Ina d'Herbourg was waiting for them in the little house of her
son-in-law and daughter, Frits and Lily van Wely: Frits, a callow
little officer; Lily, a laughing, fair-haired little mother, up
again pluckily after her confinement. There were the two children,
Stefanus a year and Antoinetje a fortnight old; the monthly nurse,
fat and pompous; the maid-of-all-work busy with the little boy; the
twelve-o'clock lunch not cleaned away yet; a bustle of youth and young
life: one child crowing, the other screaming, the nurse hushing it and
filling the whole house with her swelling figure. The maid let the milk
catch, opened a window; there was a draught; and Ina cried:
"Jansje, what a draught you're making! Shut the window, shut the
window, here are Uncle and Aunt!..."
And Jansje, who knew that Uncle Anton and Aunt Stefanie were godfather
and godmother, flew to the door, leaving the milk to boil over,
forgetting to close the window, with the result that the old people
were received amidst a cold hurricane which made Aunt Stefanie, whose
throat was already irritated by Anton's smoke, cough still more and
mumble:
"It's not the thing, a draught like this; _such_ a draught!"
The fire which Jansje had lighted in the little drawing-room had
gone out again; and Lily and Frits, wishing above all to make things
pleasant for the old people, now brought them back again to the
dining-room, where Jansje, in her eagerness to clear the table, dropped
and broke a plate, whereupon exclamations from Jansje and reproaches
from Lily and despairing glances of Ina at her son-in-law Frits. No,
Lily did not get that slovenliness from her, for _she_ took after the
IJsselmondes and they were correct; Lily got it from the Derckszes. But
Frits now understood that he must be very civil to Uncle Anton, whom
he detested, while Lily, whom Uncle Anton always kissed at very great
length, loathed him, felt sick at the sight of him, for Lily also had
to make up to Uncle Anton, that being Mamma's orders. She had married
Frits without any money; but the young couple had very soon perceived
that money was not to be despised; and the only two from whom there was
a trifle to be expected were Aunt Stefanie and Uncle Anton.
The old man, after being dragged there by his sister against his will,
had recovered his good temper thanks to the lingering kiss which he had
given Lily and, with his fists like clods upon his knees, sat chuckling
and nodding in admiration when Nurse held up the yelling brat to him.
And, though he was jealous of young, vigorous people, he found an
emotion in his jealousy, found young, vigorous people pleasant to look
at and considered that that virile little Frits, that callow, stiff
little officer, might well make a good husband to his wife. He nodded
at Lily and then at Frits, to convey that he understood them, and Lily
and Frits smiled back vacuously. They did not understand him, but that
didn't matter: he guessed that they were still very much in love, even
though they had two brats; and he also guessed that they were keen
on his bit of money. Well, they were quite right from their point of
view; only he couldn't stand Ina, because, ever since D'Herbourg had
helped him in his trouble with the little laundry-girl, she treated him
with a kindly condescension, as the influential niece who had saved
her imprudent uncle from that _soesah_.[1] He grinned, seeing through
all that coaxing pretence and chuckling to himself that it was all
wasted, because he had no intention of leaving them his bit of money.
But he knew better than to let this out to Stefanie or any of them;
on the contrary, amid all the pretty things that were said to him, he
gloated over the gin-and-bitters which Frits so attentively set before
him, after helping him off--he wasn't feeling cold now, was he?--with
his great-coat. He thought the whole farce most diverting and laughed
pleasantly and benevolently, with the air of a good, kind uncle who was
so fond of the children, while he thought to himself:
"They sha'n't get one cent!"
And he chuckled so deliciously at the thought that he was quite
pleased to give the fat monthly nurse a couple of guilders. They were
all taken in--Aunt Stefanie, Ina and the young couple--when they saw
Uncle behaving so good-naturedly and so generously; they looked upon
him as hooked; and he left them in the illusion, which he so cleverly
saw through. What the devil, he thought, in a dull, gathering rage,
did he care about those young people? Hadn't they enough with their
youth and their two vigorous bodies, that they must go coveting his
few thousand guilders? And what did he care about that brat which
they had christened Antoinette after him? He had a horror of new-born
children, though he had sometimes thought children very nice when they
were just a few years older. Things misted before his eyes, but he
mastered himself in his dull rage and in his slimy thoughts and behaved
benevolently and genially as the well-off uncle and godfather who was
going to leave all his money to the brat.
"And Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor arrived yesterday," said Ina d'Herbourg,
with a suppressed sigh, for she looked upon the Indian relations as
unpresentable. "We said we'd call on them together to-day, didn't we,
Aunt Stefanie?"
"That'll save her a cab-fare," thought Anton Dercksz.
"Yes," said Lily, "we might as well be going on, don't you think so,
Uncle?"
"Certainly, dear."
"Frits'll come on presently, won't you, after barracks? I'll just go
and get on my things. I do think it so nice of you, Uncle Anton, to
come and have a look at the baby. I had begun to despair of your ever
coming, for you had promised me so long...."
"You see Uncle always keeps his promises, dear...."
He said it with the appearance of kindliness, put out his hand as she
passed, drew her to him and, as though under the softening influence
of the visit, gave her another long, lingering kiss. She shuddered and
hurried away. In the passage she met her husband, buckling on his sword.
"Don't let that filthy old scoundrel kiss you like that!" hissed Frits,
furiously.
"How can I help it? The brute makes me sick!..."
He went out, slamming the front-door, thinking that his young happiness
was already being defiled because they were hard up and had to
besmirch themselves in consequence. Ina, Uncle and Aunt waited in the
dining-room until Lily was ready.
"Uncle Daan must be very comfortably off," said Ina, with glittering
eyes. "Papa, who is bound to know, always refuses to talk about money
and wouldn't say how much he thought Uncle Daan had...."
"And how much would you say it was?" asked Aunt Stefanie.
"Oh, Aunt," said Ina, with a well-bred glance of her weary eyes,
"I _never_ speak or think about money and I really don't know how
rich Uncle Daan is ... but still I believe he is worth seven hundred
thousand guilders. What makes them come to Holland so suddenly, in the
winter? Business, Papa said; and he ought to know. But, as you know,
Papa never says much and never talks about business or money. But
_I've_ been wondering to myself, could Uncle Daan have lost all his
money? And mark my words: if so, Papa will have him on his hands."
For Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor, who were unpresentably Indian, had
children of their own; there were no expectations therefore from that
quarter; and Ina hated them with a profound hatred and, jealous of
their wealth, spoke as much ill of them as she dared.
"Should you say so?" asked Aunt Stefanie.
"They've always been in business together," said Ina, "so, _if_ Uncle
Daan has lost his money, Papa is sure to have him on his hands."
"But, if he's worth seven hundred thousand guilders?" asked Anton
Dercksz.
"Yes, in that case," said Ina, covetously. "But perhaps he hasn't seven
hundred thousand. I don't know. I never talk about money; and what
other people have is _le moindre de mes soucis_."
Lily came down, looking the sweetest of little fair-haired women in her
fur boa; and the four of them went to the cab, while Jansje created a
fresh draught by opening the door too wide.
And Ina insisted that Uncle Anton should sit in the front seat, beside
Aunt Stefanie, and she and Lily with their backs to the horse, while
Uncle Anton, with pretended gallantry, tried to resign the place of
honour to her, though he was glad that she did not accept it. All that
family was only a tie, which bound you without doing you the least
good. There was that old bird of a Stefanie, who had dragged him from
his reading, his warm room, his pipe, his Suetonius and his pleasant
reverie, first to look at a brat to whom he wasn't going to leave
a cent and next to call at an hotel on a brother who chose to come
from India to Holland in December. All such unnecessary things; and
what thousands of them you did in your life! There were times when
you simply couldn't be your own master.... He indemnified himself by
pressing his knees against Lily's and feeling the warmth of her fresh
young body. His eyes grew misty.
The cab stopped at the big _pension_ where Uncle Daan was accustomed to
stay when he came home from India. They were at once shown in to Aunt
Floor, who had seen them through the window; a _baboe_ was standing at
the door of the room.
"Come inn! Come insside!" cried Aunt Floor, in a bass voice and
accentuating her consonants. "How d'ye do, Stefanie? How d'ye do,
Anton? And how d'ye do, Ina ... and you, little Lily: _allah_,[2] two
childr-r-ren alr-r-ready, that little thing!"
Aunt Floor had not got up to receive them; she was lying on a sofa and
a second _baboe_ was massaging her huge, fat legs. The girl's hands
glided to and fro beneath her mistress' dressing-gown.
"Caughtt cold!" said Aunt Floor, angrily, as though the others could
help it, after renewed words of welcome on their part and enquiries
after the voyage. "Caughtt cold in the train from Paris. I assur-r-re
you, I'm as stiff as a boar-r-rd. What came over Dhaan, to want to come
to Gholland at thiss time of year, I cannott make out...."
"Why didn't you stay behind in India, Aunt?" asked Ina, well-bred and
weary-eyed.
"Not likely! I ssee myself letting Dhaan gho alone! No, dear, we're
man and wife and where Uncle Dhaan ghoes _I_ gho. Old people like us
belong to one another.... Dhaan is with Gharold now, in the other
room: your Papa arrived a moment agho, Ina. Those two are talking
bissiness of course. I asked Dhaan, 'Dhaan, what on ear-r-rth do you
want to gho to Gholland for?' 'Bissiness!' says Dhaan. Nothing but
bissiness, bissiness. I don't understand it: you can always wr-r-rite
about bissiness. Year after year that confounded bissiness; and
nothing ghoes r-r-right: we're as poor as r-r-rats.... There, Saripa,
_soeda_,[3] that's enough: I'm as stiff as a boar-r-rd all the same."
The two _baboes_ left the room; the anthracite-stove glowed like an
oven, red behind its little mica doors. Aunt Floor had drawn herself up
with a deep sigh and was now sitting: her fat, yellow face, with the
Chinese slanting eyes, loomed like a full moon from out of the hair,
still black, which went back, smooth and flat, to a large _kondé_;[4]
and there was something of a mandarin about her as she sat, with her
legs wide apart in the flannel dressing-gown and her fat, swollen
little hands on her round knees, just as Anton Dercksz often used to
sit. Her sunken breast hung like the bosom of a _tepèkong_[5] in two
billows on her stomach's formidable curve; and those rounded lines gave
her an idol-like dignity, as she now sat erect, with her stiff, angry
mandarin-face. From the long lobes of her ears hung a pair of enormous
brilliants, which gleamed round her with startling brightness and did
not seem to belong to her attire--the loose flannel bag--so much as
to her own being, like a jewel set in an idol. She was not more than
sixty; she was the same age as Ottilie Steyn de Weert.
"And is old Mamma well?... It's nice of you to have come," she said,
remembering that she had not yet said anything amiable to her relations.
Her gelatinous mass now shook more genially on the sofa, while around
her sat Stefanie, with her wrinkled witch-face; Anton, who recollected
Floor forty years ago, when she was still a strapping young _nonna_,
a _nonna_ with Chinese blood in her veins, which gave her an exotic
attraction for the men; Ina d'Herbourg, very Dutch and correct,
blinking her eyes with a well-bred air; and the fair-haired little
wife, Lily.
"Why dhoesn't Dhaan come?" exclaimed Aunt Floor. "Lily, gho and see
what's become of your gr-r-randpapa and your uncle."
"I'll go, Aunt," said Ina d'Herbourg. "You stay here, dear. She mustn't
walk about much yet, Aunt."
And Ina, who was curious to see the rooms which Uncle Daan and Aunt
Floor occupied, rose and went through Aunt's bedroom, with a quick
glance at the trunks. One of the _baboes_ was busy hanging up dresses
in a wardrobe.
"Where are the gentlemen, _baboe_?"
"In the study, _njonja_."
The _baboe_ pointed the way to Ina through the conservatory. Well, they
were handsome and no doubt expensive rooms. Ina knew that the _pension_
was not a cheap one; and Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor would hardly be
poor as "r-r-rats." So Uncle had his own bedroom and a study besides.
Papa was with him now and they were doubtless talking business, for
they were jointly interested in various undertakings. At home Papa
never talked about business, vouchsafed no information, to Ina's great
despair.... She heard their voices. And she was thinking of creeping
up quietly through the conservatory--who knew but that she might
overhear some detail which would tell her of the state of Uncle Daan's
fortune?--from sheer innocent curiosity, when she suddenly stopped with
a start. For she had heard Uncle Daan's voice, which had not changed
during the five years since she had seen Uncle, exclaim:
"Harold, have you known it all this time?"
"Ssh!" she heard, in her father's voice.
And Uncle Daan repeated, in a whisper:
"Have you known it all this time?"
"Don't speak so loud," said Harold Dercksz, in a hushed tone. "I
thought I heard somebody...."
"No, it's the _baboe_ clearing up ... and she doesn't understand
Dutch...."
"Speak low for all that, Daan," said Harold Dercksz. "Yes, I've known
it all this time!"
"All the time?"
"Yes, sixty years."
"I never ... I never knew it."
"Speak low, speak low! And is _she_ dead now?"
"Yes, she's dead"
"What did you say her name was?"
"Ma-Boeten."
"That's it: Ma-Boeten. I was a child of thirteen. She was Mamma's maid
and used to look after me too."
"It was her children who began to molest me. She told her son about it:
he is a _mantri_[6] in the rent-office."
"Yes."
"He's a damned villain. I gave him money."
"That was right.... But, you see, Daan, it's so long ago now."
"Yes, it's a very long time ago."
"Don't speak about it to Floor."
"No, never, never. That's why it's just as well she came with me. If
she had stayed at Tegal, that damned villain might have.... Yes, it's
certainly a very long time ago."
"And it's passing.... It's passing.... A little longer and ..."
"Yes, then it will all be past.... But to think that you, Harold,
should have known it all this time!"
"Not so loud, not so loud! I hear something in the conservatory...."
It was Ina's dress rustling. She had heard with a beating heart,
tortured with curiosity. And she had not understood a word, but she
remembered the name of the dead _baboe_, Ma-Boeten.
She now deliberately rustled the silk of her skirt, pretended to have
just come through the conservatory, threw open the doors, stood on the
threshold:
"Uncle Daan! Uncle Daan!"
She saw the two old men sitting, her father and his brother. They were
seventy-three and seventy. They had not yet been able to recover their
ordinary expression and relax the tense dismay of their old faces,
which had gazed with blinded eyes into the distant past. Ina thought
them both looking ghastly. What had they been talking about? _What_
was it that they were hiding? _What_ had Papa known for sixty years?
_What_ had Uncle Daan only known for such a short time?... And she felt
a shiver going along her, as of something clammy that went trailing by.
"I've come to look for you, Uncle Daan!" she exclaimed, with an
affectation of cordiality. "Welcome to Holland, Uncle, welcome! You're
not lucky with the weather: it's bleak and cold. You must have been
very cold in the train. Poor Aunt Floor is as stiff as a board....
Uncle Anton is there too and Aunt Stefanie; and my Lily came along with
us. I'm not interrupting you ... in your business?"
Uncle Daan kissed her, answered her in bluff, genial words. He was
short, lean, bent, tanned, Indian in his clothes; a thin grey tuft of
hair and the cut of his profile gave him a look of a parrot; and,
thanks to this bird-like aspect, he resembled his sister Stefanie. Like
her, he had quick, beady eyes, which still trembled with consternation,
because of what he had been discussing with his brother Harold. He
clawed a few papers together, crammed them into a portfolio, to give
the impression that he and Harold had been talking business, and said
that they were coming. They went back with Ina to the sitting-room and
greetings were exchanged between Uncle Daan and those who had come to
welcome him.
"Aunt Floor knows nothing," thought Ina, remembering how Aunt had just
spoken about her coming to Holland.
Why had they come? What was the matter? _What_ was it that Papa had
known for sixty years and Uncle Daan for only such a short time? Was
_that_ why he had come to Holland? Had it anything to do with money:
a legacy to which they were entitled?... Yes, that was it, a legacy:
perhaps they would still become very rich. Did Aunt Stefanie know
about it? Uncle Anton? Aunt Ottilie? Grandmamma? Mr. Takma?... _What_
was it? And, if it was a legacy, how much?... She was burning with
curiosity, while she remained correct, even more correct than she was
by nature, in contrast with the Indian unconstraint of Uncle Daan--in
his slippers--and the Chinese _tepèkong_ that was Aunt Floor, with
her bosom billowing down upon her round stomach. She was burning with
curiosity, while her eyes glanced wearily, while she made well-bred
efforts to conceal her eager longing to find out. And stories were told
that did not interest her. Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor talked about their
children: Marinus, who was manager of a big sugar-factory and lived
near Tegal, with a large family of his own; Jeanne--"Shaan," as Aunt
called her--the wife of the resident of Cheribon; Dolf unmarried, a
magistrate. She, Ina d'Herbourg, did not care a jot about the cousins,
male or female, would rather never see them: they were such an Indian
crew; and she just made herself pleasant, condescendingly, but not too
much so, pretending to be interested in the stories of Clara, Marinus'
daughter, who was lately married, and Emile, "Shaan's" son, who was so
troublesome.
"Yes," said Aunt Floor, "and here we are, in Gholland, in this
r-r-rotten _pension_ ... for bissiness, nothing but bissiness ... and
yes, _kassian_,[7] we're still as poor as r-r-rats! What am I to do
here for five months? I shall never stand it, if this weather keeps on.
Luckily, I've got Tien Deysselman and Door Perelkamp"--these were two
old Indian ladies--"and they'll soon look me up. They wr-r-rote to me
to bring them some Chinese cards and I've brought twenty packs with me:
that'll help me get through the five months...."
And Aunt Floor glared out of her angry old mandarin-face at her
husband, "Dhaan."
No, thought Ina, Aunt Floor did not know about the legacy. Perhaps it
wasn't a legacy. But then what was it?...
She and Lily went back in the cab that came for Harold; Stefanie drove
Anton home in hers. Ina at once went in search of her husband: she must
consult somebody and she knew of no one better. She found him in his
office:
"Leopold, can I speak to you?" she asked.
"I have a consultation presently," he said, consequentially.
She knew that he was lying, that he had nothing to do. She sat down
quietly, without removing her cloak or hat.
"Leopold ..."
She frightened him.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"We _must_ find out why Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor have come to Holland."
"Goodness gracious!" he exclaimed. "Papa's affairs haven't gone wrong,
have they?"
"I don't know, I don't think so; but there's something that's brought
Uncle Daan over."
"Something? What?"
"I don't know, but there's something: something that Papa has known for
sixty years, ever since he was a child of thirteen. Uncle Daan has only
known it a little while and apparently has come to Holland to consult
Papa."
"How do you know?"
"I know: take it from me that I know. And I know more besides."
"What is that?"
"That Aunt Floor does _not_ know and that Uncle Daan does not mean to
tell her. That Grandmamma's old _baboe_ was called Ma-Boeten and that
she's dead. That her son is a _mantri_ at Tegal and that Uncle Daan has
given him money. That's all I know."
They looked at each other. Both of them were very pale.
"What an incoherent story!" said Leopold d'Herbourg, barrister and
solicitor, with a consequential shrug of the shoulders.
Ina, well-bred as usual, cast up her eyes wearily:
"It's very important. I don't know what it is, but it's important and I
want to know. Could it have to do with a legacy?"
"A legacy?" echoed D'Herbourg, failing to see.
"Something that's due to us? Could that _mantri_ know things which, if
Uncle Daan gave him money ..."
"Perhaps," said D'Herbourg, "it has to do with money which Papa and
Uncle Daan owe ..."
This time, Ina turned very pale:
"No," she exclaimed, "that would be ..."
"You can never tell. The best thing is not to talk about it. Besides,
Papa won't let anything out, in any case."
But Ina's curiosity was too much for her. She nodded her head in her
well-bred way, under the white bird of paradise in her hat:
"I _must_ know," she said.
"How will you find out?"
"You might speak to Papa, ask him what's depressing him...."
"What's depressing him? But I've never known him to be anything but
depressed, during all the twenty-three years that we've been married.
Papa never talks to me; he even employs another solicitor for his
business, as you know."
"Then _I_ will ask Papa."
"That won't be any good."
"I _must_ know," said Ina, rising. "I don't see a legacy in it, after
what you've said. Oh dear, oh dear, who knows what it can be? Money
perhaps which ..."
"It's certainly money."
"Which Papa and Uncle Daan ..."
"May have to repay, if ..."
"Do you think so?"
"They do so much business in common. That leads to all sorts of
complications. And it won't be the first time that men who do a great
deal of business ..."
"Yes, I understand."
"Perhaps it's better not to mix yourself up in it at all. You would do
wiser to be careful. You never know what hornets' nest you're bringing
about your ears."
"It happened sixty years ago. It dates sixty years back. What an
immense time!" said Ina, hypnotized by the thought.
"That's certainly very long ago. The whole thing is out of date!" said
D'Herbourg, pretending to be indifferent, though inwardly alarmed.
"No," said Ina, shaking the white bird of paradise, "it's something
that is not yet past. It _can't_ be. But Papa hoped that, before very
long ..."
"What?"
"It _would_ be past."
They both looked very pale:
"Ina, Ina, do be careful!" said D'Herbourg. "You don't know what you're
meddling with!"
"No!" she said, like a woman in a trance.
She must know, she was determined to know. She resolved to speak to her
father that evening.
[1] Malay: bother, scrape, fuss.
[2] Lord!
[3] That will do.
[4] The chignon or knot of hair at the back of the head.
[5] A Javanese dancer or nautch-girl, often old and ugly.
[6] Native clerk.
[7] Oh dear! Poor things!