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.