And the hard-braced north-east winds, which had brought the nipping
frost with them, came no more; they had passed; and it was no longer the
strong, boisterous winds, but the angry winds, the winds that brought
with them the clouds of grey melancholy, in eternal steady-blowing
sadness, as though in the west, yonder, there were a dark realm of
mysterious sorrow, whence blew huge howling cohorts of gigantic woes,
titanic griefs, overshadowing the small country and the small people.
The sky and the clouds now seemed bigger and mightier than the small
country and the small people; the sky now seemed to be the universe; and
houses, roads, trees and people, horizons of woods and moors, lastly,
human souls all seemed to shrink under the great woes that drowned the
small country and the small people from horizon to horizon. Curtains of
streaming water cloaked the vistas and a damp fog blurred the distant
wavering line of trees; a rainy mist washed out the almost spectral
gestures, the silent, despairing movements of the windmill-sails; and
the low-lying world, feeble, small, sombre and bowed down, endured the
crushing, oppressive force of rain and wind lasting night and day and
all day long.
Constance and Brauws were sitting once more in her own sitting-room,
which was a replica of the little boudoir in the Kerkhoflaan at the
Hague. Along the curving folds of the curtains, through the grey,
clouded panes, they watched the grey rain falling, now in vertical
streaks, now aslant, driven by the raging wind.
"I so well remember this weather," he said, "in the old days, when I
used to sit chatting with you at the Hague, in your room which was so
like this room."
"Yes," she said.
"I would come late in the afternoon, find you sitting in the dark and
scold you because you had not been out; and we used to talk about all
sorts of things...."
"It's a long time ago."
"The years fly past. Do you remember, we used to fight a little, both of
us, against the years that were overtaking us, against the years that
would make us old?"
She laughed:
"Yes," she said. "We no longer fight against them now. We are old now.
We have grown old."
"We are growing old. And yet what an amount of youth a human being
possesses! As we grow older, we always think, 'Now we are growing old.'
And, when we are older than when we thought that, we feel ... that we
have always remained the same as we were from a child."
"Yes ... a person doesn't change."
"Only all his joys and all his sorrows change and become blurred; but we
ourselves do not."
"No, we don't change. Then why should there be joy and sorrow ... when,
after many years, we have remained the same as we were from childhood?"
"Because we remain the same ... and yet do not remain the same."
"Yes," she said, smiling. "I understand what you mean. We remain the
same from childhood ... and yet ... yet we change. It is like a game of
riddles. I ... I am the same ... and I am changed."
"I too. My soul still recognizes in itself my former child's soul ...
and yet ... yet I am changed.... Tell me: I believe things are running
smoothly with you...."
"Sometimes."
"Not always?"
"No."
"I am so glad to see ... that things are going well as between you and
Henri."
"We are growing so old ... Everything gets blunted."
"No, it's not only that."
"No, not only."
"You have grown used to each other...."
"Without talking about it."
"You set store by each other by now...."
"Perhaps.... Gradually...."
"Hans is a good sort."
"Yes, he's just simply that."
"And you appreciate this now."
"I think I do."
"You both have full lives."
"Yes. Who would ever have thought it?"
"You have so much to make you happy: Addie always with you...."
"My poor boy!"
"Why do you say that?"
"I am frightened...."
"What of?"
"I don't know. On days like the last few days, I am sensitive to every
sort of fear, I always have been."
"Have the fears been justified?"
"Sometimes."
"What are you afraid of?"
"I have sad thoughts."
"That is sheer melancholy."
"A melancholy which is a presentiment ... on days like these...."
"And everything is well."
"Only the material things."
"Be happy in that your life is so richly filled, both yours and
Hans'.... It's a life of the richest security ... with all that you do."
"With all that we do? We do nothing!"
"You do a great deal ... for people who are small!" he smiled.
"For small souls!... Do we do enough?"
"You do a great deal."
She shook her head:
"I don't.... Hans does: he is good."
"Just simply good.... Tell me, is it merely because of the weather that
things don't seem to run smoothly?"
"No, material things aren't everything."
"Is it because of Addie?"
"Perhaps. I can't say. I feel an oppression, here." She put both her
hands to her heart. "It's always liable to come, a day...."
"Yes."
"A day of sorrow, illness, wretchedness ... of misfortune ... of
disaster."
"Why should you think that?"
"I often think it: now there's a misfortune coming, a disaster.... I sit
and wait for it.... Oh, I've been waiting for it for months!... The
children look at me, ask me what's the matter, whether anything has
happened ... with Mathilde.... No, nothing ever happens.... There is no
sympathy between us ... but I, I am calm and I wish her every good ...
my son's wife...."
"You must get over that oppression."
"It can't be argued away."
"You must be happy. I have been here for some days now. I see nothing
but love all around you."
"From her side?"
"Well, perhaps not from hers."
"She always remains a stranger."
"Then win her to you."
"It's very difficult, when there is no sympathy."
"But, apart from that, there is nothing but love around you. Really, you
are wrapped about with silent happiness."
She shook her head:
"They are fond of me ... but there are things slumbering...."
"There are always slumbering things. Happiness without shadow doesn't
exist. And one even doubts whether it ought to."
"No, perhaps not ... for later, for later. But ... there are things that
slumber, silent, sorrowful things."
"I see you can't overcome it."
"No. I am glad to see you again."
"After so many years. And I too am glad to see that things are going so
well with you ... even though there are sorrowful things that slumber."
"There are many good things."
"There is much love ... and much living for others."
She laughed softly:
"So simply ... with no great effort!"
"When we are not great ... why should we act as though we were? We are
small; and we act accordingly. If we do good in a small way ... isn't
that a beginning?"
"A striving...."
"For later."
"Yes, for later."
"I, I can't even say ... that I am doing good in a small way."
"Tell me about yourself."
"There is nothing to tell. Thinking, living, seeking ... always
seeking.... There has been nothing besides."
"Then do as we do," she laughed, softly. "Do good in a small way ... as
you say that we do."
"I shall try.... But I am disheartened. I admire you and I envy you."
"I ... I am disheartened. I am sometimes quite dejected. I should like
to live quietly, with a heap of books around me. I ... I'm giving it
up."
"The struggle?"
"Yes, the struggle to seek and find. Little by little, it has conquered
me. Can you understand me? You ... you have conquered it."
"What have I conquered?"
"You understand."
"You rank that conquest too high.... And you, why are you conquered?"
"Because ... because I have never achieved anything.... I may sometimes
have found, but never, never achieved.... And now I want to rest ...
with a heap of books around me ... and, if I can, follow your example
... and do good in a small way."
"I will help you," she said, jesting, very sadly.
They were silent; and between her and him the room was full of bygone
things. The furniture was the same, certain lines and tones were the
same as years ago.... Out of doors, the unsparing night of the
clattering rain and raging wind was the same as years ago. Life went on
weaving its long woof of years, like so many grey shrouds. They both
smiled at it; but their hearts were very sad.