Yes, she had longed for them all, for her home and for Holland! Oh, the
passionate longing of those last years, ever and ever more passionate!
Oh, how lonely she had been, and how she had pined for Holland, for the
Hague, for her relations! During all those years, she had been an
outcast from her home, an exile, as it were, during all those long,
hungry years. Twenty years she had spent abroad! For five of them she
had been married to De Staffelaer, the five years in Rome, and then ...
oh, the one mistake of her life! Ah, how she had pined since that
mistake, incessantly!... And, after the child was born, she had pined
incessantly.... Yes, for thirteen years she had pined! During all that
time, she had seen her mother twice, for a couple of days, because
travelling was such an effort for Mamma, because she herself dared not
go to the Hague, which was so near, so near!
Her brothers, her sisters, her whole family had denied her all that
time, had never been able to forgive the scandal which she had caused,
the blot which she had cast on their name....
She was a girl of twenty-one when she married De Staffelaer. He was an
intimate friend of Papa's: they had been at the University together and
belonged to the same club. Now De Staffelaer was Netherlands minister at
Rome: a good-looking, hale old man; fairly well-suited to his post: not
a political genius, like Papa, she thought; but still full of qualities,
as Papa had always said. She was Papa's favourite; and he had thought it
so pleasant, was proud that De Staffelaer had just fallen in love with
her, like a young man, and been unable to keep away from the
Alexanderstraat when he came to Holland, to the Hague, once a year, on
leave. She remembered Papa's smile when he talked to her about De
Staffelaer, hinting at what might happen.... They had then been living
for five years at the Hague, after Papa had been governor-general for
five years.... She remembered the viceregal period--three years of her
girlhood from twelve to seventeen--remembered the grandeur of it all:
the palaces at Batavia and Buitenzorg; their country-house at Tjipanas;
the balls at which she danced, young as she was; the races; the
aides-de-camp; the great gold _pajong_:[7] all the tropical grandeur and
semi-royalty of a great colonial governorship.... After that, at the
Hague, a quieter time, but still their crowded receptions, their great
dinners to Indian and home celebrities; Bertha back from India, with Van
Naghel; she herself presented at Court.... She loved that life and, from
the time when she was quite a young girl, had known nothing but glamour
around her.... Papa, too, breathed in that element of grandeur: a man of
great political capacity, as she thought, never realizing that Papa had
merely risen through tact; through mediocrity; through a certain
opportune vagueness in his political creed, which was curved and shaded
with every half-curve and half-shade that the needs of the moment might
dictate; through good-breeding, through the eloquence of his
meaningless, easy-flowing sentences, full of the high-sounding
commonplaces of the day; through his suavity and suppleness, his smiling
amiability, all the personal charm of him. She had always seen her
father important; she saw him so still. And she herself, at that time,
longed for importance, for every sort of worldly vanity: she had it in
her blood. As a young girl, she loved brilliancy, titles; loved
spacious, well-lighted rooms, fine carriages; loved to see men in stars
and ribbons, ladies in court-dress; loved to curtsey very low before the
King and Queen: the little Princess Wilhelmina was then still a baby....
Thanks to De Staffelaer, their receptions were sometimes attended by
members of the _corps diplomatique_ and of that particular set at the
Hague which fastens on to the diplomatists: the little band of people
who, at the Hague, are stared and gaped at wherever they go, who talk
loudly at the opera, swaggering in all the arrogance of their smartness
and conceit, looking down upon all and everything that does not form
part of their own little set and encouraged in their blatant
self-assertion by the Hague public, with its flattering tribute of
open-mouthed curiosity. She did not see all this, especially as a young
girl: she thought it grand if a Spanish marquis or a German count, a
member of one of the legations, showed himself for ten minutes at her
parents' receptions; and, if Mrs. This or the Freule[8] That, of "the
set," came for only five minutes, Constance would brag about it, with an
assumption of indifference, for the next three months. Vanity was born
in her blood and had been nourished at Batavia and Buitenzorg, where she
was made much of as the young daughter of the governor-general. Now, at
the Hague, full-fledged, she struggled, above all, to be invited to the
drawing-rooms of "the set." It was very difficult, though Bertha and she
had been presented at Court, though her parents still had ever so many
connections. She was constantly encountering coldness on the part of
"the set," coupled with great incivility, which she had to swallow; but
she had some of Papa's tact and she went on struggling: she left cards
on Mrs. This to all eternity, with a snobbishness for which she came to
blush later; she bowed and talked pleasantly, to all eternity, to the
Freule That, receiving nothing in return but a snub. She had found that
the Hague was not the same as Batavia; that, though you had been the
highest personage at Batavia, you were not so easily admitted into that
very high circle of the Hague, "the set." ...
Now, she laughed softly at all this, after that first family-evening,
sitting in her room at the hotel, while her boy slept.... Yes, Papa had
always smiled because De Staffelaer was so much in love with her; and
she herself had thought it delicious to be wooed by this diplomatist,
with his ribbons and stars, by this smiling, courtly man of sixty, who
did not look a day more than fifty. And, when he asked Papa for her
hand, she accepted him, very glad and happy, a little flushed and
triumphant, rather inclined to preen herself in the delectable
atmosphere of congratulation; she was now, thanks to De Staffelaer,
decidedly a member of "the set" and, at the same time, did not need "the
set" so very much, now that she was going to Rome, to spend her life in
circles such as that of the Quirinal and the "white" Roman world.... She
had attained her aim. She had a charming husband, not young, but none
the less passionately in love with her and vain, in his turn, of his
young and pretty wife. She had a title. She had money enough, even
though De Staffelaer's affairs were somewhat involved. She found the
Court balls at Rome more splendid than the routs at the Hague; she was
introduced to all sorts of great names. The Italian aristocracy, it is
true, was even more exclusive than that of the Hague; but she moved in a
brilliant circle of diplomatists and foreigners. Only, she was struck by
the fact that, abroad, the members of the _corps diplomatique_ were not
stared at so much as in the opera at the Hague or on the terrace at
Scheveningen. It almost annoyed her: she would have liked to be stared
at in her turn. But, in the society of a big capital like Rome, the wife
of the Netherlands minister, even though she was young and pretty and
well-dressed, was not so important a person as the Marquesa This, of the
Spanish Legation, or Mrs. This or the Freule That, of "the set," was at
the Hague. People did not stare at her, in Rome; and this was almost a
disappointment.... Besides, her increasing and often wounded vanity left
a certain void within her, a sense of boredom. De Staffelaer, ever
courtly, pleasant and in love, with the apprehensive love of an old man
for the young wife whom he is afraid lest he should soon cease to
attract, ended by irritating her and upsetting her nerves....
But this, at the time, was nothing more--nor anything more serious--than
boredom and vague discontent.... Since then, life had set its mark on
Constance. Often now, as a woman of forty-two, she felt a dull
melancholy in pondering on her life; she let her life, one woman's life,
glide past her gaze once more; she began with her childish years in
India; saw once more the splendour and grandeur of Buitenzorg;
criticized her own vanity during her girlhood at the Hague; saw her
marriage as the great mistake of her life; saw, as the second,
irrevocable mistake of her life, all that had happened with Van der
Welcke.... Her life had been warped beyond remedy. She had gone from
vanity to wantonness, to reckless play-acting with that life, big with
fate, which she had first seen only as a dazzling reflection, a
reflection of mirrors, candles, satin, jewels, titles and orders: the
setting of the play; a little flirtation, a little jesting--not even
always witty--with smart men of the world, refined and elegant in their
dress-clothes, who assumed airs of mysterious importance about the great
affairs of kings and countries, affairs which were settled by just two
or three supermen in Berlin, London or St. Petersburg, while most of the
others, the exquisites, gave weighty decisions on a matter of ceremony,
a visit, a card with or without the corner turned down, a little matter
of etiquette, trivialities around which their whole existence and that
of their wives revolved. She, too, had given weighty decisions in all
these matters: a three weeks' mourning for this royal highness; an eight
days' mourning--very light, with a touch of white--for that royal
highness; and her life was so full of all this ado about nothing that
she had hardly had time to reflect. In Rome, as the wife of the
Netherlands minister, with some pretensions to lead the cosmopolitan
circle which here and there touched upon that of the exclusive Roman
aristocracy, she was so busy with her hairdresser and her tailor, with
shopping in the morning, half-a-dozen visits and a charity _matinée_ in
the afternoon, a Court ball at night, followed by a little supper: so
busy that it affected her health and often left her tired and pale. But
she had grudged none of it, so long as she saw her name mentioned with
the others in the newspapers. And, when, in the midst of all this empty
glamour, in the midst of all this empty bustle, she met Van der Welcke,
the new young secretary of the Netherlands Legation, and, of course, saw
him nearly every day, she had allowed him to make love to her, just
because a couple of her friends declared that he was making love to her
and because a serious flirtation, a passion, formed part of the game, as
it were. And then, in very elegant language, she had complained to Van
der Welcke of the void in her life and said all sorts of fine things
about soul-hunger and life-weariness, without knowing anything about
soul-hunger or life-weariness and remembering that she had to go to her
dressmaker, that afternoon, and to two receptions and that she had her
own reception in the evening. Then she parroted bits out of a French
novel, acted a scene or two after the same model, thinking it time to
bring a little literature into her life. He, a good-looking
fellow--short and well-knit, sturdy without being clumsy, with a pair of
boyish blue eyes, a shapely, round head with lightly-curling, short,
brown hair, like a head of Hermes, and still exceedingly young--thought
that it would look well for him to make a little love to his chief's
wife, without going any farther, of course.... But it was impossible for
them to play with fire unscathed, in an atmosphere like that of Rome.
They saw so many French novels acted around them that, quite
involuntarily, they began to feel not only like a modern hero and
heroine of fiction or a pair of fashionable actors, but what they were:
a young man and a young woman; she the wife of a man old enough to be
her father. What had started with a compliment and a laugh--because of
what her friends had told her--led to a warmer pressure of the hand, not
once but many times, the abandonment of a waltz, a kiss and the rest....
They both glided towards sin gradually, as though inevitably. She was at
first greatly surprised at herself and annoyed and, for the first time
in her life, felt the danger of playing with life ... especially when
she, who had never loved, fell in love with the man who had acted with
her in this drawing-room comedy and turned it to earnest. In her soul,
choked with vanity and false glamour, one genuine emotion now sprang up:
she fell in love with Van der Welcke. She did not love him for any
quality of soul or heart or temperament, but she loved him all the same,
loved him as a young woman loves a young man, with all the blind impulse
of her womanhood. Her feeling for him was primitive and simple, but it
was whole-souled and true. Until now, she had cared for nothing but Mrs.
This or Freule That, of "the set;" the ceremonial splendour of the
Court; dinners, dresses, decorations; and all sorts of important matters
concerning visits and visiting-cards. Now, she cared for a human being,
a man, not for the sake of a wedding-ceremony, or stars and ribbons, or
visits of congratulation, but simply so that she might hold him in her
arms. She felt something real blossoming within her; and the feeling was
so strange to her that it made her anxious and unhappy. Their love was
anxious, their love became unhappy, as though it had a foreboding of all
their hidden fate. They both heard it, the heavy footfall of their fate.
It was as though, at their meetings, in their most passionate embraces,
they listened outside to the rustle of one spying on them ... and to
that heavy footfall of their fate. And, from the French novel, with its
seasoned intrigue that seemed to suit them so well, their love turned
into the real tragedy of their lives. She had envious enemies, jealous
because she had given a finer dinner than they, jealous of a handsomer
dress. De Staffelaer was first warned by anonymous letters. Then a
footman whom he had occasion to rebuke flung it in his face that mevrouw
was carrying on with meneer the secretary.... He traced their place of
assignation. He found Van der Welcke there, while Constance had just
time to escape down a back staircase. Amid this damning confusion, Van
der Welcke's denial was tantamount to a confession....
Of course, the scandal was spread abroad at once, in Holland as well as
in Rome. A divorce followed. Constance was condemned by her family and
cast out, left as it were homeless.... She always fancied that the
scandal had been Papa's death: a year later, he pined away, died,
slowly, from the effects of a stroke, broken-hearted over the stain
which his favourite daughter had cast upon all the blameless decorum of
the aristocrat and statesman that he was. She was left as it were
homeless, with a small allowance from De Staffelaer, which she refused
as soon as she was able to do without it....
Then she saw Van der Welcke come to her, to Florence, where she had, so
to speak, taken sanctuary. But he did not come to her of his own accord;
he came sent, forced to go, by his father. For his father would not
suffer him to go his own way and leave this woman to her misery. As she
had given herself to him, his father ordered him, in his turn, to give
up all to her: his name and his career.
Henri van der Welcke had been brought up, from childhood, to yield
unquestioning obedience to his parents. His father and mother were both
descended from those strict, religious, doughty, aristocratic Dutch
families to which the Hague "set" is a thorn in the flesh; and they had
judged the matter thus, with rigid and scrupulous justice, as a duty
before God and man. And their heir, at this, the supreme moment of his
life, once more showed himself a dutiful son. He obeyed his parents'
command. He resigned his post, broke off his young career. He went to
Constance, telling her that his parents had sent him; but, in their
mutual misery, they still seemed to find some love for each other in
what remained of their first passion. She was too desperate to indulge
in long reflection or to decline the way of escape which he offered her.
As they could not be married at once by Dutch law, they were married in
London as soon as it was possible. Constance wrote to Henri's parents to
express her gratitude; but they did not answer her letter. They refused
to know her, refused to see her. They had sacrificed their son to her,
because they thought it their duty before God; and they had made this
heavy sacrifice, because they were religious people, honest, righteous
people; but their hearts were bitter against Constance: they would never
forgive her the sacrifice which their honesty, their righteousness had
required of them, the parents....
Henri and Constance had lived in England, travelled in Italy and ended
by settling down in Brussels. Their son was born; the years passed.
Slowly, in Brussels, they made acquaintances, made friends; and, in the
course of years, those acquaintances and friends dispersed. Twice, amid
heavy emotion, they had seen Mamma van Lowe in Brussels for a couple of
days at a time: the other members of the family never. The lonely years
dragged on. They both came to look upon their lives as one great
mistake. Constance' vanity, moreover, resented the dull existence which
they led; Henri, who was four years younger than his wife, was for ever
regretting that he had sacrificed his future to this woman at his
parents' behest. They were fettered to each other in the narrow prison
of marriage. Passion dead, the despairing illusion of love killed, they
had never been able to accommodate themselves to each other; and without
mutual accommodation there is no happiness in marriage. Whatever they
said or thought or did led to discord. Their lives were never in step,
but stumbled and shambled and shuffled along. Every word spoken by the
one was an offence to the other: they could not endure each other's
going and coming. Latterly, they could not speak but their speech caused
a quarrel. Between them stood the child, still the child of their love.
But the Child did not unite them, was a cause of jealousy to both. They
grudged each other their offspring. He could not bear to see his son in
her arms; she could not bear to see her boy on his knee. He turned pale
when she kissed the boy; she cried with envy when he took him for a
walk. Yet they did not think of a separation, deeming the thought
ridiculous, not so much for the world as, above all, for themselves.
They would continue to bear their fetters together, until their death,
in hatred.
The intolerable nature of their existence was enough to give Constance a
feeling of home-sickness for Holland. The last few years in Brussels,
now that their acquaintances were scattered, had been so lonely, so
melancholy, so forlorn, so bitter, so full of dislike, hatred, envy of
Henri, that she yearned for consolation, for some sort of love that
would come to her with open arms and understand and pity her. There were
days when she did not utter a word, after a scene with Henri, until
Adriaan threw his arms about her, while she burst out sobbing on his
childish breast. The boy, in other respects a sturdy lad, had his nerves
so much shaken by this open conflict between his parents that he often
fell ill.
Then both Henri and Constance, greatly alarmed, would suggest parting
from Adriaan, for the boy's own good, so that he might not be a witness
to their inevitable disputes. But they were both too weak. In their
intolerable life Adriaan was the only alleviation. And neither of them
had ever been able to resolve upon this parting; both merely promised
themselves to exercise restraint in future, so that the boy might not
suffer....
Gradually, Constance had talked more and more about Holland, confessed
that she was yearning for all those whom she had left behind. She longed
for them all: her mother, her brothers, her sisters. She yearned for
affection, for family-affection, for the fostering warmth and love and
sympathy of a large circle of relations, who would show her the kindness
which she had known of old, at Buitenzorg, at the Hague. And Van der
Welcke also began to feel that strange nostalgia which urges a man
towards the land of his birth, of his own tongue, of his kindred. Weary
of living abroad, he fell in with Constance' view, really because of a
chance word from Addie, who also often had the word Holland on his lips;
the father was now thinking of his child's future.... But they must
first learn how the family would receive them. Van der Welcke wrote to
his parents, Constance to Mamma van Lowe. They wrote with all the
humility of exiles; once more asked for forgiveness, after those
fourteen years; said that they were longing to see their country again,
their parents, brothers, sisters, to enjoy the sweet happiness of living
where they would be at home. Both had felt the old inviolable bonds
drawing them towards Holland, as though there were something which they
needed before they could grow old and be a father and mother to their
son.... Henri's parents had not yet written, did not at once reply to
his question whether they could not forgive him now that those long,
long years were past, whether they would not receive his wife, who,
after all, was their daughter-in-law, who, after all, was the mother of
his son, their grandchild. But Mamma van Lowe had sent Constance a sweet
and loving letter, a letter which Constance had kissed, which had made
her sob with happiness. Mamma had written that her child was to come to
her, that all was forgiven, all forgotten, that the brothers and sisters
would receive her with open arms. And she had expressed her own delight,
as the old mother, who found it so difficult to get about, who disliked
travelling, though it was but a two or three hours' journey to Brussels,
and hated being so far from her child, for Constance was her child, in
spite of all. Then Constance could restrain herself no longer and,
without waiting for the letter from Henri's father and mother, had gone
on ahead with Adriaan. Henri remained behind to settle a few matters of
business: he was to follow in a week.
And Holland, yonder, so near and yet so long unattainable, was to them
as a land of promise, a land of peace, of happiness long-deferred, where
they would find, for themselves and for their son, all that of which
they had been starved for years and years: parents and relations, old
friends and acquaintances and, as the very essence of it all, that
fragrant Dutch atmosphere, so indescribable and yet, as they now
realized, craved for by their parched and famished souls. Both, as with
one thought, had suddenly, for all the discord of their lives, known as
a certainty, both for themselves and their son, that, to grow old and be
a father and mother to their boy, they must return to their country, to
which they were attached by those strange, mysterious and
long-unsuspected bonds which may be denied for years, but which end by
reasserting themselves, irrefragably, for ever and all time....
[7] Umbrella or parasol.
[8] The title borne by noblemen's unmarried daughters.