"Quaerts is a Nimrod and a Centaur and a Hercules rolled into one, +aren't you, Quaerts?" said Jules. + +"Ah, so you're 'naming' me!" said Quaerts, with a laugh. "Where do +you really 'class' me?" + +"Among the very few people that I really like!" the boy answered, +ardently and without hesitation. "Taco, when are you going to teach +me to ride?" + +"Whenever you like, my son." + +"Yes, but you must fix the day for us to go to the riding-school. I +won't fix a day; I hate fixing days." + +"Well, shall we say to-morrow? To-morrow will be Wednesday." + +"Very well." + +Cecile noticed that Jules was still staring at her. She looked at +him back. How was it possible that the boy could like this man! How +was it possible that it irritated her and not him, all that health, +that strength, that power of muscle and rage of sport! She could +make nothing of it; she understood neither Quaerts nor Jules; and +she herself drifted away again into that mood of half-consciousness, +in which she did not know what she thought nor what at that very +moment she might say, in which she seemed to be lost and wandering +in search of herself. + +She rose, tall, slender and frail in her crape, like a queen who +mourns, with little touches of gold in her flaxen hair, where a small +jet aigrette glittered like a black mirror. + +"I'm going to see who's winning," she said and moved to the card-table +in the other room. + +She stood behind Mrs. Hoze, appeared to be interested in the game; but +across the light of the candles she peered at Quaerts and Jules. She +saw them talking together, softly, confidentially, Jules with his +arm on Quaerts' knee. She saw Jules looking up, as if in adoration, +into the face of this man; and then the boy suddenly threw his arms +around his friend in a wild embrace, while the other pushed him away +with a patient gesture. + + + + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +1 + +Next evening, Cecile revelled even more than usual in the luxury of +being able to stay at home. + +It was after dinner; she was sitting on the sofa in her little +boudoir with Dolf and Christie, an arm thrown round each of them, +sitting between them, so young, like an elder sister. In her low +voice she was telling them: + +"Judah came near to him, and said, O my Lord, let me abide a bondman +instead of the lad. For our father, who is such an old man, said to +us, when we left with Benjamin, My son Joseph I have already lost; +surely he is torn in pieces by the wild beasts. And if ye take this +also from me and mischief befall him, ye shall bring down my grey hairs +with sorrow to the grave. Then (Judah said) I said to our father that I +would be surety for the lad and that I should bear the blame if I did +not bring Benjamin home again. And therefore I pray thee, O my lord, +let me abide a bondman, and let the lad go up with his brethren. For +how shall I go up to my father if the lad be not with me?..." + +"And Joseph, mamma, what did Joseph say?" asked Christie. + +He had nestled closely against his mother, this poor little +slender fellow of six, with his fine golden hair and his eyes of +pale forget-me-not blue; and his little fingers hooked themselves +nervously into Cecile's gown, rumpling the crape. + +"Then Joseph could not refrain himself before all them that stood +by him and he caused every man to leave him. And Joseph made himself +known unto his brethren. And he wept aloud and said, I am Joseph." + +But Cecile could not continue the story, for Christie had thrown +himself on her neck in a frenzy of despair and she heard him sobbing +against her. + +"Christie! Darling!" + +She was greatly distressed; she had grown interested in her own +recital and had not noticed Christie's excitement; and now he was +sobbing against her in such violent grief that she could find no word +to quiet him, to comfort him, to tell him that it ended happily. + +"But, Christie, don't cry, don't cry! It ends happily." + +"And Benjamin, what about Benjamin?" + +"Benjamin returned to his father; and Jacob went down into Egypt to +live with Joseph." + +The child raised his wet face from her shoulder and looked at her +deliberately: + +"Was it really like that? Or are you only making it up?" + +"No, really, darling. Don't, don't cry any more...." + +Christie grew calmer, but he was evidently disappointed. He was not +satisfied with the end of the story; and yet it was very pretty like +that, much prettier than if Joseph had been angry and put Benjamin +in prison. + +"What a baby, Christie, to go crying like that!" said Dolf. "Why, +it's only a story." + +Cecile did not reply that the story had really happened, because +it was in the Bible. She had suddenly become very sad, in doubt +of herself. She fondly dried the child's sad eyes with her +pocket-handkerchief: + +"And now, children, bed! It's late!" she said, faintly. + +She put them to bed, a ceremony which lasted a long time; a ceremony +with an elaborate ritual of undressing, washing, saying of prayers, +tucking in and kissing. + + + + +2 + +When, an hour later, she was sitting downstairs again alone, she +realized for the first time how sad she felt. + +Ah, no, she did not know! Amelie was quite right: one never knew +anything, never! She had been so happy that day; she had found herself +again, deep in the recesses of her secret self, in the essence of +her soul; all day she had seen her dreams hovering about her as an +apotheosis; all day she had felt within her that consuming love of her +children. She had told them stories out of the Bible after dinner; +and suddenly, when Christie began to cry, a doubt had arisen within +her. Was she really good to her little boys? Did she not, in her +love, in the tenderness of her affection for them, spoil and weaken +them? Would she not end by utterly unfitting them for practical life, +with which she did not come into contact, but in which the children, +when they grew up, would have to move? It flashed through her mind: +parting, boarding-schools, her children estranged from her, coming home +big, rough boys, smoking and swearing, with cynicism on their lips and +in their hearts: lips which would no longer kiss her, hearts in which +she would no longer have a place. She pictured them already with the +swagger of their seventeen or eighteen years, tramping across her rooms +in their cadet's and midshipman's uniforms, with broad shoulders and a +hard laugh, flicking the ash from their cigars upon the carpet.... Why +did Quaerts' image suddenly rise up in the midst of this cruelty? Was +it chance or a logical consequence? She could not analyse it; she +could not explain the presence of this man, rising up through her +grief in his atmosphere of antipathy. But she felt sad, sad, sad, as +she had not felt sad since Van Even's death; not vaguely melancholy, +as she so often felt, but sad, undoubtedly sorrowful at the thought +of what must come.... Oh! to have to part with her children! And then, +to be alone.... Loneliness, everlasting loneliness! Loneliness within +herself: that feeling of which Jules had such a dread! Withdrawn +from the world which had no charm for her, sinking away alone into +emptiness! She was thirty, she was old, an old woman. Her house would +be empty, her heart empty! Dreams, clouds of dreaming, which fly away, +which lift like smoke, revealing only emptiness. Emptiness, emptiness, +emptiness! The word each time fell hollowly, with hammer strokes, +upon her breast. Emptiness, emptiness!... + +"Why am I like this?" she asked herself. "What ails me? What has +altered?" + +Never had she felt that word emptiness throb within her in this way: +that very afternoon she had been gently happy, as usual. And now! She +saw nothing before her: no future, no life, nothing but one great +darkness. Estranged from her children, alone within herself.... + +She rose with a little moan of pain and walked across the boudoir. The +discreet twilight troubled her, oppressed her. She turned the key of +the lace-covered lamp: a golden gleam crept over the rose folds of +the silk curtains like glistening water. A strange coolness wafted +away something of that scent of violets which hung about everything. A +fire burned on the hearth, but she felt cold. + +She stopped beside the low table; she took up a visiting-card, with +one corner turned down, and read: + +"T. H. Quaerts." + +There was a five-balled coronet above the name. + +"Quaerts!" + +How short it sounded! A name like the smack of a hard hand. There +was something bad, something cruel in the name: + +"Quaerts, Quaerts!..." + +She threw down the bit of pasteboard, was angry with herself. She +felt cold and not herself, just as she had felt at the Van Attemas' +last evening: + +"I will not go out again. Never again, never!" she said, almost +aloud. "I am so contented in my own house, so contented with my life, +so beautifully happy.... That card! Why should he leave a card? What +do I want with his card?..." + +She sat down at her writing-table and opened her blotting-book. She +thought of finishing a half-written letter to India; but she was in +quite a different mood from when she had begun it. So she took from +a drawer a thick manuscript-book, her diary. She wrote the date, +then reflected a moment, tapping her teeth nervously with the silver +penholder.... + +But then, with a little ill-tempered gesture, she threw down the pen, +pushed the book aside and, letting her head fall into her hands on +the blotting-book, sobbed aloud. + + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +1 + +Cecile was astonished at her unusually long fit of abstraction, that +it should continue for days before she returned to her usual condition +of serenity, the delightful abode from which she had involuntarily +wandered. But she compelled herself, with gentle compulsion, to recover +the treasures of her loneliness; and she ended by recovering them. She +argued with herself that it would be some years before she would +have to part from Dolf and Christie: there was time enough to grow +accustomed to the idea of separation. Besides, nothing had altered +either about her or within her; and so she let the days glide slowly +over her, like gently flowing water. + +In this way, gently flowing by, a fortnight had elapsed since the +evening which she spent at Dolf's. It was a Saturday afternoon; she +had been working with the children--she still taught them herself--and +she had walked out with them; and now she was sitting in her favourite +room waiting for the Van Attemas, who came to tea every Saturday at +half-past four. She rang for the servant, who lighted the blue flame +of methylated spirit. Dolf and Christie were with her; they sat upon +the floor on footstools, cutting the pages of a children's magazine +to which Cecile subscribed for them. They were sitting quietly, +looking very good and well-bred, like children who grow up in soft +surroundings, in the midst of too much refinement, too pale, with hair +too long and too fair, Christie especially, whose little temples were +veined as if with azure blood. Cecile stepped by them as she went +to glance over the tea-table; and the look which she cast upon them +wrapped the children in a warm embrace of devotion. She was in her +calmly happy mood: it was so pleasant to think that she would soon +see the Van Attemas come in. She liked these hours of the afternoon, +when her silver tea-kettle hissed over the blue flame. An exquisite +intimacy filled the room; she had in her long, shapely feminine fingers +that special power of witchery, that gentle art of handling by which +everything over which they merely glided acquired a look of herself, +an indefinable something, of tint, of position, of light, which the +things had not until the touch of those fingers came across them. + +There was a ring. She thought it rather early for the Van Attemas, +but she rarely saw any one else in her seclusion from the outer world; +therefore it must be they. In a second or two, however, Greta entered, +with a card: was mevrouw at home and could the gentleman see her? + +Cecile recognized the card from a distance: she had seen one like it +lately. Nevertheless she took it up, glanced at it discontentedly, +with drawn eyebrows. + +What an idea, she reflected. Why did he do it? What did it mean? + +But she thought it unnecessary to be impolite and refuse to see +him. After all, he was a friend of Dolf's. But such persistence.... + +"Show meneer in," she said, calmly. + +Greta went; and it seemed to Cecile as though something trembled in +the intimacy which filled the room, as if the objects over which +her fingers had just passed took on another aspect, a look of +shuddering. But Dolf and Christie had not changed; they were still +sitting looking at the pictures, with occasional remarks falling +softly from their lips. + + + + +2 + +The door opened and Quaerts entered the room. As he bowed to Cecile, +he had his air of shyness in still greater measure than before. To +her this air was incomprehensible in him, who seemed so strong, +so determined. + +"I hope you will not think me indiscreet, mevrouw, in taking the +liberty to come and call on you." + +"On the contrary, Mr. Quaerts," she said, coldly. "Pray sit down." + +He took a chair and placed his tall hat on the floor beside him: + +"I am not disturbing you, mevrouw?" + +"Not in the least; I am expecting Mrs. van Attema and her +daughters. You were so kind as to leave a card on me; but, as I dare +say you know, I see nobody." + +"I knew that, mevrouw. Perhaps it is to that very reason that you +owe the indiscretion of my visit." + +She looked at him coldly, politely, smilingly. There was a feeling +of irritation in her. She felt inclined to ask him bluntly what he +wanted with her. + +"How so?" she asked, with her mannerly smile, which converted her +face into a mask. + +"I was afraid that I might not see you for a very long time; and I +should consider it a great privilege to be allowed to know you better." + +His tone was in the highest degree respectful. She raised her eyebrows, +as if she did not understand; but the accent of his voice was so +very courteous that she could not even find a cold word with which +to answer him. + +"Are these your two children?" he asked, with a glance towards Dolf +and Christie. + +"Yes," she replied. "Get up, boys, and shake hands with meneer." + +The children approached timidly and put out their little hands. He +smiled, looked at them penetratingly with his small, deep-set eyes +and drew them to him: + +"Am I mistaken, or is the little one very like you?" + +"They both resemble their father," she replied. + +It seemed to her she had set a protecting shield around herself, +from which the children were excluded, within which she found it +impossible to draw them. It troubled her that he was holding them so +tight, that he looked at them as he did. + +But he released them; and they went back to their little stools, +gentle, quiet, well-behaved. + +"Yet they both have something of you," he insisted. + +"Possibly," she said. + +"Mevrouw," he resumed, as if he had something important to say to her, +"I wish to ask you a direct question: tell me honestly, quite honestly, +do you think me indiscreet?" + +"For calling to see me? No, I assure you, Mr. Quaerts. It is very +kind of you. Only ... if I may be candid ..." + +She gave a little laugh. + +"Of course," he said. + +"Then I will confess that I fear you will find little in my house to +amuse you. I never see people...." + +"I have not called on you for the sake of the people I might meet at +your house." + +She bowed, smiling, as if he had paid her a compliment: + +"Of course I am very pleased to see you. You are a great friend of +Dolf's, are you not?" + +She tried each time to say something different from what she actually +did say, to speak more coldly, more aggressively; but she had too +much breeding and could not bring herself to do it. + +"Yes," he replied, "Dolf and I have known each other ever so long. We +have always been great friends, though we are quite unlike." + +"I'm very fond of him; he's always very kind to us." + +She saw him look at the low table and smile. A few reviews were +scattered on it, a book or two. On the top of these lay a little +volume of Emerson's essays, with a paper-cutter marking the page. + +"You told me you were not a great reader!" he said, mischievously. "I +should think ..." + +And he pointed to the books. + +"Oh," said she, carelessly, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, +"a little...." + +She thought him very tiresome: why should he remark that she had +hidden herself from him? Why, indeed, had she hidden herself from him? + +"Emerson!" he read, bending forward a little. "Forgive me," he added +quickly. "I have no right to spy upon your pursuits. But the print +is so large; I read it from here." + +"You are far-sighted?" she asked, laughing. + +"Yes." + +His courtesy, a certain respectfulness, as if he would not venture +to touch the tips of her fingers, placed her more at her ease. She +still disliked him, but there was no harm in his knowing what she read. + +"Are you fond of reading?" asked Cecile. + +"I do not read much: it is too great a delight for that; nor do I +read everything that appears. I am too hard to please." + +"Do you know Emerson?" + +"No...." + +"I like his essays very much. They are written with such a wide +outlook. They place one on such a deliciously exalted level...." + +She suited her phrase with an expansive gesture; and her eyes +lighted up. + +Then she observed that he was following her attentively, with his +respectfulness. And she recovered herself; she no longer wanted to +talk to him about Emerson. + +"It is very fine indeed," was all she said, to close the conversation, +in the most commonplace voice that she was able to assume. "May I +give you some tea?" + +"No, thank you, mevrouw; I never take tea at this time." + +"Do you look upon it with so much scorn?" she asked, jestingly. + +He was about to answer, when there was a ring at the bell; and +she cried: + +"Ah, here they are!" + +Amelie entered, with Suzette and Anna. They were a little surprised +to see Quaerts. He said he had wanted to call on Mrs. van Even. The +conversation became general. Suzette was very merry, full of a +fancy-fair, at which she was going to assist, in a Spanish costume. + +"And you, Anna?" + +"Oh, no, Auntie!" said Anna, shrinking together with fright. "Imagine +me at a fancy-fair! I should never sell anybody anything." + +"Ah, it's a gift!" said Amelie, with a far-away look. + +Quaerts rose: he was bowing with a single word to Cecile, when the +door opened. Jules came in, with some books under his arm, on his +way home from school. + +"How do you do, Auntie? Hallo, Taco, are you going just as I arrive?" + +"You drive me away," said Quaerts, laughing. + +"Oh, Taco, do stay a little longer!" begged Jules, enraptured to see +him and lamenting that he had chosen just this moment to leave. + +"Jules, Jules!" cried Amelie, thinking it was the proper thing to do. + +Jules pressed Quaerts, took his two hands, forced him, like a spoilt +child. Quaerts only laughed. Jules in his excitement knocked a book +or two off the table. + +"Jules, be quiet, do!" cried Amelie. + +Quaerts picked up the books, while Jules persisted in his bad +behaviour. As Quaerts replaced the last book, he hesitated a moment; +he held it in his hand, looked at the gold lettering: "Emerson." + +Cecile watched him: + +"If he thinks I'm going to lend it him, he's mistaken," she thought. + +But Quaerts asked nothing: he had released himself from Jules and +said good-bye. With a quip at Jules he left. + + + + +3 + +"Is this the first time he has been to see you?" asked Amelie. + +"Yes," replied Cecile. "An uncalled-for civility, don't you think?" + +"Taco Quaerts is always very correct in matters of etiquette," said +Anna, defending him. + +"Still, this visit was hardly a matter of etiquette," said Cecile, +laughing merrily. "But Taco Quaerts seems to be quite infallible in +the eyes of all of you." + +"He waltzes divinely!" cried Suzette. "The other day, at the Eekhofs' +dance...." + +Suzette chattered on; there was no restraining Suzette that afternoon; +she seemed already to hear the castanets rattling in her little brain. + +Jules had a peevish fit on him, but he remained quietly at a window, +with the boys. + +"You don't much care about Quaerts, do you, Auntie?" asked Anna. + +"I don't find him attractive," said Cecile. "You know, I am easily +influenced by my first impressions. I can't help it, but I don't like +those very healthy, robust people, who look so strong and manly, as if +they walked straight through life, clearing away everything that stands +in their way. It may be morbid of me, but I can't help it; I always +dislike any excessive display of health and physical force. Those +strong people look upon others who are not so strong as themselves +much as the Spartans used to look upon their deformed children." + +Jules could control himself no longer: + +"If you think that Taco is no better than a Spartan, you know nothing +at all about him," he said, fiercely. + +Cecile looked at him, but, before Amelie could interpose, he continued: + +"Taco is the only person with whom I can talk about music and who +understands every word I say. And I don't believe I could talk with +a Spartan." + +"Jules, how rude you are!" cried Suzette. + +"I don't care!" he exclaimed, furiously, rising suddenly and stamping +his foot. "I don't care! I won't hear Taco abused; and Aunt Cecile +knows it and only does it to tease me. And I think it very mean to +tease a boy, very mean...." + +His mother and sisters tried to bring him to reason with their +authority. But he caught up his books: + +"I don't care! I won't have it!" + +He was gone in a moment, furious, slamming the door, which groaned +with the shock. Amelie was trembling in every nerve: + +Oh, that boy!" she hissed out, shivering. "That Jules, that Jules!..." + +"It's nothing," said Cecile, gently, excusing him. "He is just a +little excitable...." + +She had turned rather paler and glanced at her boys, Dolf and Christie, +who had looked up in dismay, their mouths wide open with astonishment. + +"Is Jules naughty, mamma?" asked Christie. + +She shook her head, smiling. She felt a strange, an unspeakably strange +weariness. She did not know what it meant; but it seemed to her as if +very distant vistas were opening before her eyes and fading into the +horizon, pale, in a great light. Nor did she know what this meant; +but she was not angry with Jules and it seemed to her as if he had +lost his temper, not with her, but with somebody else. A sense of the +enigmatical depth of life, the soul's unconscious mystery, like to +a fair, bright endlessness, a far-away silvery light, shot through +her in silent rapture. + +Then she laughed: + +"Jules is so nice," she said, "when he gets excited." + +Anna and Suzette, upset at the incident, played with the boys, looking +over their picture-books. Cecile spoke only to her sister. But Amelie's +nerves were still quivering. + +"How can you defend those ways of Jules'?" she asked, in a choking +voice. + +"I think it nice of him to stand up for people he likes. Don't you +think so too?" + +Amelie grew calmer. Why should she be put out if Cecile was not? + +"I dare say," she replied. "I don't know. He has a good heart I +believe, but he is so unmanageable. But, who knows, perhaps it's my +fault: if I understood things better, if I had more tact...." + +She grew confused; she sought for something more to say and found +nothing, wandering like a stranger through her own thoughts. Then, +suddenly, as if struck by a ray of certain knowledge, she said: + +"But Jules is not stupid. He has a good eye for all sorts of things +and for persons too. Personally, I think you judge Taco Quaerts +wrongly. He is a very interesting man and a great deal more than a +mere sportsman. I don't know what it is, but there's something about +him different from other people, I can't say exactly what...." + +She was silent, seeking, groping. + +"I wish Jules got on better at school. As I say, he is not stupid, but +he learns nothing. He has been two years now in the third class. The +boy has no application. He makes me despair of him." + +She was silent again; and Cecile also did not speak. + +"Ah," said Amelie, "I dare say it is not his fault! Very likely it +is my fault. Perhaps he takes after me...." + +She looked straight before her: sudden, irrepressible tears filled +her eyes and fell into her lap. + +"Amy, what's the matter?" asked Cecile, kindly. + +But Amelie had risen, so that the girls, who were still playing +with the children, might not see her tears. She could not restrain +them, they streamed down and she hurried away into the adjoining +drawing-room, a big room in which Cecile never sat. + +"What's the matter, Amy?" Cecile repeated. + +She had followed Amelie out and now threw her arms about her, made +her sit down, pressed Amelie's head against her shoulder. + +"How do I know what it is?" Amelie sobbed. "I don't know, I don't +know.... I am wretched because of that feeling in my head. It is more +than I can bear sometimes. After all, I am not mad, am I? Really, +I don't feel mad, or as if I were going mad! But I feel sometimes +as if everything had gone wrong in my head, as if I couldn't +think. Everything runs through my brain. It's a terrible feeling!" + +"Why don't you see a doctor?" asked Cecile. + +"No, no, he might tell me I was mad; and I'm not. He might try to +send me to an asylum. No, I won't see a doctor. I have every reason +to be happy otherwise, have I not? I have a kind husband and dear +children; I have never had any great sorrow. And yet I sometimes +feel profoundly miserable, desperately miserable! It is always as if +I wanted to reach some place and could not succeed. It is always as +if I were hemmed in...." + +She sobbed violently; a storm of tears rained down her face. Cecile's +eyes, too, were moist; she liked her sister, she felt sorry for +her. Amelie was only ten years older than she; and already she had +something of an old woman about her, something withered and shrunken, +with her hair growing grey at the temples, under her veil. + +"Cecile, tell me, Cecile," she said, suddenly, through her sobs, +"do you believe in God?" + +"Why, of course I do, Amy!" + +"I used to go to church sometimes, but it was no use.... And I've +stopped going.... Oh, I am so unhappy! It is very ungrateful of me. I +have so much to be grateful for.... Do you know, sometimes I feel as +if I should like to go to God at once, all at once, just like that!" + +"Come, Amy, don't excite yourself so." + +"Ah, I wish I were like you, so calm! Do you feel happy?" + +Cecile smiled and nodded. Amelie sighed; she remained lying for a +moment with her head against her sister's shoulder. Cecile kissed her, +but suddenly Amelie started: + +"Be careful," she whispered, "the girls might come in. There +... there's no need for them to see that I've been crying." + +Rising, she arranged her hat before the looking-glass, carefully +dried her veil with her handkerchief: + +"There, now they won't know," she said. "Let's go in again. I am +quite calm. You're a dear thing...." + +They went back to the boudoir: + +"Come, girls, it's time to go home," said Amelie, in a voice which +was still a little unsettled. + +"Have you been crying, Mamma?" Suzette at once asked. + +"Mamma was a bit upset about Jules," said Cecile, quickly. + + + + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +Cecile was alone; the children had gone upstairs to tidy themselves +for dinner. She tried to get back her distant vistas, fading into +the pale horizon; she tried to recover the silvery endlessness which +had shot through her as a vision of light. But instead her brain was +all awhirl with a kaleidoscope of very recent petty memories: the +children, Quaerts, Emerson, Jules, Suzette, Amelie. How strange, how +strange life was!... The outer life; the coming and going of people +about us; the sounds of words which they utter in strange accents; +the endless interchange of phenomena; the concatenation of those +phenomena, one with the other; strange, too, the presence of a soul +somewhere inside us, like a god within us, never to be known in our own +essence. Often, as indeed now, it seemed to Cecile that all things, +even the most commonplace things, were strange, very strange, as if +nothing in the world were absolutely commonplace, as if everything +were strange: the strange form and outward expression of a deeper +life that lies hidden behind everything, even the meanest objects; +as if everything displayed itself under an appearance, a mask of +pretence, while the reality, the very truth, lay underneath. How +strange, how strange life was!... For it seemed to her as if she, +under that very usual afternoon tea, had seen something very unusual; +she did not know what, she could not express it nor even think it +thoroughly; it seemed to her as if beneath the coming and going of +those people something had glittered: a reality, an ultimate truth +under the appearance of that casual afternoon tea. + +"What is it? What is it?" she wondered. "Am I deluding myself, or is +it so? I feel that it is so...." + +It was all very vague and yet so very clear.... It seemed to her +as though there were a vision, a haze of light behind all that had +happened there, behind Amelie and Jules and Quaerts and the book +which he had picked up from the floor and held in his hand for a +moment.... Did that vision, that haze of light mean anything, or.... + +But she shook her head: + +"I am dreaming, I am giving way to fancy," she laughed, within +herself. "It was all very simple; I only make it complex because it +amuses me to do so." + +But she had no sooner thought this than she felt something which +denied the thought absolutely, an intuition which should have made +her guess the essence of the truth, but did not quite succeed. Surely +there was something, something behind it all, hiding away, lurking +as the shadow lurked behind the thing; and the shadow appeared to +her as a vision and haze of light.... + +Her thoughts still wandered over all those people and finally halted +at Taco Quaerts. She saw him sitting there again, bending slightly +forward in her direction, his hands folded and hanging between his +knees, as he looked up to her. A barrier of aversion had stood between +them like an iron bar. She saw him sitting there again, though he was +gone. That again was past: how quickly everything moved; how small +was the speck of the present! + +She rose, sat down at her writing-table and wrote: + + +"Beneath me flows the sea of the past; above me drifts the ether +of the future; and I stand midway upon the one speck of reality, +so small that I must press my feet firmly together lest I lose my +hold. And from the speck of the present my sorrow looks down upon +the sea and my longing up to the sky. + +"It is scarcely life to stand upon this speck, so small that I hardly +appreciate it, hardly feel it beneath my feet; and yet to me it is the +one reality. I am not greatly occupied about it: my eyes only follow +the rippling of those waves towards distant horizons, the gliding of +those clouds towards distant spheres, vague manifestations of endless +change, translucent ephemeras, visible incorporeities. The present +is the only thing that is, or rather that seems to be. The speck is, +or at least appears to be, but not the sea below nor the sky above, +for the sea is but a memory and the air but an illusion. Yet memory +and illusion are everything: they are the wide inheritance of the +soul, which alone can escape from the speck of the moment to float +upon the sea towards the horizons which retreat, to drift upon the +clouds towards the spheres which retreat and retreat...." + + +Then she reflected. How was it that she had written all this and +why? How had she come to write it? She went back upon her thoughts: +the present, the speck of the present, which was so small.... Quaerts, +Quaerts' very attitude, rising up before her just now. Was he in any +way concerned with her writing down those sentences? The past a sorrow; +the future an illusion.... Why, why illusion? + +"And Jules, who likes him," she thought. "And Amelie, who spoke of him +... but she knows nothing.... What is there in him, what lurks behind +him: his visionary image? Why did he come here? Why do I dislike him +so? Do I dislike him? I cannot see into his eyes...." + +She would have liked to do this once; she would have liked to make +sure that she disliked him or that she did not: one or the other. She +was curious to see him once more, to know what she would think and +feel about him then.... + +She had risen from her writing-table and now lay at full length on +the sofa, with her arms folded behind her head. She no longer knew +what she dreamt, but she felt peacefully happy. She heard Dolf and +Christie come down the stairs. They came in, it was dinner-time. + +"Jules was really naughty just now, wasn't he, Mummy?" Christie asked +again, with a grave face. + +She drew the frail little fellow gently to her, took him tightly in +her arms and fondly kissed his moist, pale-raspberry lips: + +"No, really not, darling!" she said. "He wasn't naughty, really...." + + + + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +1 + +Cecile passed through the long hall, which was almost a gallery: +footmen stood on either side of the hangings; a hum of voices came +from behind. The train of her dress rustled against the leaves of +a palm; and the sound gave a sudden jar to the strung cords of her +sensitiveness. She was a little nervous; her eyelids quivered slightly +and her mouth had a very earnest fold. + +She walked in; there was much light, but soft light, the light +of candles only. Two officers stepped aside for her as she stood +hesitating. Her eyes glanced round in search of Mrs. Hoze; she saw +her standing among two or three of her guests, with her grey hair, her +kindly and yet haughty face, rosy and smooth, almost without a wrinkle. + +Mrs. Hoze came towards her: + +"I can't tell you how charming I think it of you not to have played me +false!" she said, pressing Cecile's hand with effusive and hospitable +urbanity. + +She introduced people to Cecile here and there; Cecile heard names +the sound of which at once escaped her. + +"General, allow me ... Mrs. van Even," Mrs. Hoze whispered and left +her, to speak to some one else. + +Cecile drew a deep breath, pressed her hand to the edge of her bodice, +as though to arrange something that had slipped from its place, +answered the general cursorily. She was very pale; and her eyelids +quivered more and more. She ventured to throw a glance round the room. + +She stood next to the general, forcing herself to listen, so as not to +give answers that would sound strikingly foolish. She was very tall, +slender, and straight, with her shoulders, white as sunlit marble, +blossoming out of a sombre vase of black: fine, black, trailing +tulle, sprinkled all over with small jet spangles; glittering black +on dull transparent black. A girdle with tassels of jet, hanging low, +was wound about her waist. So she stood, blonde: blonde and black; +a little sombre amid the warmth and light of other toilettes; and, +for unique relief, two diamonds in her ears, like dewdrops. + +Her thin suede-covered fingers trembled as she manipulated her fan, +a black tulle transparency, on which the same jet spangles glittered +with black lustre. Her breath came short behind the strokes of +the diaphanous fan as she talked with the general, a spare, bald, +distinguished-looking man, not in uniform, but wearing his decorations. + +Mrs. Hoze's guests walked about, greeting one another here and there, +with a continuous hum of voices. Cecile saw Taco Quaerts come up to +her; he bowed before her; she bowed coldly in return, not offering +him her hand. He lingered by her for a moment, spoke a word or two +and then passed on, greeting other acquaintances. + +Mrs. Hoze had taken the arm of an old gentleman; a procession formed +slowly. The servants threw back the doors; a table glittered beyond, +half-visible. The general offered Cecile his arm, as she stood looking +behind her with a listless turn of her neck. She closed her eyelids +for a second, to prevent their quivering. Her brows contracted with +a sense of disappointment; but smilingly she laid the tips of her +fingers on the general's arm and with her closed fan smoothed away +a crease from the tulle of her train. + + + + +2 + +When Cecile was seated she found Quaerts sitting on her right. Then +her disappointment vanished, the disappointment which she had felt +at not being taken in to dinner by him; but her look remained cold, +as usual. And yet she had what she wished; the expectation with which +she had come to this dinner was fulfilled. Mrs. Hoze had seen Cecile +at the Van Attemas' and had gladly undertaken to restore the young +widow to society. Cecile knew that Quaerts was a frequent visitor +at Mrs. Hoze's; she had heard from Amelie that he was invited to +the dinner; and she had accepted. That Mrs. Hoze, remembering that +Cecile had met Quaerts before, had placed him next to her was easy +to understand. + +Cecile was very inquisitive about herself. How would she feel? At +least interested: she could not disguise that from herself. She was +certainly interested in him, remembering what Jules had said, what +Amelie had said. She already felt that behind the mere sportsman there +lurked another, whom she longed to know. Why should she? What concern +was it of hers? She could not tell; but, in any case, as a matter of +curiosity, as a puzzle, it awoke her interest. And, at the same time, +she remained on her guard, for she did not think that his visit to +her was strictly in order; and there were stories in which the name +of that married woman was coupled with his. + +She succeeded in freeing herself from her conversation with the +general, who seemed to feel called upon to entertain her, and it was +she who spoke first to Quaerts: + +"Have you begun to give Jules his riding-lessons?" she asked, with +a smile. + +He looked at her, evidently a little surprised at her voice and her +smile, which were both new to him. He returned a bare answer: + +"Yes, mevrouw, we were at the riding-school yesterday...." + +She at once thought him clumsy, to let the conversation drop like that; +but he enquired with that slight shyness which became a charm in him +who was so manly: + +"So you are going out again, mevrouw?" + +She thought--she had indeed thought so before--that his questions +were sometimes questions which people do not ask. This was one of +the strange things about him. + +"Yes," she replied, simply, not knowing what else to say. + +"Forgive me," he said, seeing that his words had embarrassed her a +little. "I asked, because ..." + +"Because?" she echoed, with wide-open eyes. + +He took courage and explained: + +"When Dolf spoke of you, he used always to say that you lived so +quietly.... And I could never picture you to myself returning to +society, mixing with many people; I had formed an idea of you; and +it now seems that this idea was a mistaken one." + +"An idea?" she asked. "What idea?" + +"Perhaps you will be angry when I tell you. Perhaps, even as it is, +you are none too well pleased with me!" he replied, jestingly. + +"I have not the slightest reason to be either pleased or displeased +with you," she jested in return. "But tell me, what was your idea?" + +"Then you are interested in it?" + +"If you will answer candidly, yes. But you must be candid!" and she +threatened him with her finger. + +"Well," he began, "I thought of you as a very cultured woman, as a +very interesting woman--I still think all that--and ... as a woman who +cared nothing for the world beyond her own sphere; and this ... this +I can no longer think. And I feel almost inclined to say, at the risk +of your looking on me as very strange, that I am sorry no longer to +be able to think of you in that way. I would almost rather not have +met you here...." + +He laughed, to soften what might sound strange in his words. She looked +at him, her eyelashes flickering with amazement, her lips half-opened; +and suddenly it struck her that she was looking into his eyes for +the first time. She looked into his eyes and saw that they were a +dark, very dark grey around the black depth of the pupil. There was +something in his eyes, she could not say what, but something magnetic, +as though she could never again take away her own from them. + +"How strange you can be sometimes!" she said mechanically: the words +came intuitively. + +"Oh, please don't be angry!" he almost implored her. "I was so glad +when you spoke kindly to me. You were a little distant to me when I +saw you last; and I should be so sorry if I put you out. Perhaps I am +strange, but how could I possibly be commonplace with you? How could I +possibly, even if you were to take offence?... Have you taken offence?" + +"I ought to, but I suppose I must forgive you, if only for your +candour!" she said, laughing. "Otherwise your remarks were anything +but gallant." + +"And yet I did not mean it ungallantly." + +"Oh, no doubt!" she jested. + +She remembered that she was at a big dinner-party. The guests ranged +before and around her; the footmen waiting behind; the light of the +candles gleaming on the silver and touching the glass with all the +hues of the rainbow; on the table prone mirrors, like sheets of water +surrounded by flowers, little lakes amidst moss-roses and lilies of the +valley. She sat silent a moment, still smiling, looking at her hand, +a pretty hand, like a white precious thing upon the tulle of her gown: +one of the fingers bore several rings, scintillating sparks of blue +and white. + +The general turned to her again; they exchanged a few words; the +general was delighted that Mrs. van Even's right-hand neighbour was +keeping her entertained and enabling him to get on quietly with his +dinner. Quaerts turned to the lady on his right. + +Both of them were glad when they were able to resume their +conversation: + +"What were we talking about just now?" she asked. + +"I know!" he replied, mischievously. + +"The general interrupted us." + +"You were not angry with me!" he jested. + +"Oh, of course," she replied, laughing softly, "it was about your +idea of me, was it not? Why could you no longer picture me returning +to society?" + +"I thought that you had become a person apart." + +"But why?" + +"From what Dolf said, from what I myself thought, when I saw you." + +"And why are you now sorry that I am not 'a person apart,' as you +call it?" she asked, still laughing. + +"From vanity; because I made a mistake. And yet perhaps I have not +made a mistake...." + +They looked at each other; and both of them, although each thought it +in a different way, now thought the same thing, namely, that they must +be careful with their words, because they were speaking of something +very delicate and tender, something as frail as a soap-bubble, which +could easily break if they spoke of it too loudly; the mere breath +of their words might be sufficient. Yet she ventured to ask: + +"And why ... do you believe ... that perhaps ... you are not mistaken?" + +"I don't quite know. Perhaps because I wish it so. Perhaps, too, +because it is so true as to leave no room for doubt. Oh, yes, I am +almost sure that I judged rightly! Do you know why? Because otherwise +I should have hidden myself and been commonplace; and I find this +impossible with you. I have given you more of myself in this short +moment than I have given people whom I have known for years in the +course of all those years. Therefore surely you must be a person +apart." + +"What do you mean by 'a person apart'?" + +He smiled, he opened his eyes; she looked into them again, deeply. + +"You understand, surely!" he said. + +Fear for the delicate thing that might break came between them +again. They understood each other as with a freemasonry of feeling. Her +eyes were magnetically held upon his. + +"You are very strange!" she again said, automatically. + +"No," he said, calmly, shaking his head, with his eyes in hers. "I +am certain that I am not strange to you, even though you may think +so for the moment." + +She was silent. + +"I am so glad to be able to talk to you like this!" he whispered. "It +makes me very happy. And see, no one knows anything of it. We are +at a big dinner; the people next to us can even catch our words; +and yet there is not one among them who understands us or grasps the +subject of our conversation. Do you know the reason?" + +"No," she murmured. + +"I will tell you; at least, I think it is like this. Perhaps you +know better, for you must know things better than I, you are so much +subtler. I personally believe that each person has a circle about +him, an atmosphere, and that he meets other people who have circles +or atmospheres about them, sympathetic or antipathetic to his own." + +"This is pure mysticism!" she said. + +"No," he replied, "it is quite simple. When the two circles are +antipathetic, each repels the other; but, when they are sympathetic, +they glide and overlap in smaller or larger curves of sympathy. In +some cases the circles almost coincide, but they always remain +separate.... Do you really think this so very mystical?" + +"One might call it the mysticism of sentiment. But ... I have thought +something of the sort myself...." + +"Yes, yes, I can understand that," he continued, calmly, as if he +expected it. "I believe that those around us would not be able to +understand us, because we two alone have sympathetic circles. But +my atmosphere is of a much grosser texture than yours, which is +very delicate." + +She was silent again, remembering her former aversion to him: did +she still feel it? + +"What do you think of my theory?" he asked. + +She looked up; her white fingers trembled in the tulle of her gown. She +made a poor effort to smile: + +"I think you go too far!" she stammered. + +"You think I rush into hyperbole?" + +She would have liked to say yes, but could not: + +"No," she said; "not that." + +"Do I bore you?..." + +She looked at him, looked deep into his eyes. She shook her head, +by way of saying no. She would have liked to say that he was +too unconventional just now; but she could not find the words. A +faintness oppressed her whole being. The table, the people, the whole +dinner-party appeared to her as through a haze of light. When she +recovered herself again, she perceived that a pretty woman opposite had +been staring at her and was now looking away, out of politeness. She +did not know how or why this interested her, but she asked Quaerts: + +"Who is the lady over there, in pale blue, with the dark hair?" + +She saw that he started. + +"That is young Mrs. Hijdrecht!" he said, calmly, a little distantly. + +She too was perturbed; she turned pale; her fan flapped nervously to +and fro in her fingers. + +He had named the woman whom rumour said to be his mistress. + + + + +3 + +It seemed to Cecile as though that delicate, frail thing, that +soap-bubble, had burst. She wondered if he had spoken to that +dark-haired woman also of circles of sympathy. So soon as she was able, +Cecile observed Mrs. Hijdrecht. She had a warm, dull-gold complexion, +dark, glowing eyes, a mouth as of fresh blood. Her dress was cut +very low; her throat and the slope of her breast showed insolently +handsome, brutally luscious. A row of diamonds encompassed her neck +with a narrow line of white flame. + +Cecile felt ill at ease. She felt as if she were playing with fire. She +looked away from the young woman and turned to Quaerts, in obedience +to some magnetic force. She saw a cloud of melancholy stealing over +the upper half of his face, over his forehead and his eyes, which +betrayed a slight look of age. And she heard him say: + +"Now what do you care about that lady's name? We were just in the +middle of such a charming conversation...." + +She too felt sad now, sad because of the soap-bubble that had +burst. She did not know why, but she felt pity for him, a sudden, +deep, intense pity. + +"We can resume our conversation," she said, softly. + +"Ah no, don't let us take it up where we left it!" he rejoined, +with feigned airiness. "I was becoming tedious." + +He spoke of other things. She answered little; and their conversation +languished. They each occupied themselves with their neighbours. The +dinner came to an end. Mrs. Hoze rose, took the arm of the gentleman +beside her. The general escorted Cecile to the drawing-room, in the +slow procession of the others. + + + + +4 + +The ladies remained alone; the men went to the smoking-room with +young Hoze. Cecile saw Mrs. Hoze come towards her. She asked her +if she had not been bored at dinner; they sat down together, in a +confidential tete-a-tete. + +Cecile made the necessary effort to reply to Mrs. Hoze; but she would +have liked to go somewhere and weep quietly, because everything passed +so quickly, because the speck of the present was so small. Gone was +the sweet charm of their conversation during dinner about sympathy, +a fragile intimacy amid the worldly show about them. Gone was that +moment, never, never to return: life sped over it with its constant +flow, as with a torrent of all-obliterating water. Oh, the sorrow +of it, to think how quickly, like an intangible perfume, everything +speeds away, everything that is dear to us!... + +Mrs. Hoze left her; Suzette van Attema came to talk to Cecile. She +was dressed in pink; and she glittered in all her aspect as if +gold-dust had poured all over her, upon her movements, her eyes, +her words. She spoke volubly to Cecile, telling interminable tales, +to which Cecile did not always listen. Suddenly, through Suzette's +prattle, Cecile heard the voices of two women whispering behind her; +she only caught a word here and there: + +"Emilie Hijdrecht, you know...." + +"Only gossip, I think; Mrs. Hoze does not seem to heed it...." + +"Ah, but I know it as a fact!" + +The voices were lost in the hum of the others. Cecile just caught a +sound like Quaerts' name. Then Suzette asked, suddenly: + +"Do you know young Mrs. Hijdrecht, Auntie?" + +"No." + +"Over there, with the diamonds. You know, they talk about her and +Quaerts. Mamma doesn't believe it. At any rate, he's a great flirt. You +sat next to him, didn't you?" + +Cecile suffered severely in her innermost sensitiveness. She shrank +into herself entirely, doing all that she could to appear different +from what she was. Suzette saw nothing of her discomfiture. + +The men returned. Cecile looked to see whether Quaerts would speak +to Mrs. Hijdrecht. But he wholly ignored her presence and even, +when he saw Suzette sitting with Cecile, came over to them to pay a +compliment to Suzette, to whom he had not yet spoken. + +It was a relief to Cecile when she was able to go. She was yearning to +be alone, to recover herself, to return from her abstraction. In her +brougham she scarcely dared breathe, fearful of something, she could +not say what. When she reached home she felt a stifling heaviness +which seemed to paralyse her; and she dragged herself languidly up +the stairs to her dressing-room. + +And yet, on the stairs, there fell over her, as from the roof of +her house, a haze of protecting safety. Slowly she went up, her hand, +holding a long glove, pressing the velvet banister of the stairway. She +felt as if she were about to swoon: + +"But, Heaven help me ... I am fond of him, I love him, I love him!" she +whispered between her trembling lips, in sudden amazement. + +It was as in a rhythm of astonishment that she wearily mounted the +stairs, higher and higher, in a silent surprise of sudden light. + +"But I am fond of him, I love him, I love him!" + +It sounded like a melody through her weariness. + +She reached her dressing-room, where Greta had lighted the gas; she +dragged herself inside. The door of the nursery stood half open; she +went in, threw back the curtain of Christie's little bed, dropped on +her knees and looked at the child. The boy partly awoke, still in the +warmth of a deep sleep; he crept a little from between the sheets, +laughed, threw his arms about Cecile's bare neck: + +"Mummy dear!" + +She pressed him tightly in the embrace of her slender, white arms; +she kissed his raspberry mouth, his drowsed eyes. And meantime the +refrain sang on in her heart, right across the weariness which seemed +to break her by the bedside of her child: + +"But I am fond of him, I love him, I love him, I love him...!" + + + + +5 + +The mystery! Suddenly, on the staircase, it had beamed open before +her in her soul, like a great flower of light, a mystic rose with +glistening petals, into whose golden heart she now looked for the +first time. The analysis to which she was so much inclined was no +longer possible: this was the riddle of love, the eternal riddle, +which had beamed open within her, transfixing with its rays the very +width of her soul, in the midst of which it had burst forth like a +sun in a universe; it was too late to ask the reason why; it was too +late to ponder and dream upon it; it could only be accepted as the +inexplicable phenomenon of the soul; it was a creation of sentiment, +of which the god who created it would be as impossible to find in +the inner essence of his reality as the God who had created the +world out of chaos. It was light breaking forth from darkness; it +was heaven disclosed above the earth. And it existed: it was reality +and not a fairy-tale! For it was wholly and entirely within her, +a sudden, incontestable, everlasting truth, a felt fact, so real in +its ethereal incorporeity that it seemed to her as if, until that +moment, she had never known, never thought, never felt. It was the +beginning, the opening out of herself, the dawn of her soul's life, +the joyful miracle, the miraculous inception of love, love focussed +in the midst of her soul. + +She passed the following days in self-contemplation, wandering +through her dreams as through a new country, rich with great light, +where distant landscapes paled into a wan radiance, like fantastic +meteors in the night, quivering in incandescence on the horizon. It +seemed to her as though she, a pious and glad pilgrim, were making +her way along paradisaical oases towards those distant scenes, +there to find even more, the goal.... Only a little while ago, the +prospect before her had been narrow and forlorn--her children gone +from her, her loneliness wrapping her about like a night--and now, +now she saw stretching in front of her a long road, a wide horizon, +glittering with light, nothing but light.... + +That was, all that was! It was no fine poets' fancy; it existed, +it gleamed in her heart like a sacred jewel, like a mystic rose +with stamina of light! A freshness as of dew fell over her, over +her whole life: over the life of her senses; over the life of +outward appearances; over the life of her soul; over the life of the +indwelling truth. The world was new, fresh with young dew, the very +Eden of Genesis; and her soul was a soul of newness, born anew in a +metempsychosis of greater perfection, of closer approach to the goal, +that distant goal, far away yonder, hidden like a god in the sanctuary +of its ecstasy of light, as in the radiance of its own being. + + + + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +1 + +Cecile did not go out for a few days; she saw nobody. One morning +she received a note; it ran: + + +"Mevrouw, + +"I do not know if you were offended by my mystical utterances. I cannot +recall distinctly what I said, but I remember that you told me that I +was going too far. I trust that you did not take my indiscretion amiss. + +"It would be a great pleasure to me to come to see you. May I hope +that you will permit me to call on you this afternoon? + + +"With most respectful regards, + +"Quaerts." + + +As the bearer was waiting for a reply, she wrote back in answer: + + +"Dear Sir, + +"I shall be very pleased to see you this afternoon. + +"Cecile van Even." + + +When she was alone, she read his note over and over again; she looked +at the paper with a smile, looked at the handwriting: + +"How strange," she thought. "This note ... and everything that +happens. How strange everything is, everything, everything!" + +She remained dreaming a long time, with the note in her hand. Then +she carefully folded it up, rose, walked up and down the room, +sought with her dainty fingers in a bowl full of visiting-cards, +taking out two which she looked at for some time. "Quaerts." The name +sounded differently from before.... How strange it all was! Finally +she locked away the note and the two cards in a little empty drawer +of her writing-table. + +She stayed at home and sent the children out with the nurse. She +hoped that no one else would call, neither Mrs. Hoze nor the Van +Attemas. And, staring before her, she reflected for a long, long +while. There was so much that she did not understand: properly +speaking, she understood nothing. So far as she was concerned, she +had fallen in love with him: there was no analysing that; it must +simply be accepted. But he, what did he feel, what were his emotions? + +Her earlier aversion? Sport: he was fond of sport she +remembered.... His visit, which was an impertinence: he seemed now +to be wishing to atone for it, not to repeat his call without her +permission.... His mystical conversation at the dinner-party.... And +Mrs. Hijdrecht.... + +"How strange he is!" she reflected. "I do not understand him; but I +love him, I cannot help it. Love, love: how strange that it should +exist! I never realized that it existed! I am no longer myself; I am +becoming some one else!... What does he want to see me for?... And +how singular: I have been married, I have two children! How singular +that I should have two children! I feel as if I had none. And yet I +am so fond of my little boys! But the other thing is so beautiful, +so bright, so transparent, as if that alone were truth. Perhaps love +is the only truth.... It is as if everything in and about me were +turning to crystal!" + +She looked around her, surprised and troubled that her surroundings +should have remained the same: the rosewood furniture, the folds of the +curtains, the withered landscape of the Scheveningen Road outside. But +it was snowing, silently and softly, with great snow-flakes falling +heavily, as though they meant to purify the world. The snow was fresh +and new, but yet the snow was not real nature to her, who always +saw her distant landscape, like a fata morgana, quivering in pure +incandescence of light. + + + + +2 + +He came at four o'clock. She saw him for the first time since the +self-revelation which had flashed upon her astounded senses. And +when he came she felt the singularly rapturous feeling that in her +eyes he was a demigod, that he perfected himself in her imagination, +that everything in him was good. Now that he sat there before her, +she saw him for the first time and she saw that he was physically +beautiful. The strength of his body was exalted into the strength of +a young god, broad and yet slender, sinewed as with the marble sinews +of a statue; and all this seemed so strange beneath the modernity of +his morning coat. + +She saw his face completely for the first time. The cut of it was +Roman, the head that of a Roman emperor, with its sensual profile, +its small, full mouth, living red under the brown gold of his curly +moustache. The forehead was low, the hair cut very close, like an +enveloping black casque; and over that forehead, with its single +furrow, hovered sadness, like a mist of age, strangely contradicting +the wanton youthfulness of his mouth and chin. And then his eyes, +which she already knew, his eyes of mystery, small and deep-set, +with the depth of their pupils, which seemed now to veil themselves +and then again to look out. + +But the strangest thing was that from all his beauty, from all his +being, from all his attitude, as he sat there with his hands folded +between his knees, a magnetism emanated, dominating her, drawing +her irresistibly towards him, as though she had suddenly, from the +first moment of her self-revelation, become his, to serve him in all +things. She felt this magnetism attracting her so violently that every +power in her melted into listlessness and weakness. A weakness as if +he might take her and carry her away, anywhere, wherever he pleased; +a weakness as if she no longer possessed her own thoughts, as if she +had become nothing, apart from him. + +She felt this intensely; and then, then came the very strangest thing +of all, as he continued to sit there, at a respectful distance, his +eyes looking up to her in reverence, his voice falling in reverential +accents. This was the very strangest thing of all that she saw him +beneath her, while she felt him above her; that she wished to be his +inferior and that he seemed to consider her higher than himself. She +did not know how she suddenly came to realize this so intensely, but +she did realize it; and it was the first pain that her love gave her. + +"It is very kind of you not to be angry with me," he began. + +There was often something caressing in his voice; it was not clear +and was even now and then a little broken, but this just gave it a +certain charm of quality. + +"Why?" she asked. + +"In the first place, I did wrong to pay you that visit. In the second +place, I was ill-mannered at Mrs. Hoze's dinner." + +"A whole catalogue of sins!" she laughed. + +"Surely!" he continued. "And you are very good to bear me no malice." + +"Perhaps that is because I always hear so much good about you at +Dolf's." + +"Have you never noticed anything odd in Dolf?" he asked. + +"No. What do you mean?" + +"Has it never struck you that he has more of an eye for the great +aggregate of political problems as a whole than for the details of +his own surroundings?" + +She looked at him, with a smile of surprise: + +"Yes," she said. "You are quite right. You know him well." + +"Oh, we have known one another from boyhood! It is curious: he never +sees the things that lie close to his hand; he does not penetrate +them. He is intellectually far-sighted." + +"Yes," she assented. + +"He does not know his wife, nor his daughters, nor Jules. He does +not see what they have in them. He identifies each of them by means +of an image which he fixes in his mind; and he forms these images +out of two prominent characteristics, which are generally a little +opposed. Mrs. van Attema appears to him a woman with a heart of gold, +but not very practical: so much for her; Jules, a musical genius, +but an untractable boy: that settles him!" + +"Yes, he does not go very deeply into character," she said. "For +there is a great deal more in Amelie...." + +"And he is quite wrong about Jules," said Quaerts. "Jules is thoroughly +tractable and anything but a genius. Jules is nothing more than an +exceedingly receptive boy, with a little rudimentary talent. And you +... he misconceives you too!" + +"Me?" + +"Entirely! Do you know what he thinks of you?" + +"No." + +"He thinks you--let me begin by telling you this--very, very lovable +and a dear little mother to your boys. But he thinks also that you +are incapable of growing very fond of any one; he looks upon you as +a woman without passion and melancholy for no reason, except that +you are bored. He thinks you bore yourself!" + +She looked at him in utter dismay and saw him laughing mischievously. + +"I am never bored!" she said, joining in his laughter, with full +conviction. + +"No, of course you're not!" he replied. + +"How can you know?" she asked. + +"I feel it!" he answered. "And, what is more, I know that the basis +of your character is not melancholy, not dark, but, on the contrary, +very light." + +"I am not so sure of that myself," she scarcely murmured, slackly, +with that weakness within her, but happy that he should estimate +her so exactly. "And do you too," she continued, airily, "think me +incapable of loving any one very much?" + +"Now that is a matter of which I am not competent to judge," he said, +with such frankness that his whole countenance suddenly grew younger +and the crease disappeared from his forehead. "How can I tell?" + +"You seem to know a great deal about me otherwise," she laughed. + +"I have seen you so often." + +"Barely four times!" + +"That is very often." + +She laughed brightly: + +"Is this a compliment?" + +"It is meant for one," he replied. "You do not know how much it means +to me to see you." + +It meant much to him to see her! And she felt herself so small, +so weak; and him so great, so perfect. With what decision he spoke, +how certain he seemed of it all! It almost saddened her that it meant +so much to him to see her once in a while. He placed her too high; +she did not wish to be placed so high. + +And that delicate, fragile something hung between them again, as it +had hung between them at the dinner. Then it had been broken by one +ill-chosen word. Oh, that it might not be broken now! + +"And now let us talk about yourself!" she said, affecting an airy +vivacity. "Do you know that you are taking all sorts of pains to +fathom me and that I know nothing whatever about you? That's not fair." + +"If you knew how much I have given you already! I give myself to you +entirely; from others I always conceal myself." + +"Why?" + +"Because I am afraid of the others!" + +"You ... afraid?" + +"Yes. You think that I do not look as if I could feel afraid? I have +something...." + +He hesitated. + +"Well?" she asked. + +"I have something that is very dear to me and about which I am very +much afraid lest any should touch it." + +"And that is...?" + +"My soul. I am not afraid of your touching it, for you would not hurt +it. On the contrary, I know that it is very safe with you." + +She would have liked once more, mechanically, to reproach him with +his strangeness: she could not. But he guessed her thoughts: + +"You think me a very odd person, do you not? But how can I be otherwise +with you?" + +She felt her love expanding within her heart, widening it to its full +capacity within her. Her love was as a domain in which he wandered. + +"I do not understand you yet; I do not know you yet!" she said, +softly. "I do not see you yet...." + +"Would you be in any way interested to know me, to see me?" + +"Surely." + +"Let me tell you then; I should like to do so; it would be a great +joy to me." + +"I am listening to you most attentively." + +"One question first: you cannot endure people who go in for sport?" + +"On the contrary, I like to see the display and development of +strength, so long as it is not too near me. Just as I like to hear +a storm, when I am safely within doors. And I can even find pleasure +in watching acrobats." + +He laughed quietly: + +"Nevertheless you held my particular predilection in great aversion?" + +"Why should you think that?" + +"I felt it." + +"You feel everything," she said, almost in alarm. "You are a dangerous +person." + +"So many think that. Shall I tell you why I believe that you took a +special aversion in my case?" + +"Yes." + +"Because you did not understand it in me, even though you may have +observed that physical exercise is one of my hobbies." + +"I do not understand you at all." + +"I think you are right.... But don't let me talk about myself like +this: I would rather talk of you." + +"And I of you. So be nice to me for the first time in our acquaintance +and speak ... of yourself." + +He bowed, with a smile: + +"You will not think me tiresome?" + +"Not at all. You were telling me of yourself. You were speaking of +your love of exercise...." + +"Ah, yes!... Can you understand that there are in me two distinct +individuals?" + +"Two distinct...." + +"Yes. My soul, which I regard as my real self; and then ... there +remains the other." + +"And what is that other?" + +"Something ugly, something common, something grossly primitive. In +one word, the brute." + +She shrugged her shoulders lightly: + +"How dark you paint yourself. The same thing is more or less true +of everybody." + +"Yes, but it troubles me more than I can tell you. I suffer; that +brute within me hurts my soul, hurts it even more than the whole +world hurts it. Now do you know why I feel such a sense of security +when I am with you? It is because I do not feel the brute that is in +me.... Let me go on a little longer, let me confess; it does me good +to tell you all this. You thought I had only seen you four times? But +I used to see you so often formerly, in the theatre, in the street, +everywhere. It was always rather strange to me when I saw you in the +midst of accidental surroundings. And always, when I looked at you, +I felt as if I were being lifted to something more beautiful. I cannot +express myself more clearly. There is something in your face, in your +eyes, in your movements, I don't know what, but something better than +in other people, something that addressed itself, most eloquently, +to my soul only. All this is so subtle and so strange; I can hardly +put it more plainly. But you are no doubt once more thinking that I +am going too far, are you not? Or that I am raving?" + +"Certainly, I should never have thought you such an idealist, such +a sensitivist," said Cecile, softly. + +"Have I leave to speak to you like this?" + +"Why not?" she asked, to escape the necessity of replying. + +"You might perhaps fear that I should compromise you...." + +"I do not fear that for an instant!" she replied, haughtily, as in +utter contempt of the world. + +They were silent for a moment. That delicate, fragile thing, which +might so easily break, still hung between them, thin, like a gossamer, +lightly joining them together. An atmosphere of embarrassment hovered +about them. They felt that the words which had passed between them +were full of significance. Cecile waited for him to continue; but, +as he was silent, she boldly took up the conversation: + +"On the contrary, I value it highly that you have spoken to me like +this. You are right: you have indeed given me much of yourself. I want +to assure you that whatever you have given me will be quite safe with +me. I believe that I understand you better now that I see you better." + +"I want very much to ask you something," he said, "but I dare not." + +She smiled, to encourage him. + +"No, really I dare not," he repeated. + +"Shall I guess?" Cecile asked, jestingly. + +"Yes; what do you think it is?" + +She glanced round the room until her eye rested on the little table +covered with books. + +"The loan of Emerson's essays?" she hazarded. + +But Quaerts shook his head and laughed: + +"No, thank you," he said. "I bought the volume long ago. No, no, +it is a much greater favour than the loan of a book." + +"Be brave then and ask it," Cecile went on, still jestingly. + +"I dare not," he said again. "I should not know how to put my request +into words." + +She looked at him earnestly, into his eyes, which gazed steadily upon +her; and then she said: + +"I know what you want to ask me, but I will not say it. You must do +that: so seek your words." + +"If you know, will you then permit me to say it?" + +"Yes, for, if it is what I think, it is nothing that you are not +entitled to ask." + +"And yet it would be a great favour.... But let me warn you beforehand +that I look upon myself as some one of a much lower order than you." + +A shadow passed across her face, her mouth had a little contraction +of pain and she pressed him, a little unnerved: + +"I beg you, ask. Just ask me simply." + +"It is a wish, then, that sympathy might be sealed between you and +me. Would you allow me to come to you when I am unhappy? I always feel +so happy in your presence, so soothed, so different from the state +of ordinary life, for with you I live only my better, my real self: +you know what I mean." + +Everything within her again melted into weakness and slackness; he was +placing her upon too high a pedestal; she was happy, because of what +he asked her, but sad, that he felt himself so much lower than she. + +"Very well," she said, nevertheless, with a clear voice. "It shall +be as you wish. Let us seal a bond of sympathy." + +And she gave him her hand, her beautiful, long, white hand, where on +one white finger gleamed the sparks of jewels, white and blue. For +a second, very reverently, he pressed her finger-tips between his own: + +"Thank you," he said, in a hushed voice, a voice that was a little +broken. + +"Are you often unhappy?" asked Cecile. + +"Always," he replied, almost humbly and as though embarrassed at +having to confess it. "I don't know why, but it has always been +so. And yet from my childhood I have enjoyed much that people call +happiness. But yet, yet ... I suffer through myself. It is I who do +myself the most hurt. And after that the world ... and I have always +to hide myself. To the world, to people generally I only show the +individual who rides and fences and hunts, who goes into society and +is very dangerous to young married women...." + +He laughed with his bad, low laugh, looking aslant into her eyes; +she remained calmly gazing at him. + +"Beyond that I give them nothing. I hate them; I have nothing in +common with them, thank God!" + +"You are too proud," said Cecile. "Each of those people has his own +sorrow, just as you have: the one suffers a little more subtly, the +other a little more coarsely; but they all suffer. And in that they +all resemble yourself." + +"Each taken by himself, perhaps. But that is not how I take them: +I take them in the lump and therefore I hate them. Don't you?" + +"No," she said calmly. "I don't believe that I am capable of hating." + +"You are very strong within yourself. You suffice unto yourself." + +"No, no, not that, really not; but you ... you are unjust towards +the world." + +"Possibly; but why does it always give me pain? Alone with you, +I forget that it exists, the outside world. Do you understand +now why I was so sorry to see you at Mrs. Hoze's? You seemed to +me to have lowered yourself. And it was because ... because of +that special quality which I saw in you that I did not seek your +acquaintance earlier. The acquaintance was fatally bound to come; +and so I waited...." + +Fate? What would it bring her? thought Cecile. But she could not pursue +the thought: she seemed to herself to be dreaming of beautiful and +subtle things which did not exist for other people, which only floated +between them two. And those beautiful things were already there: +it was no longer necessary to look upon them as illusions; it was as +if she had overtaken the future! For one brief moment only did this +happiness endure; then again she felt pain, because of his reverence. + + + + +3 + +He was gone and she was alone, waiting for the children. She neglected +to ring for the lamp to be lighted; and the twilight of the late +afternoon darkened into the room. She sat motionless, looking out +before her at the leafless trees. + +"Why should I not be happy?" she thought. "He is happy with me; +he is himself with me only; he cannot be so among other people. Why +then can I not be happy?" + +She felt pain; her soul suffered and it seemed to her as if her +soul were suffering for the first time, perhaps because now, for the +first time, her soul had not been itself but another. It seemed to +her as if another woman and not she had spoken to him, to Quaerts, +just now. An exalted woman, a woman of illusions; the woman, in fact, +whom he saw in her and not the woman that she was, a humble woman, +a woman of love. Ah, she had had to restrain herself not to ask him: + +"Why do you speak to me like that? Why do you raise up your beautiful +thoughts to me? Why do you not rather let them drip down upon me? For +see, I do not stand so high as you think; and see, I am at your feet +and my eyes seek you above me." + +Ought she to have told him that he was deceiving himself? Ought she +to have asked him: + +"Why do I lower myself when I mix with other people? What do you see +in me after all? Behold, I am only a woman, a woman of weakness and +dreams; and I have come to love you, I don't know why." + +Ought she to have opened his eyes and said to him: + +"Look upon your own soul in a mirror; look upon yourself and see how +you are a god walking the earth, a god who knows everything because +he feels it, who feels everything because he knows it...." + +Everything?... No, not everything; for he deceived himself, this god, +and thought to find an equal in her, who was but his creature. + +Ought she to have declared all this, at the cost of her modesty and +his happiness? For his happiness--she felt perfectly assured--lay in +seeing her in the way in which he saw her. + +"With me he is happy!" she thought. "And sympathy is sealed between +us.... It was not friendship, nor did he speak of love; he called it +simply sympathy.... With me he feels only his real self and not that +other ... the brute that is within him!... The brute!..." + +Then there came drifting over her a gloom as of gathering clouds; +and she shuddered at something that suddenly rolled through her: a +broad stream of blackness, as though its waters were filled with mud, +which bubbled up in troubled rings, growing larger and larger. And +she took fear before this stream and tried not to see it; but it +swallowed up all her landscapes--so bright before, with their luminous +horizons--now with a sky of ink smeared above, like a foul night. + +"How loftily he thinks, how noble his thoughts are!" Cecile still +forced herself to imagine, in spite of it all.... + +But the magic was gone: her admiration of his lofty thoughts tumbled +away into an abyss; then suddenly, by a lightning flash through the +night of that inky sky, she saw clearly that this loftiness of thought +was a supreme sorrow to her in him. + +It was quite dark in the room. Cecile, afraid of the lightning which +revealed her to herself, had thrown herself back upon the cushions of +the couch. She hid her face in her hands, pressing her eyes, as though +she wished, after this moment of self-revelation, to be blind for ever. + +But demoniacally it raged through her, a hurricane of hell, a storm +of passion, which blew out of the darkness of the landscape, lashing +the tossed waves of the stream towards the inky sky. + +"Oh!" she moaned. "I am unworthy of him ... unworthy!..." + + + + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +1 + +Quaerts lived on the Plein, above a tailor, where he occupied two +small rooms furnished in the most ordinary style. He could have had +much better lodgings if he chose, but he was indifferent to comfort: +he never gave it a thought in his own place; when he came across +it elsewhere, it did not attract him. But it distressed Jules that +Quaerts should live in this fashion; and the boy had long wanted to +improve the sitting-room. He was now busy hanging some trophies on +an armour-rack, standing on a pair of steps, humming a tune which he +remembered from some opera. But Quaerts paid no heed to what Jules +was doing: he lay without moving on the sofa, at full length, in his +pyjamas, unshorn, with his eyes fixed upon the Renascence decorations +of the Law Courts, tracing a background of architecture behind the +leafless trees of the Plein. + +"Look, Taco, will this do?" asked Jules, after hanging an Algerian +sabre between two Malay creeses and draping the folds of a Javanese +sarong between. + +"Yes, beautifully," replied Quaerts. + +But he did not look at the rack of arms and continued gazing at the Law +Courts. He lay back motionless. There was no thought in him, nothing +but listless dissatisfaction with himself and consequent sadness. For +three weeks he had led a life of debauch, to deaden consciousness, +or perhaps he did not know precisely what: something that was in +him, something that was beautiful but tedious, in ordinary life. He +had begun by shooting over a friend's land in North Brabant. It +lasted a week; there were eight of them; sport in the open air, +followed by sporting dinners, with not only a great deal of wine, +certainly the best, but still more geneva, also of the finest, like +a liqueur. Ragging-excursions on horseback in the neighbourhood; +follies at a farm--the peasant-woman carried round in a barrel and +locked up in the cow-house--mischievous exploits, worthy only of +unruly boys and savages and ending in a summons before a magistrate, +with a fine and damages. Wound up to a pitch of excitement with too +much sport, too much oxygen and too much drink, five of the pack, +including Quaerts, had gone on to Brussels, where one of them had +a mistress. There they stayed nearly a fortnight, leading a life of +continual excess, with endless champagne and larking: a wild joy of +living, which, natural enough at first, had in the end to be screwed up +and screwed up higher still, to make it last a couple of days longer; +the last nights spent weariedly over ecarte, with none but the fixed +idea of winning, the exhaustion of all their violence already pulsing +through their bodies, like a nervous relaxation, and their eyes gazing +without expression at the cards. + +During that time Quaerts had only once thought of Cecile; and he +had not followed up the thought. She had no doubt arisen three or +four times in his brain, as a vague image, white and transparent, an +apparition which had vanished again immediately, leaving no trace of +its passage. All this time too he had not written to her; and it had +only once struck him that a silence of three weeks, after their last +conversation, must seem strange to her. There it had remained. He was +back now; he had lain three days long at home on his bed, on his sofa, +tired, feverish, dissatisfied, disgusted with everything, everything; +then, one morning, remembering that it was Wednesday, he had thought +of Jules and his riding-lesson. + +He sent for Jules, but, too lazy to shave or dress, he remained lying +where he was. And he still lay there, realizing nothing. There before +him were the Law Courts, with the Privy Council adjoining. At the +side he could see the Witte [2] and William the Silent standing on +his pedestal in the middle of the Plein: that was all exceedingly +interesting. And Jules was hanging up trophies: also interesting. And +the most interesting of all was the stupid life he had been +leading. What a tense effort to lull his boredom! Had he really amused +himself during that time? No; he had made a pretence of being amused: +the episode of the peasant-woman and the ecarte had excited him; the +sport was bad, the wine good, but he had drunk too much of it. And +then the filthy champagne of that wench, at Brussels!... + +Well, what then? He had absolute need of it, of a life like that, +of sport and wild enjoyment; it served to balance the other thing in +him, which became impossible in everyday life. + +But why could he not preserve some sort of mean in both? He was +perfectly well-equipped for ordinary life; and with that he possessed +something in addition, something that was very beautiful in his soul: +why could he not remain balanced between those two inner spheres? Why +was he always tossed from one to the other, as a thing that belonged +to neither? How fine he could have made his life with just the least +tact, the least self-restraint! How he might have lived in a healthy +delight of purified animal existence, tempered by a higher joyousness +of soul! But tact, self-restraint: he had none of all this; he lived +according to his impulses, always in extremes; he was incapable of +half-measures. And in this lay his pride as well as his regret: his +pride that he felt this or that thing "wholly," that he was unable +to compromise with his emotions; and his regret that he could not +compromise and bring into harmony the elements which for ever waged +war within him. + +When he had met Cecile and had seen her again and yet once again, +he had felt himself carried wholly to the one extreme, the summit +of exaltation, of pure crystal sympathy, in which the circle of +his atmosphere--as he had said--glided in sympathy over hers, in +a caress of pure chastity and spirituality, as two stars, spinning +closer together, might mingle their atmospheres for a moment, like +breaths. What smiling happiness had not been within his reach, as it +were a grace from Heaven! + +Then, then he had felt himself toppling down, as if he had rocked +over the balancing-point; and he had longed for earthly pleasures, +for great simplicity of emotion, for primitive enjoyment of life, +for flesh and blood. He now remembered how, two days after his last +conversation with Cecile, he had seen Emilie Hijdrecht, here, in these +very rooms, where at length, stung by his neglect, she had ventured +to come to him one evening, heedless of all caution. With a line of +cruelty round his mouth he recalled how she had wept at his knees, how +in her jealousy she had complained against Cecile, how he had ordered +her to be silent and forbidden her to pronounce Cecile's name. Then, +their mad embrace, an embrace of cruelty: cruelty on her part against +the man whom time after time she lost when she thought him secured +for good, whom she could not understand and to whom she clung with +all the violence of her brutal passion, a purely animal passion of +primitive times; cruelty on his part against the woman he despised, +while in his passion he almost stifled her in his embrace. + + + + +2 + +Yes, what then? How was he to find the mean between the two poles of +his nature? He shrugged his shoulders. He knew that he could never +find it. He lacked some quality, or a certain power, necessary to find +it. He could do nothing but allow himself to swing to and fro. Very +well then: he would let himself swing; there was no help for it. For +now, in the lassitude following his outburst of savagery, he began +to experience again a violent longing, like one who, after a long +evening passed in a ball-room heavy with the foul air of gaslight and +the stifling closeness and mustiness of human breath, craves a high +heaven and width of atmosphere: a violent longing for Cecile. And +he smiled, glad that he knew her, that he was able to go to her, +that it was now his privilege to enter into the chaste sanctuary of +her environment, as into a temple; he smiled, glad that he felt his +longing and proud of it, exalting himself above other men. Already he +tasted the pleasure of confessing to her honestly how he had lived +during the last three weeks; and already he heard her voice, though +he could not distinguish the words.... + +Jules climbed down the steps. He was disappointed that Quaerts had not +followed his arranging of the weapons upon the rack and his draping +of the stuffs around them. But he had quietly continued his work and, +now that it was finished, he climbed down and came and sat on the +floor quietly, with his head against the foot of the couch on which +his friend lay thinking. Jules said never a word; he looked straight +before him, a little sulkily, knowing that Quaerts was looking at him. + +"Jules," said Quaerts. + +But Jules did not answer, still staring. + +"Tell me, Jules, what makes you like me so much?" + +"How should I know?" answered Jules, with thin lips. + +"Don't you know?" + +"No. How can you know why you are fond of any one?" + +"You oughtn't to be so fond of me, Jules. It's not good." + +"Very well, I will be less so in the future." + +Jules rose suddenly and took his hat. He put out his hand; but Quaerts +held him back with a laugh: + +"You see, scarcely any one is fond of me, except ... you and your +father. Now I know why your father likes me, but not why you do." + +"You want to know everything." + +"Is that so very wrong?" + +"Certainly. You'll never be satisfied. Mamma always says that no one +knows anything." + +"And you?" + +"I?... Nothing...." + +"How do you mean, nothing?" + +"I know nothing at all.... Let me go." + +"Are you cross, Jules?" + +"No, but I have an engagement." + +"Can't you wait till I'm dressed? Then we can go together. I am going +to Aunt Cecile's." + +Jules objected: + +"All right, provided you hurry." + +Quaerts got up. He now saw the arrangement of the weapons, which he +had entirely forgotten: + +"You've done it very nicely, Jules," he said, in an admiring +tone. "Thank you very much." + +Jules did not answer; and Quaerts went through into his +dressing-room. The lad sat down on the sofa, bolt upright, looking out +at the Law Courts, across the bare trees. His eyes filled with great +round tears, which ran down his cheeks. Sitting stiff and motionless, +he wept. + + + + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +1 + +Cecile had passed those three weeks in a state of ignorance which had +filled her with pain. She had, it is true, heard through Dolf that +Quaerts was away shooting, but beyond that nothing. A thrill of joy +electrified her when the door behind the screen opened and she saw +him enter the room. He was standing in front of her before she could +recover herself; and, as she was trembling, she did not rise, but, +still sitting, reached out her hand to him, her fingers quivering +imperceptibly. + +"I have been out of town," he began. + +"So I heard." + +"Have you been well all this time?" + +"Quite well, thank you." + +He noticed that she was somewhat pale, that she had a light blue shadow +under her eyes and that there was lassitude in all her movements. But +he came to the conclusion that there was nothing extraordinary in +this, or that perhaps she merely looked pale in the creamy whiteness +of her soft, white dress, like silky wool, even as her figure became +yet slighter in the constraint of the scarf about her waist, with +its long white fringe falling to her feet. She was sitting alone with +Christie, the child upon his footstool with his head in her lap and +a picture-book on his knees. + +"You two are a perfect Madonna and Child," said Quaerts. + +"Little Dolf has gone out to walk with his god-father," she said, +looking fondly upon her child and motioning to him gently. + +At this bidding the boy stood up and shyly approached Quaerts, +offering him a hand. Quaerts lifted him up and set him on his knee: + +"How light he is!" + +"He is not strong," said Cecile. + +"You coddle him too much." + + She laughed: + +"Pedagogue!" she laughed. "How do I coddle him?" + +"I always find him nestling against your skirts. He must come with +me one of these days: I should make him do some gymnastics." + +"Jules horse-riding and Christie gymnastics!" she exclaimed. + +"Yes ... sport, in fact!" he answered, with a meaning look of fun. + +She glanced back at him; and sympathy smiled from the depths of her +gold-grey eyes. He felt thoroughly happy and, with the child still +upon his knees, said: + +"I have come to confess to you ... Madonna!" + +Then, as though startled, he put the child away from him. + +"To confess?" + +"Yes.... There, Christie, go back to Mamma; I mustn't keep you by me +any longer." + +"Very well," said Christie, with great, wondering eyes, and caught +hold of the cord of Quaerts' eyeglass. + +"The Child would forgive too easily," said Quaerts. + +"And I, have I anything to forgive you?" she asked. + +"I shall be only too happy if you will see it in that light." + +"Then begin your confession." + +"But the Child ..." he hesitated. + +Cecile stood up; she took the child, kissed him and sat him on a stool +by the window with his picture-book. Then she came back to the sofa: + +"He will not hear...." + +And Quaerts began the story, choosing his words: he spoke of the +shooting, of the ragging-parties and the peasant-woman and of +Brussels. She listened attentively, with dread in her eyes at the +violence of such a life, the echo of which reverberated in his words, +even though the echo was softened by his reverence. + +"And is all this a sin calling for absolution?" she asked, when he +had finished. + +"Is it not?" + +"I am no Madonna, but ... a woman with fairly emancipated views. If +you were happy in what you did, it was no sin, for happiness is +good.... Were you happy, I ask you? For in that case what you did +was ... good." + +"Happy?" he asked. + +"Yes." + +"No.... Therefore I have sinned, sinned against myself, have I +not? Forgive me ... Madonna." + +She was troubled at the sound of his voice, which, gently broken, +wrapped her about as with a spell; she was troubled to see him sitting +there, filling with his body, his personality, his existence a place +in her room, beside her. In a single second she lived through hours, +feeling her calm love lying heavy within her, like a sweet weight; +feeling a longing to throw her arms about him and tell him that she +worshipped him; feeling also an intense sorrow at what he had admitted, +that once again he had been unhappy. Hardly able to control herself +in her compassion, she rose, moved towards him and laid her hand upon +his shoulder: + +"Tell me, do you mean all this? Is it all true? Is it true that you +have been living as you say and yet have not been happy?" + +"Perfectly true, on my soul." + +"Then why did you do it?" + +"I couldn't help it." + +"You were unable to force yourself to be more moderate?" + +"Absolutely." + +"Then I should like to teach you." + +"And I should not like to learn, from you. For it is and always will +be my best happiness to be immoderate also where you are concerned, +immoderate in the life of my real self, my soul, just as I have now +been immoderate in the life of my apparent self." + +Her eyes grew dim; she shook her head, her hand still upon his +shoulder: + +"That is not right," she said, in deep distress. + +"It is a joy ... for both those beings. I have to be like that, +I have to be immoderate: they both demand it." + +"But that is not right," she insisted. "Pure enjoyment ..." + +"The lowest, but also the highest...." + +A shiver passed through her, a deadly fear for him. + +"No, no," she persisted. "Don't think that. Don't do it. Neither the +one nor the other. Really, it is all wrong. Pure joy, unbridled joy, +even the highest, is not good. In that way you force your life. When +you speak so, I am afraid for your sake. Try to recover moderation. You +have so many possibilities of being happy." + +"Oh, yes!..." + +"Yes, but what I mean is that you must not be fanatical. And ... and +also, for the love of God, don't run quite so madly after pleasure." + +He looked up at her; he saw her beseeching him with her eyes, with +the expression of her face, with her whole attitude, as she stood +bending slightly forward. He saw her beseeching him, even as he +heard her; and then he knew that she loved him. A feeling of bright +rapture came upon him, as though something high were descending upon +him to guide him. He did not stir--he felt her hand thrilling at his +shoulder--afraid lest with the smallest movement he should drive that +rapture away. It did not occur to him for a moment to speak a word +of tenderness to her or to take her in his arms and press her to him: +she was so profoundly transfigured in his eyes that any such profane +desire remained far removed from him. And yet he felt at that moment +that he loved her, but as he had never yet loved any one before, +so completely and exclusively, with the noblest elements that lie +hidden away in the soul, often unknown even to itself. He felt that +he loved her with new-born feelings of frank youth and fresh vigour +and pure unselfishness. And it seemed to him that it was all a dream +of something which did not exist, a dream lightly woven about him, +a web of sunbeams. + +"Madonna!" he whispered. "Forgive me...." + +"Promise then...." + +"Willingly, but I shall not be able to keep my promise. I am weak...." + +"No." + +"Ah, I am! But I give you my promise; and I promise also to try my +utmost to keep it. Will you forgive me now?" + +She nodded to him; her smile fell on him like a ray of sunlight. Then +she went to the child, took it in her arms and brought it to Quaerts: + +"Put your arms round his neck, Christie, and give him a kiss." + +He took the child from her; it threw its little arms about his neck +and kissed him on the forehead. + +"The Madonna forgives me ... and the Child!" he whispered. + + + + +2 + +They stayed long talking to each other; and no one came to disturb +them. The child had gone back to sit by the window. Twilight began to +strew pale ashes in the room. He saw Cecile sitting there, sweetly +white; the kindly melody of her half-breathed words came rippling +towards him. They talked of many things: of Emerson; of Van Eeden's +new poem in the Nieuwe Gids; of their respective views of life. He +accepted a cup of tea, only for the pleasure of seeing her move with +the yielding lines of her graciousness, standing before the tea-table +in the corner. In her white dress, she had something about her of +marble grown lissom with inspiration and warm life. He sat motionless, +listening reverently, swathed in a still rapture of delight. It was a +mood which defied analysis, without a visible origin, springing from +their sympathetic fellowship as a flower springs from an invisible seed +after a drop of rain and a kiss of the sunshine. She too was happy; +she no longer felt the pain which his reverence had caused her. True, +she was a little sad by reason of what he had told her, but she was +happy for the sake of this speck of the present. Nor did she any longer +see that dark stream, that inky sky, that night landscape: everything +that she now saw was bright and calm. And happiness breathed about +her, a tangible happiness, like a living caress. Sometimes they ceased +speaking and both of them looked towards the child, as it sat reading; +or Christie would ask them something and they would answer. Then they +smiled one to the other, because the child was so good and did not +disturb them. + +"If only this could continue for ever," he ventured to say, though +still fearing lest a word might break the crystalline transparency of +their happiness. "If you could only see into me now, how all in me is +peace. I don't know why, but that is how I feel. Perhaps because of +your forgiveness. Really the Catholic religion is delightful, with its +absolution. What a comfort that must be for people of weak character!" + +"But I cannot think your character weak. And it is not. You tell me +that you sometimes know how to place yourself above ordinary life, +whence you can look down upon its grief as on a comedy which makes +one laugh sadly for a minute, but which is not true. I too believe +that life, as we see it, is no more than a symbol of a truer life, +concealed beneath it, which we do not see. But I cannot rise beyond +the symbol, while you can. Therefore you are very strong and feel +yourself very great." + +"How strange, when I just think myself weak and you great and +powerful. You dare to be what you are, in all your harmony; and I am +always hiding and am afraid of people individually, though sometimes I +am able to rise above life in the mass. But these are riddles which it +is vain for me to attempt to solve; and, though I have not the power +to solve them, at this moment I feel nothing but happiness. Surely +I may say that once aloud, may I not, quite aloud?" + +She smiled to him in the bliss which she felt of making him happy. + +It is the first time I have felt happiness in this way," he +continued. "Indeed it is the first time I have felt it at all...." + +"Then don't analyse it." + +"There is no need. It is standing before me in all its simplicity. Do +you know why I am happy?" + +"Don't analyse, don't analyse," she repeated in alarm. + +"No," he said, "but may I tell you, without analysing?" + +"No, don't," she stammered, "because ... because I know...." + +She besought him, very pale, with folded, trembling hands. The child +looked at them; it had closed its book, and come to sit down on its +stool by its mother, with a look of gay sagacity in its pale-blue eyes. + +"Then I obey you," said Quaerts, with some difficulty. + +And they were both silent, their eyes expanded as with the lustre of +a vision. It seemed to be gently beaming about them through the pale +ashen twilight. + + + + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +This evening Cecile had written a great deal into her diary; and she +now paced up and down in her room, with locked hands hanging before +her and her head slightly bowed and a fixed look in her eyes. There +was anxiety about her mouth. Before her was the vision, as she had +conceived it. He loved her with his soul alone, not as a woman who +is pretty and good, but with a higher love than that, with the finest +nervous fibres of his being--his real being--with the supreme emotion +of the very essence of his soul. Thus she felt that he loved her and +in no other way, with contemplation, with adoration. Thus she felt it +actually, through a sympathetic power of divination by which each of +them was able to guess what actually passed within the other. And this +was his happiness--his first, as he said--thus to love her and in no +other way. Oh, she well understood him! She understood his illusion, +which he saw in her; and she now knew that, if she really wished to +love him for his sake and not for her own, she must needs appear to +be nothing else to him, she must preserve his illusion of a woman +not of flesh, one who desired none of the earthly things that other +women did, one who should be soul alone, a sister soul to his. But, +while she saw before her this vision of her love, calm and radiant, +she saw also the struggle which awaited her, the struggle with herself, +with her own distress: distress because he thought of her so highly +and named her Madonna, the while she longed only to be lowly and his +slave. She would have to seem the woman he saw in her, for the sake of +his happiness, and the part would be a heavy one for her to support, +for she loved him, ah, with such simplicity, with all her woman's +heart, wishing to give herself to him entirely, as only once in her +life a woman gives herself, whatever the sacrifice might cost her, +the sacrifice made in ignorance of herself and perhaps afterwards +to be made in bitterness and sorrow! The outward appearance of her +conduct and her inward consciousness of herself: the conflict of +these would fall heavily upon her, but she thought upon the struggle +with a smile, with joy beaming through her heart, for this bitterness +would be endured for him, deliberately for him and for him alone. Oh, +the luxury to suffer for one whom she loved as she loved him; to +be tortured with inner longing, that he might not come to her with +the embrace of his arms and the kiss of his mouth; and to feel that +the torture was for the sake of his happiness, his! To feel that she +loved him enough to go to him with open arms and beg for the alms of +his caresses; but also to feel that she loved him more than that and +more highly and that--not from pride or bashfulness, which are really +egoism, but solely from sacrifice of herself to his happiness--she +never would, never could, be a suppliant before him! + +To suffer, to suffer for him! To wear a sword through her soul for +him! To be a martyr for her god, for whom there was no happiness +on earth save through her martyrdom! And she had passed her life, +had spent long, long years, without feeling until this day that such +luxury could exist, not as a fantasy in rhymes, but as a reality in her +heart. She had been a young girl and had read the poets and what they +rhyme of love; and she had thought she understood it all, with a subtle +comprehension and yet without ever having had the least acquaintance +with emotion itself. She had been a young woman, had been married, +had borne children. Her married life flashed through her mind in a +lightning-flicker of memory; and she stopped still before the portrait +of her dead husband, standing there on its easel, draped in sombre +plush. The mask it wore was of ambition: an austere, refined face, +with features sharp, as if engraved in fine steel; coldly-intelligent +eyes with a fixed portrait look; thin, clean-shaven lips, closed firmly +like a lock. Her husband! And she still lived in the same house where +she had lived with him, where she had had to receive her many guests +when he was Foreign Minister. Her receptions and dinners flickered up +in her mind, so many scenes of worldliness; and she clearly recalled +her husband's eye taking in everything with a quick glance of approval +or disapproval: the arrangement of her rooms, her dress, the ordering +of her parties. Her marriage had not been unhappy; her husband was a +little cold and unexpansive, wrapped wholly in his ambition; but he +was attached to her after his fashion and even tenderly; she too had +been fond of him; she thought at the time that she was marrying him +for love: her dependent womanliness loved the male, the master. Of a +delicate constitution, probably undermined by excessive brain-work, +he had died after a short illness. Cecile remembered her sorrow, her +loneliness with the two children, as to whom he had already feared +that she would spoil them. And her loneliness had been sweet to her, +among the clouds of her dreaming.... + +This portrait--a handsome life-size photograph; a carbon impression +dark with a Rembrandt shadow--why had she never had it copied in +oils, as she had at first intended? The intention had faded away +within her; for months she had not given it a thought; now suddenly +it recurred to her.... And she felt no self-reproach or remorse. She +would not have the painting made now. The portrait was well enough +as it was. She thought of the dead man without sorrow. She had never +had cause to complain of him; he had never had anything with which to +reproach her. And now she was free; she became conscious of the fact +with a great exultation. Free, to feel what she would! Her freedom +arched above her as a blue firmament in which new love ascended +with a dove's immaculate flight. Freedom, air, light! She turned +from the portrait with a smile of rapture; she thrust her arms above +her head as if she would measure her freedom, the width of the air, +as if she would go to meet the light. Love, she was in love! There +was nothing but love; nothing but the harmony of their souls, the +harmony of her handmaiden's soul with the soul of her god, an exile +upon earth. Oh, what a mercy that this harmony could exist between +him so exalted and her so lowly! But he must not see her lowliness; +she must remain the Madonna, remain the Madonna for his sake, in the +martyrdom due to his reverence, in the dizziness of the high place, +the heavenly throne to which he raised her, beside himself. She felt +this dizziness shuddering about her like rings of light. And she flung +herself on her sofa and locked her fingers; her eyelids quivered; +then she remained staring before her, towards some very distant point. + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +Jules had been away from school for a day or two with a bad headache, +which had made him look very pale and given him an air of sadness; +but he was a little better now and, feeling bored in his own room, he +went downstairs to the empty drawing-room and sat at the piano. Papa +was at work in his study, but it would not interfere with Papa if +he played. Dolf spoilt him, seeing in his son something that was +wanting in himself and therefore attracted him, even as possibly it +had formerly attracted him in his wife also: Jules could do no wrong +in his eyes; and, if the boy had only been willing, Dolf would have +spared no expense to give him a careful musical education. But Jules +violently opposed himself to anything resembling lessons and besides +maintained that it was not worth while. He had no ambition; his vanity +was not tickled by his father's hopes of him or his appreciation of +his playing: he played only for himself, to express himself in the +vague language of musical sounds. At this moment he felt alone and +abandoned in the great house, though he knew that Papa was at work +two rooms off and that when he pleased he could take refuge on Papa's +great couch; at this moment he had within himself an almost physical +feeling of dread at his loneliness, which caused something to reel +about him, an immense sense of utter desolation. + +He was fourteen years old, but he felt himself neither child nor +boy: a certain feebleness, an almost feminine need of dependency, +of devotion to some one who would be everything to him had already, +in his earliest childhood, struck at his virility; and he shivered +in his dread of this inner loneliness, as if he were afraid of +himself. He suffered greatly from vague moods in which that strange +something oppressed and stifled him; then, not knowing where to hide +his inner being, he would go to play, so that he might lose himself in +the great sound-soul of music. His thin, nervous fingers would grope +hesitatingly over the keys; he himself would suffer from the false +chords which he struck in his search; then he would let himself go, +find a single, very short motive, of plaintive, minor melancholy, and +caress that motive in his joy at possessing it, at having found it, +caress it until it returned each moment as a monotony of sorrow. He +would think the motive so beautiful that he could not part with it; +those four or five notes expressed so well everything that he felt that +he would play them over and over again, until Suzette burst into the +room and made him stop, saying that otherwise she would be driven mad. + +Thus he sat playing now. And it was pitiful at first: he hardly +recognized the notes; cacophonous discords wailed and cut into his poor +brain, still smarting from the headache. He moaned as if he were in +pain afresh; but his fingers were hypnotized, they could not desist, +they still sought on; and the notes became purer: a short phrase +released itself with a cry, a cry which returned continually on the +same note, suddenly high after the dull bass of the prelude. And +this note came as a surprise to Jules; that fair cry of sorrow +frightened him; and he was glad to have found it, glad to have so +sweet a sorrow. Then he was no longer himself; he played on until +he felt that it was not he who was playing but another, within him, +who compelled him; he found the full, pure chords as by intuition; +through the sobbing of the sounds ran the same musical figure, +higher and higher, with silver feet of purity, following the curve +of crystal rainbows lightly spanned on high; reaching the topmost +point of the arch it struck a cry, this time in very drunkenness, +out into the major, throwing up wide arms in gladness to heavens of +intangible blue. Then it was like souls of men, which first live and +suffer and utter their complaint and then die, to glitter in forms of +light whose long wings spring from their pure shoulders in sheets of +silver radiance; they trip one behind the other over the rainbows, +over the bridges of glass, blue and rose and yellow; and there come +more and more, kindreds and nations of souls; they hurry their silver +feet, they press across the rainbow, they laugh and sing and push one +another; in their jostling their wings clash together, scattering +silver down. Now they stand all on the top of the arc and look up, +with the great wondering of their laughing child-eyes; and they dare +not, they dare not; but others press on behind them, innumerous, +more and more and yet more; they crowd upwards to the topmost height, +their wings straight in the air, close together. And now, now they +must; they may hesitate no longer. One of them, taking deep breaths, +spreads his flight and with one shock springs out of the thick throng +into the ether. Soon many follow, one after another, till their shapes +swoon in the blue; all is gleam about them. Now, far below, thin as a +thin thread, the rainbow arches itself, but they do not look at it; +rays fall towards them: these are souls, which they embrace; they +go with them in locked embraces. And then the light: light beaming +over all; all things liquid in everlasting light; nothing but light: +the sounds sing the light, the sounds are the light, there is nothing +now but the light everlasting.... + +"Jules!" + +He looked up vacantly. + +"Jules! Jules!" + +He smiled now, as if awakened from a dream-sleep; he rose, went to +her, to Cecile. She stood in the doorway; she had remained standing +there while he played; it had seemed to her that he was playing a +part of herself. + +"What were you playing, Jules?" she asked. + +He was quite awake now and distressed, fearing that he must have made +a terrible noise in the house.... + +"I don't know, Auntie," he said. + +She hugged him, suddenly, violently, in gratitude.... To him she owed +it, the great mystery, since the day when he had broken out in anger +against her.... + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +1 + + +"Oh, for that which cannot be told, because words are so few, always +the same combinations of a few letters and sounds; oh, for that which +cannot be thought of in the narrow limits of comprehension; that +which at best can only be groped for with the antennae of the soul; +essence of the essences of the ultimate elements of our being!..." + + + +She wrote no more, she knew no more: why write that she had no words +and yet seek them? + +She was waiting for him and she now looked out of the open window +to see if he was coming. She remained there for a long time; then +she felt that he would come immediately and so he did: she saw him +approaching along the Scheveningen Road; he pushed open the iron gate +of the villa and smiled to her as he raised his hat. + +"Wait!" she cried. "Stay where you are!" + +She ran down the steps, into the garden, where he stood. She came +towards him, beaming with happiness and so lovely, so delicately frail; +her blonde head so seemly in the fresh green of May; her figure like +a young girl's in the palest grey gown, with black velvet ribbon and +here and there a touch of silver lace. + +"I am so glad that you have come! You have not been to see me for so +long!" she said, giving him her hand. + +He did not answer at once; he merely smiled. + +"Let us sit in the garden, behind: the weather is so lovely." + +"Let us," he said. + +They walked into the garden, by the mesh of the garden-paths, the +jasmine-vines starring white as they passed. In an adjoining villa +a piano was playing; the sounds came to them of Rubinstein's Romance. + +"Listen!" said Cecile, starting. "What is that?" + +"What?" he asked. + +"What they are playing." + +"Something of Rubinstein's, I believe," he said. + +"Rubinstein?..." she repeated, vaguely. "Yes...." + +And she relapsed into the wealth of memories of ... what? Once before, +in this way, she had walked along these same paths, past jasmine-vines +like these, long, ever so long ago; she had walked with him, with +him.... Why? Could the past repeat itself, after centuries?... + +"It is three weeks since you have been to see me," she said, simply, +recovering herself. + +"Forgive me," he replied. + +"What was the reason?" + +He hesitated throughout his being, seeking an excuse: + +"I don't know," he answered, softly. "You will forgive me, will you +not? One day it was this, another day that. And then ... I don't +know. Many reasons together. It is not good that I should see you +often. Not good for you, nor for me." + +"Let us begin with the second. Why is it not good for you?" + +"No, let us begin with the first, with what concerns you. People ..." + +"People?" + +"People are talking about us. I am looked upon as an irretrievable +rake. I will not have your name linked profanely with mine." + +"And is it?" + +"Yes...." + +She smiled: + +"I don't mind." + +"But you must mind; if not for your own sake ..." + +He stopped. She knew he was thinking of her boys; she shrugged her +shoulders. + +"And now, why is it not good for you?" + +"A man must not be happy too often." + +"What a sophism! Why not?" + +"I don't know; but I feel I am right. It spoils him; it is too much +for him." + +"Are you happy here, then?" + +He smiled and gently nodded yes. + +They were silent for very long. They were now sitting at the end +of the garden, on a seat which stood in a semicircle of flowering +rhododendrons: the great purple-satin blossoms shut them in with a +tall hedge of closely-clustered bouquets, rising from the paths and +overtopping their heads; standard roses flung their incense before +them. They sat still, happy in each other, happy in the sympathy of +their atmospheres mingling together; yet in their happiness there +was the invincible melancholy which is an integral part of all life, +even in happiness. + +"I don't know how I am to tell you," he said. "But suppose that I were +to see you every day, every moment that I thought of you.... That would +not do. For then I should become so refined, so subtle, that for pure +happiness I should not be able to live; my other being would receive +nothing and would suffer like a beast that is left to starve. I am +bad, I am selfish, to be able to speak like this, but I must tell +you the truth, that you may not think too well of me. And so I only +seek your company as something very beautiful which I allow myself +to enjoy just once in a way." + +She was silent. + +"Sometimes ... sometimes, too, I imagine that in doing this I am not +behaving well to you, that in some way or other I offend or hurt +you. Then I sit brooding about it, until I begin to think that it +would be best to take leave of you for ever." + +She was still silent; motionless she sat, with her hands lying slackly +in her lap, her head slightly bowed, a smile about her mouth. + +"Speak to me," he begged. + +"You do not offend me, nor hurt me," she said. "Come to me whenever +you feel the need. Do always as you think best; and I shall think +that best too: you must not doubt that." + +"I should so much like to know in what way you like me?" + +"In what way? Surely, as a Madonna does a sinner who repents and +gives her his soul," she said, archly. "Am I not a Madonna?" + +"Are you content to be so?" + +"Can you be so ignorant about women as not to know how every one of +us has a longing to solace and relieve, in fact, to play at being +a Madonna?" + +"Do not speak like that," he said, with pain in his voice. + +"I am speaking seriously...." + +He looked at her; a doubt rose within him, but she smiled to him; +a calm glory was about her; she sat amidst the bouquets of the +rhododendrons as in the blossoming tenderness of one great mystic +flower. The wound of his doubt was soothed with balsam. He surrendered +himself wholly to his happiness; an atmosphere wafted about him of the +sweet calm of life, an atmosphere in which life becomes dispassionate +and restful and smiling, like the air which is rare about the gods. It +began to grow dark; a violet dusk fell from the sky like crape falling +upon crape; quietly the stars lighted up. The shadows in the garden, +between the shrubs among which they sat, flowed into one another; the +piano in the next villa had stopped. And happiness drew a veil between +his soul and the outside world: the garden with its design of plots +and paths; the villa with curtains at its windows and its iron gate; +the road behind, with the rattle of carriages and trams. All this +withdrew itself far back; all ordinary life retreated far from him; +vanishing behind the veil, it died away. It was no dream nor conceit: +reality to him was the happiness that had come while the world died +away; the happiness that was rare, invisible, intangible, coming from +the love which alone is sympathy, calm and without passion, the love +which exists purely of itself, without further thought either of +taking anything or even of giving anything, the love of the gods, +which is the soul of love itself. High he felt himself: the equal +of the illusion which he had of her, which she wished to be for his +sake, of which he also was now absolutely certain. For he could not +know that what had given him happiness--his illusion--so perfect, +so crystal-clear, might cause her some sort of grief; he could not +at this moment penetrate without sin into the truth of the law which +insists on equilibrium, which takes away from one what it offers to +another, which gives happiness and grief together; he could not know +that, if happiness was with him, with her there was anguish, anguish +in that she had to make a pretence and deceive him for his own sake, +anguish in that she wanted what was earthly, that she craved for what +was earthly, that she yearned for earthly pleasures!... And still less +could he know that, notwithstanding all this, there was nevertheless +voluptuousness in her anguish: that to suffer through him, to suffer +for him made of her anguish all voluptuousness. + + + + +2 + +It was dark and late; and they were still sitting there. + +"Shall we go for a walk?" she asked. + +He hesitated, with a smile; but she repeated her suggestion: + +"Why not, if you care to?" + +And he could no longer refuse. + +They rose and went along by the back of the house; and Cecile +said to the maid, whom she saw sitting with her needle-work by the +kitchen-door: + +"Greta, fetch me my little black hat, my black-lace shawl and a pair +of gloves." + +The servant rose and went into the house. Cecile noticed how a trifle +of shyness was emphasized in Quaerts' hesitation, now that they stood +loitering, waiting among the flower-beds. She smiled, plucked a rose +and placed it in her waist-band. + +"Have the boys gone to bed?" he asked. + +"Yes," she replied, still smiling, "long ago." + +The servant returned; Cecile put on the little black hat, threw the +lace about her neck, but refused the gloves which Greta offered her: + +"No, not these; get me a pair of grey ones...." + +The servant went into the house again; and as Cecile looked at Quaerts +her gaiety increased. She gave a little laugh: + +"What is the matter?" she asked, mischievously, knowing perfectly +well what it was. + +"Nothing, nothing!" he said, vaguely, and waited patiently until +Greta returned. + +Then they went through the garden-gate into the Woods. They walked +slowly, without speaking; Cecile played with her long gloves, not +putting them on. + +"Really ..." he began, hesitating. + +"Come, what is it?" + +"You know; I told you the other day: it's not right...." + +"What isn't?" + +"What we are doing now. You risk too much." + +"Too much, with you?" + +"If any one were to see us...." + +"And what then?" + +He shook his head: + +"You are wilful; you know quite well." + +She clinched her eyes; her mouth grew serious; she pretended to be +a little angry: + +"Listen, you mustn't be anxious if I'm not. I am doing no harm. Our +walks are not secret: Greta at least knows about them. And, besides, +I am free to do as I please." + +"It's my fault: the first time we went for a walk in the evening, +it was at my request...." + +"Then do penance and be good; come now, without scruple, at my +request," she said, with mock emphasis. + +He yielded, feeling far too happy to wish to make any sacrifice to +a convention which at that moment did not exist. + +They walked on silently. Cecile's sensations always came to her in +shocks of surprise. So it had been when Jules had grown suddenly angry +with her; so also, midway on the stair, after that conversation at +dinner of circles of sympathy. And now, precisely in the same way, with +the shock of sudden revelation, came this new sensation, that after +all she was not suffering so seriously as she had at first thought; +that her agony, being a voluptuousness, could not be a martyrdom; +that she was happy, that happiness had come about her in the fine +air of his atmosphere, because they were together, together.... Oh, +why wish for anything more, above all for things less pure? Did he +not love her and was not his love already a fact and was not his love +earthly enough for her, now that it was a fact? Did he not love her +with a tenderness which feared for anything that might trouble her +in the world, through her ignoring that world and wandering about +with him alone in the dark? Did he not love her with tenderness, but +also with the lustre of his soul's divinity, calling her Madonna and +by this title--unconsciously, perhaps, in his simplicity--making her +the equal of all that was divine in him? Did he not love her? Heavens +above, did he not love her? Well, what did she want more? No, no, +she wanted nothing more: she was happy, she shared happiness with +him; he gave it to her just as she gave it to him; it was a sphere +that moved with them wherever they went, seeking their way along the +darkling paths of the Woods, she leaning on his arm, he leading her, +for she could see nothing in the dark, which yet was not dark, but +pure light of their happiness. And so it was as if it were not evening, +but day, noonday, noonday in the night, hour of light in the dusk! + + + + +3 + +And the darkness was light; the night dawned with light which beamed +on every side. Calmly it beamed, the light, like one solitary planet, +beaming with the soft radiance of purity, bright in a heaven of +still, white, silver light, a heaven where they walked along milky +ways of light and music; it beamed and sounded beneath their feet; +it welled in seas of ether high above their heads and beamed and +sounded there, high and clear. And they were alone in their heaven, +in their infinite heaven, which was as space, endless beneath them +and above and around them, with endless spaces of light and music, +of light that was music. Their heaven lay eternal on every side +with blissful vistas of white radiance, fading away in lustre and +vanishing landscapes, like oases of flowers and plants beside waters +of light, still and clear and hushed with peace. For its peace was the +ether in which all desire is dissolved and becomes transparent and +crystal; and their life was a limpid existence in unruffled peace; +they walked on, in heavenly sympathy of fellowship, close together, +hemmed in one narrow circle, a circle of radiance which embraced them +both. Barely was there a recollection in them of the world which had +died out in the glitter of their heaven; there was naught in them but +the ecstasy of their love, which had become their soul, as if they +no longer had any soul, as if they were only love; and, when they +looked about them and into the light, they saw that their heaven, +in which their happiness was the light, was nothing but their love, +and they saw that the landscapes--the flowers and plants by waters +of light--were nothing but their love and that the endless space, +the eternities of light and space, of spaces full of light and music, +stretching on every hand, beneath them and above and around them, +that all this was nothing but their love, which had grown into heaven +and happiness. + +And now they came into the very midst, to the very sun-centre, the very +goal which Cecile had once foreseen, concealed in the distance, in the +irradiance of innate divinity. Up to the very goal they stepped; and +on every side it shot its endless rays into each and every eternity, +as if their love were becoming the centre of the universe... + + + + +4 + +But they sat on a bench, in the dark, not knowing that it was dark, +for their eyes were full of the light. They sat against each other, +silently at first, till, remembering that he had a voice and could +still speak words, he said: + +"I have never lived through such a moment as this. I forget where +we are and who we are and that we are human. We were, were we not? I +seem to remember that we once were?" + +"Yes, but we are that no longer," she said, smiling; and her eyes, +grown big, looked into the darkness that was light. + +"Once we were human, suffering and desiring, in a world where certainly +much was beautiful, but where much also was ugly." + +"Why speak of that now?" she asked; and her voice sounded to herself +as coming from very far and low beneath her. + +"I seemed to remember it." + +"I wanted to forget it." + +"Then I will do so too. But may I not thank you in human speech for +lifting me above humanity?" + +"Have I done so?" + +"Yes. May I thank you for it ... on my knees?" + +He knelt down and reverently took her hands. He could just distinguish +the outline of her figure, seated motionless and still upon the +bench; above them was a pearl-grey twilight of stars, between the +black boughs. She felt her hands in his and then his mouth, his kiss, +upon her hand. Very gently, she released herself; and then, with a +great soul of modesty, full of desireless happiness, very gently she +bent her arms about his neck, took his head against her and kissed +him on the forehead: + +"And I, I thank you too!" she whispered, rapturously. + +He was still; and she held him fast in her embrace. + +"I thank you," she said, "for teaching me this and how to be happy as +we are and no otherwise. You see, when I still lived and was human, +when I was a woman, I thought that I had lived before I met you, for I +had had a husband and I had children of whom I was very fond. But from +you I first learnt to live, to live without egoism and without desire; +I learnt that from you this evening or ... this day, which is it? You +have given me life and happiness and everything. And I thank you, +I thank you! You see, you are so great and so strong and so clear +and you have borne me towards your own happiness, which should also +be mine, but it was so far above me that, without you, I should never +have attained it! For there was a barrier for me which did not exist +for you. You see, when I was still human"--and she laughed, clasping +him more tightly--"I had a sister; and she too felt that there was +a barrier between her happiness and herself; and she felt that she +could not surmount this barrier and was so unhappy because of it that +she feared lest she should go mad. But I, I do not know: I dreamed, +I thought, I hoped, I waited, oh, I waited; and then you came; and you +made me understand at once that you could be no man, no husband for me, +but that you could be more for me: my angel, O my deliverer, who would +take me in his arms and bear me over the barrier into his own heaven, +where he himself was god, and make me his Madonna! Oh, I thank you, +I thank you! I do not know how to thank you; I can only say that I +love you, that I adore you, that I lay myself at your feet. Remain +as you are and let me adore you, while you kneel where you are. I may +adore you, may I not, while you yourself are kneeling? You see, I too +must confess, as you used to do," she continued, for now she could +not but confess. "I have not always been straightforward with you; +I have sometimes pretended to be the Madonna, knowing all the time +that I was but an ordinary woman, a woman who frankly loved you. But +I deceived you for your own happiness, did I not? You wished me so, +you were happy when I was so and no otherwise. And now, now too you +must forgive me, because now I need no longer pretend, because that is +past and has died away, because I myself have died away from myself, +because now I am no longer a woman, no longer human for myself, but +only what you wish me to be: a Madonna and your creature, an atom of +your own essence and divinity. So will you forgive me the past? May +I thank you for my happiness, for my heaven, my light, O my master, +for my joy, my great, my immeasurable joy?" + +He rose and sat beside her, taking her gently in his arms: + +"Are you happy?" he asked. + +"Yes," she said, laying her head on his shoulder in a giddiness of +light. "And you?" + +"Yes," he answered; and he asked again, "And do you desire ... nothing +more?" + +"No, nothing!" she stammered. "I want nothing but this, nothing but +what is mine, oh, nothing, nothing more!" + +"Swear it to me ... by something sacred!" + +"I swear it to you ... by yourself!" she declared. + +He pressed her head to his shoulder again. He smiled; and she did +not see that there was sadness in his laugh, for she was blinded +with light. + + + + +5 + +They were long silent, sitting there. She remembered having said +many things, she no longer knew what. About her she saw that it was +dark, with only that pearl-grey twilight of stars above their heads, +between the black boughs. She felt that she was lying with her head +on his shoulder; she heard his breath. A sort of chill crept down +her shoulders, notwithstanding the warmth of his embrace; she drew +the lace closer about her throat and felt that the bench on which +they sat was moist with dew. + +"I thank you, I love you so, you make me so happy," she repeated. + +He was silent; he pressed her to him very gently, with sheer +tenderness. Her last words still sounded in her ears after she had +spoken them. Then she was bound to acknowledge to herself that they +had not been spontaneous, like all that she had told him before, as +he knelt before her with his head at her breast. She had spoken them +to break the silence: formerly that silence had never troubled her; +why should it now? + +"Come!" he said gently; and even yet she did not hear the sadness of +his voice, in this single word. + +They rose and walked on. It came to him that it was late, that they +must return by the same path; beyond that, his thoughts were sorrowful +with many things which he could not have expressed; a poor twilight +had come about him, after the blinding light of their heaven of but +now. And he had to be cautious: it was very dark here; and he could +only just see the path, lying very pale and undecided at their feet; +they brushed against the trunks of the trees as they passed. + +"I can see nothing," said Cecile, laughing. "Can you see the way?" + +"Rely upon me: I can see quite well in the dark," he replied. "I have +eyes like a lynx...." + +Step by step they went on and she felt a sweet joy in being guided +by him; she clung close to his arm, saying laughingly that she was +afraid and that she would be terrified if he were suddenly to leave +hold of her. + +"And suppose I were suddenly to run away and leave you alone?" said +Quaerts, jestingly. + +She laughed; she besought him with a laugh not to do so. Then she +was silent, angry with herself for laughing; a burden of sadness +bore her down because of her jesting and laughter. She felt as if +she were unworthy of that into which, in radiant light, she had just +been received. + +And he too was filled with sadness: the sadness of having to lead +her through the dark, by invisible paths, past rows of invisible +tree-trunks which might graze and wound her; of having to lead her +through a dark wood, through a black sea, through an ink-dark sphere, +when they were returning from a heaven where all had been light and +all happiness, without sadness or darkness. + +And so they were silent in that sadness, until they reached the +highroad, the old Scheveningen Road. + +They approached the villa. A tram went by; two or three people passed +on foot; it was a fine evening. He brought her home and waited until +the door opened to his ring. The door remained unopened; meantime he +pressed her hand tightly and hurt her a little, involuntarily. Greta +must have fallen asleep, she thought: + +"Ring again, would you?" + +He rang again, louder this time; after a moment, the door opened. She +gave him her hand once more, with a smile. + +"Good-night, mevrouw," he said, taking her fingers respectfully and +raising his hat. + +Now, now she could hear the sound of his voice, with its note of +sadness.... + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +1 + +Then she knew, next day, when she sat alone, wrapped in reflection, +that the sphere of happiness, the highest and brightest, may not be +trod; that it may only beam upon us as a sun; and that we may not +enter into it, into the sacred sun-centre. They had done that.... + +Listless she sat, with her children by her side, Christie looking pale +and languid. Yes, she spoiled them; but how could she change herself? + +Weeks passed; and Cecile heard nothing from Quaerts. It was always +so: after he had been with her, weeks would drag by without her ever +seeing him. For he was much too happy with her, it was more than he +could bear. He looked upon her society as a rare pleasure to be very +jealously indulged. And she, she loved him simply, with the innermost +essence of her soul, loved him frankly, as a woman loves a man.... She +always wanted him, every day, every hour, at every pulse of her life. + +Then she met him by chance, at Scheveningen, where she had gone +one evening with Amelie and Suzette. Then once again at a reception +at Mrs. Hoze's. He seemed shy with her; and a certain pride in her +kept her from asking him to call. Yes, something was changed in what +had been woven between them. But she suffered sorely, suffered also +because of that foolish pride, because she had not humbly begged him +to come to her. Was he not her god? Whatever he did was good. + +So she did not see him for weeks and weeks. Life went on: each day +she had her little occupations, in her household, with her children; +Mrs. Hoze reproached her for her withdrawal from society and she +began to think more about her friends, to please Mrs. Hoze, who had +asked this of her. There were flashes in her memory; in those flashes +she saw the dinner-party, their conversations and walks, all her love +for him, all his reverence for her whom he called Madonna; their last +evening of light and ecstasy. Then she smiled; and the smile itself +beamed over her anguish, her anguish in that she no longer saw him, +in that she felt proud and cherished a little inward bitterness. Yet +all things must be well, as he wished them to be. + +Oh, the evenings, the summer evenings, cooling after the warm days, +the evenings when she sat alone, staring out from her room, where +the onyx lamp burnt with a subdued flame, staring out of the open +windows at the trams which, with their tinkling bells, came and went to +Scheveningen, full, full of people! Waiting, the endless long waiting, +evening after evening in solitude, after the children had gone to +bed! Waiting, when she simply sat still, staring fixedly before +her, looking at the trams, the tedious, everlasting trams! Where +was her modulated joy of dreaming happiness? And where, where was +her radiant happiness? Where was her struggle within herself between +what she was and what he saw in her? This struggle no longer existed, +this struggle also had been overcome; she no longer felt the force +of passion; she only longed to see him come as he had always come, +as he no longer came. Why did he not come? Happiness palled; people +were talking about them.... It was not right that they should see +much of each other--he had said so the evening before that highest +happiness--not good for him and not good for her. + +So she sat and thought; and great silent tears fell from her eyes, +for she knew that, though he remained away partly for his own sake, +it was above all for hers that he did not come. What had she not +said to him that evening on the bench in the Woods, when her arms +were about his neck! Oh, she should have been silent, she felt it +now! She should not have uttered her rapture, but have enjoyed it +secretly within herself; she should have let him utter himself: she +herself should have remained his Madonna. But she had been too full, +too happy; and in that over-brimming happiness she had been unable +to be other than true and clear as a bright mirror. + +He had glanced into her and read her entirely: she knew that, she +was certain of it. + +He knew now in what manner she loved him; she herself had revealed it +to him. But, at the same time, she had made known to him that this +was all past, that she was now what he wished her to be. And this +had been true then, clear at that time and true.... But now? Does +ecstasy endure only for one moment and did he know it? Did he know +that her soul's flight had reached its limit and must now descend +again to a commoner sphere? Did he know that she loved him again now, +quite ordinarily, with all her being, wholly and entirely, no longer +as widely as the heavens, only as widely as her arms could reach out +and embrace? And could he not return this love, this so petty love +of hers, and was that why he did not come to her? + + + + +2 + +Then she received his letter: + +"Forgive me if I put off from day to day coming to see you; forgive +me if even to-day I cannot decide to come and if I write to you +instead. Forgive me if I even venture to ask you whether it may +not be necessary that we see each other no more. If I hurt you and +offend you, if I--which may God forbid--cause you pain, forgive me, +forgive me! Perhaps I procrastinated a little from indecision, but +much more because I considered that I had no other choice. + +"There has been between our two lives, between our two souls, a +rare moment of happiness which was a special boon, a special grace +of heaven. Do you not think so too? Oh, if only I had the words to +tell you how grateful I am in my innermost soul for that happiness! If +later I ever look back upon my life, I shall always see that happiness +gleaming in between the ugliness and the blackness, like a star of +light. We received it as such, as a gift of light. And I venture to +ask you if that gift is not a thing for you and me to keep sacred? + +"Can we do that if I continue to see you? You, yes, I have no doubt +of you: you will be strong to keep it sacred, our sacred happiness, +especially because you have already had your struggle, as you confided +to me on that sacred evening. But I, can I too be strong, especially +now that I know that you have been through the struggle? I doubt +myself, I doubt my own force; I am afraid of myself. There is cruelty +in me, a love of destruction, something of a savage. As a boy I took +pleasure in destroying beautiful things, in breaking and soiling +them. The other day, Jules brought me some roses to my room; in the +evening, as I sat alone, thinking of you and of our happiness--yes, at +that very moment--my fingers began to fumble with a rose whose petals +were loose; and, when I saw that one rose dispetalled, there came a +cruel frenzy within me to tear and destroy them all; and I rumpled +every one of them. I only give you a small instance, because I do +not wish to give you larger instances, from vanity, lest you should +know how bad I am. I am afraid of myself. If I saw you again and +again and yet again, what should I begin to feel and think and wish, +unconsciously? Which would be the stronger, my soul or the beast that +is in me? Forgive me for laying bare my dread before you and do not +despise me for it. Up to the present I have not attempted a struggle, +in the sacred world of our happiness. I saw you, I saw you often before +I knew you; I guessed you as you were; I was permitted to speak to you; +it was given me to love you with my soul alone: I beseech you, let it +remain so. Let me continue to keep my happiness like this, to keep it +sacred, a thousand times sacred. I think it worth while to have lived, +now that I have known that: happiness, the highest. And I am afraid of +the struggle which would probably come and pollute that sacred thing. + +"Will you believe me when I swear to you that I have reflected deeply +on all this? Will you believe me when I swear to you that I suffer at +the thought of never being permitted to see you again? And, above all, +will you forgive me when I swear to you that I am acting in this way +because I think that I am doing right? Oh, I am grateful to you and +I love you as a soul of light alone, of nothing but light! + +"Perhaps I am wrong to send you this letter. I do not know. Perhaps +presently I will tear up what I have written...." + +Yet he had sent her the letter. + +There was great bitterness within her. She had struggled once, +had conquered herself and, in a sacred moment, had confessed both +struggle and conquest; she knew that fate had compelled her to do so; +she now knew what she would lose through her confession. For a short +moment, a single evening perhaps, she had been worthy of her god and +his equal. Now she was so no longer; for this reason also she felt +bitter. And she felt bitterest of all because the thought dared to +rise within her: + +"A god! Is he a god? Is a god afraid of the struggle?" + +Then her threefold bitterness changed to despair, black despair, a +night which her eyes sought to penetrate in order to see something +where they saw nothing, nothing; and she moaned low and wrung her +hands, sinking into a heap before the window and staring at the trams +which, with the tinkling of their bells, ran pitilessly to and fro. + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +She shut herself up; she saw little of her children; she told her +friends that she was ill. She was at home to no visitors. She guessed +intuitively that people in their circles were speaking of Quaerts and +herself. Life hung dull about her in a closely-woven web of tiresome, +tedious meshes; and she remained motionless in her corner, to avoid +entangling herself in those meshes. Once Jules forced his way to her; +he went upstairs, in spite of Greta's protests; he sought her in the +little boudoir and, not finding her, went resolutely to her bedroom. He +knocked without receiving a reply, but entered nevertheless. The room +was half in darkness, for she kept the blinds lowered; in the shadow +of the canopy which rose above the bedstead, with its hangings of +old-blue brocade, Cecile lay sleeping. Her tea-gown was open over +her breast; the train trailed from the bed and lay creased over the +carpet; her hair spread loosely over the pillows; one of her hands +was clutching nervously at the tulle bed-curtains. + +"Auntie!" cried Jules. "Auntie!" + +He shook her by the arm; and she woke heavily, with heavy, blue-girt +eyes. She did not recognize him at first and thought that he was +little Dolf. + +"It's me, Auntie; Jules...." + +She knew him now, asked how he came there, what was the matter and +if he did not know that she was ill? + +"I knew, but I wanted to speak to you. I came to speak to you about +... him...." + +"Him?" + +"About Taco. He asked me to tell you. He couldn't write to you, he +said. He is going on a long journey with his friend from Brussels; +he will be away a long time and he would like ... he would like to +take leave of you." + +"To take leave?" + +"Yes; and he told me to ask you if he might see you once more?" + +She had half-raised herself and was looking at Jules with a vacant +air. In an instant the memory ran through her brain of the long look +which Jules had directed on her so strangely when she saw Quaerts +for the first time and spoke to him coolly and distantly: + +"Have you many relations in The Hague?... You have no occupation, +I believe?... Sport?... Oh!..." + +Then came the memory of Jules playing the piano, of Rubinstein's +Romance, of the ecstasy of his fantasia: the glittering rainbows and +the souls turning to angels. + +"To take leave?" she repeated. + +Jules nodded: + +"Yes, Auntie, he is going away for ever so long." + +He could have shed tears himself and there were tears in his voice, +but he would not give way and his eyes merely grew moist. + +"He told me to ask you," he repeated, with difficulty. + +"If he can come and take leave?" + +"Yes, Auntie." + +She made no reply, but lay staring before her. An emptiness began +to stretch before her, in endless vistas. It was a shadowy image of +their evening of rapture, but no light beamed out of the shadow. + +"Emptiness!" she muttered through her closed lips. + +"What, Auntie?" + +She would have liked to ask Jules whether he was still, as formerly, +afraid of the emptiness within himself; but a gentleness of pity, a +soft feeling, a sweetening of the bitterness which filled her being, +stayed her. + +"To take leave?" she repeated, with a smile of melancholy; and the +big tears fell heavily, drop by drop, upon her fingers wrung together. + +"Yes, Auntie...." + +He could no longer restrain himself: a single sob convulsed his throat, +but he gave a cough to conceal it. Cecile threw her arm round his neck: + +"You are very fond of ... Taco, are you not?" she asked; and it struck +her that this was the first time that she had pronounced the name, +for she had never called Quaerts by it: she had never called him by +any name. + +He did not answer at first, but nestled in her arm, in her embrace, +and began to cry: + +"Yes, I can't tell you how fond I am of him," he said. + +"I know," she said; and she thought of the rainbows and the angels: +he had played as out of her own soul. + +"May he come?" asked Jules, loyally remembering his instructions. + +"Yes." + +"He asks if he might come this evening?" + +"Very well." + +"Auntie, he is going away, because of ... because of ..." + +"Because of what, Jules?" + +"Because of you: because you don't like him and will not marry +him! Mamma says so...." + +She made no reply; she lay sobbing, with her head against Jules' head. + +"Is it true, Auntie? No, it is not true, is it?..." + +"No." + +"Why then?" + +She raised herself suddenly, conquering herself, and looked at him +fixedly: + +"He is going away because he must, Jules. I cannot tell you why. But +what he does is right. All that he does is right." + +The boy looked at her, motionless, with large wet eyes, full of +astonishment: + +"Is right?" he repeated. + +"Yes. He is better than any one of us. If you go on loving him, Jules, +it will bring you happiness, even if ... if you never see him again." + +"Do you think so?" he asked. "Does he bring happiness? Even in that +case?..." + +"Even in that case." + +She listened to her own words as she spoke: it was to her as if another +were speaking, another who consoled not only Jules but herself as +well and who would perhaps give her the strength to take leave of +Taco in the manner which would be best, without despair. + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +1 + +"So you are going on a long journey?" she asked. + +He sat facing her, motionless, with anguish on his face. Outwardly +she was very calm, only there was a sadness in her look and in her +voice. In her white dress, with the girdle falling before her feet, +she lay back among the three pillows of the rose-moire sofa; the tips +of her little slippers were buried in the white sheepskin rug. On the +table before her lay a great bouquet of loose roses, pink, white and +yellow, bound together with a broad riband. He had brought them for +her and she had not yet placed them. There was a great calm about her; +the exquisite atmosphere of the boudoir seemed unchanged. + +"Tell me, am I not paining you severely?" he asked, with the anguish +in his eyes, the eyes which she now knew so well. + +She smiled: + +"No," she said. "I will be honest with you. I have suffered, but I +suffer no longer. I have struggled with myself for the second time +and I have conquered myself. Will you believe me?" + +"If you knew the remorse that I feel...." + +She rose and went to him: + +"What for?" she asked, in a clear voice. "Because you read me and +gave me happiness?" + +"Did I?" + +"Have you forgotten?" + +"No," he said, "but I thought...." + +"What?" + +"I don't know; I thought that you would ... would suffer so ... and +I ... I cursed myself!..." + +She shook her head gently, with smiling disapproval: + +"For shame!" she said. "Do not blaspheme!..." + +"Can you forgive me?" + +"I have nothing to forgive. Listen to me. Swear to me that you believe +me, that you believe that you have given me happiness and that I am +not suffering." + +"I ... I swear." + +"I trust that you are not swearing this merely to satisfy my wish." + +"You have been the highest thing in my life," he said, gently. + +A rapture shot through her soul. + +"Tell me only...." she began. + +"What?" + +"Tell me if you believe that I, I, I ... shall always remain the +highest thing in your life." + +She stood before him, tall, in her clinging white. She seemed to shed +radiance; never had he seen her so beautiful. + +"I am certain of that," he said. "Certain, oh, certain!... My God, +how can I convey the certainty of it to you?" + +"But I believe you, I believe you!" she exclaimed. + +She laughed a laugh of rapture. In her soul a sun seemed to be shooting +forth rays on every side. She placed her arm tenderly about his neck +and kissed his forehead with a chaste caress. + +For one moment he seemed to forget everything. He too rose, took her +in his arms, almost savagely, and clasped her suddenly to him, as if +he were about to crush her against his breast. She just caught sight +of his sad eyes; then she saw nothing more, blinded by the kisses +of his mouth, which scorched her whole face as though with sparks of +fire. With the sun-rapture of her soul was mingled a bliss of earth, +a yielding to the violence of his embrace. But the thought flashed +across her of what she would lose if she yielded. She released herself, +put him away and said: + +"And now ... go." + +He felt stunned; he understood that he had no choice: + +"Yes, yes, I am going," he said. "I may write to you, may I not?" + +She nodded yes, with her smile: + +"Write to me, I shall write to you too," she said. "Let me always +hear from you...." + +"Then these are not to be the last words between us? This ... this +... is not the end?" + +"No." + +"Thank you. Good-bye, mevrouw, good-bye ... Cecile. Ah, if you knew +what this moment costs me!" + +"It must be. It cannot be otherwise. Go, go. You must go. Do go...." + +She gave him her hand again, for the last time. A moment later he +was gone. + + + + +2 + +She looked about her strangely, with bewildered eyes, with hands +locked together: + +"Go, go...." she repeated, like one raving. + +Then she noticed the roses. With something like a faint scream she +sank down before the little table and buried her face in his gift, +until the thorns wounded her face. The pain--two drops of blood which +fell from her forehead--brought her back to her senses. Standing +before the Venetian mirror hanging over her writing-table, she wiped +away the red spots with her handkerchief. + +"Happiness!" she stammered to herself. "His happiness! The highest +thing in his life! So he knew happiness, though short it was. But now +... now he suffers, now he will suffer again, as he did before. The +remembrance of happiness cannot do everything. Ah, if it could only +do that, then everything would be well, everything!... I wish for +nothing more, I have had my life, my own life, my own happiness; I +now have my children; I now belong to them. To him I must no longer +be anything...." + +She turned away from the mirror and sat down on the settee, as though +tired with a great space traversed, and she closed her eyes, as though +blinded with too great a light. She folded her hands together, like +one in prayer; her face beamed in its fatigue, from smile to smile. + +"Happiness!" she repeated, faltering between her smiles. "The highest +thing in his life! O my God, happiness! I thank Thee, O God, I thank +Thee!..." + + + THE END + + + + + + + +NOTES + + +[1] Two military staff-colleges in Holland and Java respectively. + +[2] The leading club at The Hague. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Ecstasy: A Study of Happiness, by Louis Couperus + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ECSTASY: A STUDY OF HAPPINESS *** + +***** This file should be named 37770.txt or 37770.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/7/7/37770/ + +Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project +Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously +made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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