CHAPTER IV
IT was Anton Dercksz, the old lady’s eldest son by
her second marriage; by her first she had only an
unmarried daughter, Stefanie de Laders. Anton
also had never married; he had made his career in
Java; he was an ex-resident. He was seventy-five,
taciturn, gloomy and self-centred, owing to his long,
lonely life, full of lonely thoughts about himself,
the heady thoughts of a sensualist who, in his old
age, had lapsed into a sensualist in imagination.
… It had been his nature, first instinctively,
then in a more studied fashion, to hide himself, not
to give himself; not to give of himself even that
which would have won him the praise and esteem
of his fellow-men. Endowed with intelligence above
the ordinary, a student, a man of learning, he had
fostered that intelligence only for himself and had
never been more than an average official. His self-‘
centred, gloomy soul had demanded and still demanded
solitary enjoyments, even as his powerful
body had craved for obscure pleasures.
He entered in his overcoat, which he kept closely
wrapped about him, feeling chilly, though it was
still a sunny September and autumn had hardly given
its first shiver. He came to see his mother once a
week, from an old habit of respect and awe. Her
children—elderly men and women, all of them—all
called regularly, but first asked Anna, the maid, with
the cat always among her skirts, who was upstairs
with Mamma. If some member of the family were
there already, they did not go up at once, anxious
on no account to tire her with too great a gathering
and too many voices. Then Anna would receive them
in the downstair morning-room, where she kept up a
fire in the winter, and often the old servant would
offer the visitor a brandy-cherry. If old Mr. Takma
had only just arrived, Anna did not fail to say so;
and the children or grandchildren would wait downstairs
for a quarter of an hour and longer, because
they knew that Mamma, that Grandmamma liked
to be alone for a while with Takma, her old friend.
If Takma had been there some time, Anna would
reckon out whether she could let them go upstairs
at once…. The companion was not there in
the afternoons, except when mevrouw sent for her,
as sometimes happened when the weather was bad
and nobody called.
Anton Dercksz entered, hesitating because of
Takma, uncertain whether he was intruding. The
old woman’s children, however much advanced in
years, continued to behave as children to the once
stern and severe mother, whom they still saw in
the authority of her motherhood. And Anton
in particular always saw her like that, seated in
that chair which was as an unyielding throne, strange
in that very last and fragile life hanging from a
brittle, invisible thread, which, in snapping, would
have broken life’s last string. At the window, because
of a lingering ray of sunshine outside, the
mother sat in a crimson twilight of curtains and
valance, sat as if she would never move again until
the moment came for the dark portals to open.
For the “children” did not see her move, save
with the single, angular gesture sometimes suggested
by once active, but now gouty, slender, wand-like
fingers. Anton Dercksz knew that—if the portals
had not opened that day—his mother would move,
round about eight o’clock, to be taken to bed by
Anna and the companion. But he never saw this:
what he saw was the well-nigh complete immobility
of the brittle figure in the chair that was almost a
throne, amid a twilight just touched with pink. Old
man as he himself was, he was impressed by this.
His mother sat there so strangely, so unreally: she
sat waiting, waiting. Her eyes, already glazed,
stared before her, sometimes as though she were
afraid of something…. The lonely man had
developed within himself an acute gift of observation,
a quick talent for drawing inferences, which
he never allowed any one to perceive. For years
he had held the theory that his mother was always
thinking of something, always thinking of something,
an invariable something. What could it be? …
Perhaps he was mistaken, perhaps he looked too
far, perhaps his mother’s expression was but the
staring of almost sightless eyes. Or was she thinking
of hidden things in her life, things sunk in her
life as in a deep, deep pool? Had she her secrets,
as he had his, the secrets of his sullen hedonism?
He was not inquisitive: everybody had his secrets;
perhaps Mother had hers. He would never strive
to find out. People had always said that Takma
and Mother had been lovers: she no doubt thought
of those old things … or was she not thinking,
was she merely waiting and staring out of her window? …
However this might be, his awe remained
unchanged.
“It is lovely weather, for September,” he said,
after the usual greetings.
He was a big man, broad in his overcoat, with a
massive florid face, in which deep folds hung beside
the big nose and made dewlaps under the cheeks;
the grey-yellow moustache bristled above a sensual
mouth with thick, purple lips, which parted over the
yellow teeth, crumbling, but still firm in their gums;
the thick beard, however recently shaved, still left
a black stubble on the cheeks; and a deep scar cleft
the twice deeply-wrinkled forehead, which rose
towards a thinning tuft of yellow-grey hair, with
the head bald at the back of it. The skin of his
neck was rough, above the low, stand-up collar, and
grooved, though not quite so deeply, like that of
an old labourer, with deep-ploughed furrows. His
coarse-fisted hands lay like clods on his thick knees;
and a watch-chain, with big trinkets, hung slackly
over his great stomach, which had forced open a
button of his worn and shiny waistcoat. His feet
rested firmly on the carpet in their Wellington boots,
whose tops showed round under the trouser-legs.
This outward appearance betrayed only a rough,
sensual, elderly man: it showed him neither in his
intellect nor, above all, in his power of imagination.
The great dream-actor that he was remained hidden
from whoever saw him no otherwise than thus.
Takma, so many years older, with his habit of
gaiety and his sometimes shrill heartiness, which
gave a birdlike sound to his old voice and a factitious
glitter to his false teeth, Takma, in his short, loose
jacket, had something delicate beside Anton Dercksz,
something younger and more restless, together with
a certain kindly, gentle, benevolent comprehension,
as if he, the very old man, understood the whol^
life of the younger one. But this was just what
always infuriated Anton with Takma, because he,
Anton Dercksz, saw through it. It concealed something:
Takma hid a secret, though he hid it in a different
way from Anton Dercksz’. He hid a secret:
when he started, with that jerk of his head, he was
afraid that he had been seen through…. Well,
Anton was not inquisitive. But this very old man,
this former lover of his mother, of the woman who
still filled Anton with awe when he saw her sitting
erect, waiting, in her chair by the window: this old
man annoyed him, irritated him, had always roused
his dislike. He had never allowed it to show and
Takma had never perceived it.
The three old people sat without exchanging
many words, in the narrow drawing-room. The old
woman had now calmly mastered herself, because
her son, her “child,” was sitting there and she had
always remained calm before the splenetic glance
of his slightly prominent eyes. Straight up she sat,
as though enthroned, as though she were a sovereign
by reason of her age and her authority, dignified
and blameless, but so frail and fragile, as though
the aura of death would presently blow away her
soul. Her few words sounded a note of appreciation
that her son had come to see her, asking, as was
his filial duty, once a week, after her health. She
was pleased at this; and it was not difficult for her
to calm herself, suddenly put in a placid mood by
that feeling of satisfaction, even though but now,
as in a suggestion from without, she had been
obliged to speak of former things which she had
seen pass before her eyes. And, when the bell rang
again, she said:
“That’s the children, I expect….”
They all three listened, in silence. Sharp-eared
old Takma heard some one speaking to Anna in
the hall:
“They’re asking if it won’t be too much for you,”
said Takma.
“Anton, call down the stairs to have them
shown up,” said the old lady; and her voice rang
like a maternal command.
Anton Dercksz rose, went to the door and called
out:
“You can come up. Grandmamma’s expecting
you.”
Lot and Elly came in and their entrance was as
though they feared to dispel the atmosphere around
the old woman with the too-great youthfulness
approaching her. But the old woman made an
angular movement of her arms, which lifted themselves
in the black folds of the wide sleeves; and
a hint of the gesture was given, gouty-stiff, in the
crimson shade of the curtains, while she said:
“So you’re going to get married; that’s right.”
The gesture brought the mittened hands to the
level of Lot’s head, which she held for a moment
and kissed with a trembling mouth; she kissed Elly
too; and the girl said, prettily:
“Grandmamma….”
“I am glad to see you both. Mamma has already
told me the great news. Be happy, children,
happy….”
The words sounded like a short speech from out
of the twilight of the throne-like chair, but they
trembled, breaking with emotion:
“Be happy, children, happy” Mamma had said.
And Anton Dercksz seemed to see that his mother
was thinking that there had not been many happy
marriages in the family. He was conscious of the
underlying thought in her words and was glad that
he had never been married: it gave him a silent,
pleasurable sense of satisfaction, as he looked at
Lot and Elly. They were sitting there so youthful
and unwrung, he thought; but he knew that this was
only on the surface, that Lot, after all, was thirty-eight
and that this was not Elly’s first engagement.
Yet how young those two lives were and how many
vigorous years had they not before them! He became
jealous at the thought and envious; and his
eyes grew sullen when he reflected that vigorous
years were no longer his. And, with the sly glance
of a man secretly enjoying the sensual pleasures of
the imagination, he asked himself whether Lot was
really a fellow who ought to think of marrying. Lot
was delicately built, was hardly a man of flesh and
blood, was like his mother in appearance, with his
pink face and his fair plastered hair, his short fair
moustache above his cynical upper lip, and very
spruce in his smooth-fitting jacket and the neat little
butterfly tie beneath his double collar. And yet no
fool, thought Anton Dercksz: his articles written
from Italy, on Renascence subjects, were very good
and Anton had read them with pleasure, without
ever complimenting Lot upon them; and his two
novels were excellent: one about the Hague, one
about Java, with a keen insight into Dutch-Indian
society. There was a great deal in the lad, more
than one would think, for he looked not a man of
flesh and blood, but a fair-haired, finikin doll, a
fashion-plate.
Elly was not pretty, had a pale but sensible little
face: he did not believe that she was a woman of
warm passion, or, if she was, it would not reveal
itself till later. He did not expect that they would
kiss each other very rapturously; and yet that was
the most genuine consolation in this confounded life
of ours, always had been so to him. Everything
grew confused before his jaundiced eyes, in a regret
for things that were lost; but nevertheless he listened
to the conversation, which was carried on
calmly and quietly, in order not to tire Grandmamma:
when Lot and Elly meant to get married,
where they would go for the honeymoon.
“We shall be married in three months,” said
Lot. “There’s nothing to wait for. We shall go
to Paris and on to Italy. I know Italy well and
can show Elly about….”
Anton Dercksz rose and took his leave; and,
when he went downstairs, he found his sister, Ottilie
Steyn de Weert, and Roelofsz, the old doctor, in
the morning-room:
“The children are upstairs,” he said.
“Yes, I know, said Ottilie. “That’s why I’m
waiting; it would be too much for Mamma otherwise …”
“Well-well-well,” muttered the old doctor.
He sat huddled in a chair, a shapeless mass of
dropsical obesity: his one stiff leg was stuck out
straight in front of him and his paunch hung sideways
over it in curving lines; his face, clean-shaven
but bunched into wrinkles, was like the face of a
very old monk; his thin grey hair looked as if it
were moth-eaten and hung in frayed wisps from
his skull, which was shaped like a globe, with a
vein at one temple meandering in high relief; he
lisped and muttered exclamation upon exclamation;
his watery eyes swam behind gold spectacles.
“Well-well-well, Ottilie, so your Lot is getting
married at last!…”
He was eighty-eight, the doctor, the last surviving
contemporary of Grandmamma and Mr.
Takma; he had brought Ottilie Steyn into the world,
in Java, at a time when he was a young doctor,
not long since arrived from Holland; and he called
her either by her Christian name or “child.”
“At last?” cried Ottilie, in a vexed tone. “It’s
early enough for me!”
“Yes-yes-yes, yes-yes, child; you’ll miss him, you’ll
miss your boy, I daresay…. Still, they’ll make
a nice couple, he and Elly, well-well, yes-yes-yes,
working together, artistic, yes, well…. That
good old Anna hasn’t started her fires yet! This
room’s warm, but upstairs, yes-yes, it’s very chilly.
… Takma’s always blazing hot inside, eh-eh?
Well-well! Mamma likes a cool room too; well-well,
cool: cold, I call it. I consider it warmer in
here: ay-ay, it is warmer down here. Well-well!
… Mamma wasn’t so well, child, yesterday….”
“Come, doctor,” said Anton Dercksz, “you’ll
make Mamma see a hundred yet!”
And he buttoned up his coat and went away,
satisfied at having performed his filial duty for that
week.
“Oh-oh-oh!” cried the doctor; but Anton was
gone. “A hundred! A hundred! Oh-dear-no, oh-dear-no,
tut-tut! No, I can do nothing, I can do
nothing. I’m old myself, yes-yes, I’m old: eightee-eight
years old, eightee-eight, Lietje! … Yes-yes,
that counts, yes-yes…. No, I can do
nothing more, what do you say? And it’s a good
thing that Mamma’s got Dr. Thielens: he’s young,
ay-ay, he’s young…. Here come the children!
Well-well!” the doctor continued, by way of
greeting. “Best congratulations, ay-ay, very nice!
Art, eh, art for art’s sake? … Is Granny better
to-day? Then I’ll just go upstairs, yes-yes, well-well! …”
“Where are you going now, children?” asked
Mamma Ottilie.
“To Aunt Stefanie’s,” said Elly. “And perhaps
to Uncle Harold’s afterwards.”
Anna let them out; and Ottilie, going upstairs
behind Dr. Roelofsz, who hoisted himself up one
step after the other, tried to understand what he
was muttering, but understood nothing. He kept
talking to himself:
“Yes-yes, that Anton, all-very-well, make her see
a hundred! A hundred! Well, he’ll see a hundred
all right, ay-ay, yes-yes, though he has been such a
beast! … Yes-yes, yes-yes, a beast: don’t I
know him? Tut-tut! A beast, that’s what he’s
been! … Yes-yes, perhaps he’s still at it!”
“What do you say, doctor?”
“Nothing, child, nothing…. Make her see
a hundred! I, I, who am old myself; eightee-eight
… eightee-eight! …”
Puffing with the effort of climbing the stairs, he
entered and greeted the two old people, his contemporaries,
who nodded to him, each at a window:
“Well-well, yes-yes, how-do, Ottilie? How-do,
Takma? … Well-well, yes-yes…. Well, I
don’t call it warm in here!…”
“Come,” said Takma, “it’s only September….”
“Yes, you’re always blazing hot inside!…”
Ottilie walked behind him, like a little child, and
kissed her mother, very gently and carefully; and,
when she went up to Takma afterwards, he pulled
her hand, so that she might give him a kiss too.
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