CHAPTER XI
THE front-door bell made old Takma wake with a
start. And he knew that he had been to sleep, but
he did not allude to it and quietly acted as though
he had only been sitting and resting, with his hands
leaning on his ivory-knobbed stick. And, when Dr.
Roelofsz entered, he said, with his unvarying little
joke:
“Well, Roelofsz, you don’t get any thinner as
the years go by!”
“Well-well,” said the doctor, “d’you think so,
Takma?”
He came rolling in, enormous of paunch, which
hung dropsically and askew towards his one stiff
leg, which was shorter than the other; and, in his
old, clean-shaven, monkish face, his bleared little
eyes glittered behind the gold spectacles and were
angry because Takma was always referring to his
paunch and he didn’t like it.
“Harold is upstairs,” said Ottilie Steyn.
“Come, child,” said Takma, rising with an effort,
“we’d better go upstairs now; then we’ll drive
Harold away….”
They went up slowly. But there was another ring
at the front-door.
“There’s such a bustle some days,” said old Anna
to the doctor. “But the mistress isn’t neglected in
her old age! We shall soon have to start fires in
the morning-room, for there’s often some one waiting
here….”
“Yes-yes-yes,” said the doctor, rubbing his short,
fat, fleshy hands with a shiver. “It’s coldish, it’s
chilly, Anna. You may as well have a fire….”
“Mr. Takma says fires are the dickens.”
“Yes, but he’s always blazing hot inside,” said
Dr. Roelofsz, viciously. “Well-well-well, here are
the children….”
“Can we go up?” asked Elly, entering with Lot.
“Yes, go upstairs, miss,” said Anna. M Mr.
Harold is just coming down; and there’s no one
upstairs but Mamma … and Mr. Takma.”
“Grandmamma’s holding a court,” said Lot,
jestingly.
But his voice hesitated in joking, for a certain
awe always oppressed him as soon as he entered his
grandmother’s house. It was because of that atmosphere
of the past into which he sometimes felt too
hyperimaginative to intrude, an atmosphere from
which bygone memories and things constantly came
floating. The old doctor, who had something of a
monk and something of a Silenus in his appearance,
was so very old and, though younger than Grandmamma,
had known her as a young and seductive
woman…. Here was Uncle Harold coming
down the stairs: he was much younger, but a deep
and mysterious melancholy furrowed his faded face,
which moreover was wrung with physical pain.
“Till to-morrow, till to-morrow, children,” he
said, gently, and went away after shaking hands with
them. “Till to-morrow, till to-morrow, Roelofsz….”
That voice, broken with melancholy, always made
Lot shudder. He now followed Elly up the stairs,
while the doctor remained below, talking to old
Anna:
“Yes-yes-yes, well-well-well!”
The ejaculations pursued Lot as he mounted the
stairs. Each time that he came to the house he
became more conscious of finding himself on another
plane, more sensitive to that atmosphere of former
days, which seemed to drag with it something that
rustled. A whole past lay hidden behind the
joviality of the voluble doctor. Oh, to grow old,
to grow old! He shivered at the thought on
that first autumnal day…. They now entered
the room: there they sat, Grandmamma, Grandpapa
Takma and, in between them, so strangely, like a
child, Lot’s mother. And Lot, walking behind Elly,
modulated his tread, his gestures, his voice; and Elly
also was very careful, he thought, as though she
feared to break that crystal, antique atmosphere
with too great a display of youth.
“So you’re to be married to-morrow? That’s
right, that’s right,” said the old woman, contentedly.
She raised her two hands with an angular gesture
and, with careful and trembling lips, kissed first Elly
and then Lot on the forehead. They were now all
sitting in a circle; and a few words passed at intervals;
and Lot felt as if he himself were a child,
Elly quite a baby, his mother a young woman. She
resembled Grandmamma, certainly; but what in
Grandmamma had been an imposing Creole beauty
had been fined down in Mamma, had become the
essence of fineness, was so still. Yes, she was like
Grandmamma, but—it struck him again, as it had
before—she had something, not a resemblance, but
a similar gesture, with something about the eyes and
something about the laugh, to Grandpapa Takma.
… Could it be true after all, what people had
whispered: that the youngest child, Ottilie, had been
born too long after Dercksz’ death for his paternity
to be accepted, for the paternity to be attributed to
any one but Takma? Were they really sitting there
as father, mother and child? He, was he Takma’s
grandson? Was he a cousin of Elly’s? … He
didn’t know it for certain, nothing was certain:
there were—he had heard them very long ago—those
vague rumours; and there was that likeness!
But, if it was so, then they both knew it; then, if
they were not quite dulled, they were thinking of it
at this moment. They were not in their dotage,
either of them, those old, old people. It seemed to
Lot that some emotion had always continued to
sharpen their wits; for it was wonderful how well
Grandmamma, despite her age, understood all
about everything, about his marriage now, about the
family:
“Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor are on their way
from India,” said Grandmamma. “I can’t imagine
what they are coming for … with the winter
so near. Aunt Floor won’t like it, I know….
I only wish that I had remained in India, instead
of coming here…. Yes, I’ve been sitting here
for years now, until … until …”
She stammered and looked out of the window,
waiting, waiting. At the other window sat Takma
and waited, waited, nodding his head. Oh, it was
awful, thought Lot, looking at his mother. She did
not understand his look, had forgotten his moment
of prostration and weakness, his dread of old age,
because she always forgot when he did not complain;
and she merely thought that he wanted to
get up. She smiled, sadly, as was her custom in
these days, nodded and was the first to rise:
“Well, we’d better be going now, Mamma….,
Mr. Takma, am I not to see you home?”
“No, child, it’s not raining; and I can manage
by myself, I can manage….”
Ottilie’s voice sounded very sad and childish and
old Takma’s paternal, but fluttering and airy. Lot
and Elly rose; and there were more careful kisses;
and Mr. Takma kissed Ottilie also. When they
were gone, the old doctor came rolling in.
“Well, Roelofsz,” said Grandmamma.
“Well-well-well, yes-yes,” mumbled the doctor,
dropping into a chair.
They sat like that, without words, the three old
people. The light was waning outside; and a bleak
autumnal wind drove the first yellow leaves through
the gardens of the Sofialaan.
“You’re out too late, Takma,” said the doctor.
“No, no,” said the old man.
“It gets chilly early, at this season.”
“No, no, I’m not chilly.”
“Yes, you’re always blazing hot inside.”
“Yes, just as you’re always getting fatter.”
The doctor gave an explosive laugh, not viciously
this time, because he had got his joke in first; and
Takma also laughed, with a shrill, cracked note.
The old woman did not speak, leant over slightly,
looked out of the window. The dusk of evening
was already gathering over the Nassaulaan.
“Look,” said the old woman, pointing with her
trembling, slender, wand-like finger.
“What?” asked the two men, looking out.
“I thought …”
“What?”
“I thought that there was something …
moving … over there, under the trees….”
“What was moving?”
“I don’t know: something … somebody….”
“She’s wandering,” thought the doctor to himself.
“No, Ottilie,” said Takma, “there’s nothing
moving.”
“Oh, is there nothing moving?”
“No.”
“I thought that something was passing …
just hazily….”
“Yes … well … that’s the damp
rising,” said the doctor.
“Yes,” said Takma, “that’s mist….”
“You’re out of doors much too late, Takma,”
said the doctor.
“I’ve got my great-coat, a warm one….”
“Well-well….”
“The leaves are rustling,” said the old
woman. “And the wind’s howling. It’ll soon be
winter.”
“Well … yes-yes, winter’s coming. One
more of ’em….”
“Yes,” said the old woman. “The last …
the last winter….”
“No-no-no-no!” boasted the old doctor. “The
last! I promise you, you’ll see a hundred yet,
Ottilie! …”
Old Takma nodded his head:
“It’s more than sixty years …”
“Wha-at?” exclaimed the doctor, in a startled
voice.
“Ago …”
“What are you saying?” cried the old woman,
shrilly.
“I’m saying,” said Takma, “that Ottilie, that
Lietje … is turned sixty …”
“Oh, yes!”
“And so it’s more than sixty … more than
sixty years ago since …”
“Si-ince what?” exclaimed the doctor.
“Since Dercksz … was drowned,” said
Takma.
And he nodded his head.
“Oh!” moaned the old woman, lifting her hands
to her face with an angular and painful movement.
“Don’t speak about that. What made you say
that?”
“No,” said Takma, “I said nothing….”
“No-no-no-no!” mumbled the doctor. “Don’t
talk about it, don’t talk about it…. We never
talk about it…. Yes … aha …
Takma, what made you talk about it? … There-there-there-there …
it’s nothing, but it makes
Ottilie sad….”
“No,” said the old woman, calmly. “I’m never
sad now…. I’m much too old for that….
I only sit and wait…. Look, isn’t that something
passing? …”
“Where?”
“In the street, opposite … or down there,
in the road … something white….”
“Where? Aha, oh, there? … No, Ottilie,
that’s mist.”
“The leaves … the leaves are rustling.”
“Yes-yes-yes, autumn … winter’s coming….”
“The last,” said the old woman.
The doctor mumbled a vague denial. Takma
nodded his head. They sat very still, for a time.
Yes, it was more than sixty years ago…. They
all three saw it: the old man and the old woman
saw it happening; and the doctor saw it as it had
happened. He had understood and guessed, at once,
and he had known, all those years long. Very many
years ago he had been in love with Ottilie, he much
younger than she, and there was a moment when he
had called upon her to pay him the price of his
knowledge…. He had buried all that in himself,
but he saw it as it had happened…. It
was more than sixty years ago.
“Come,” said Takma, “it’s time I went….
Else … else it’ll be too late….”
He rose with an effort and remembered that he
had not torn up one letter to-day. That was not
right, but the tearing tired his fingers. The
doctor also arose and rang the bell twice, for the
companion.
“We’re going, juffrouw.”
It was almost dark in the room.
“Good-bye, Ottilie,” said Takma, pressing the
mittened hand, which was raised an inch or two.
The doctor also pressed her hand:
“Good-bye, Ottilie…. Yes-yes-yes: till to-morrow
or next day.”
Mr. Takma found Ottilie Steyn de Weert waiting
downstairs:
“You here still, child?”
“Yes, Mr. Takma. I’ll just see you home.
You’ve really stayed out too late to-day; Elly
thought so too; and Adèle will be uneasy….”
“Very well, child, do; see the old man home.”
He took her arm; and his now irregular step
tottered as Anna let them out.
“Juffrouw,” said the old woman, upstairs, when
the companion was about to light the lamp, u wait
a moment and just look out of the window. Tell
me: there, on the other side of the road, through
those leaves falling … isn’t there something
… something white … passing?”
The companion looked through the window:
“No, mevrouw, there’s nothing. But there’s a
mist rising. Mr. Takma has stayed much too long
again.”
She closed the shutters and lit the lamp. The old
woman sat and took her soup; then the companion
and old Anna put her to bed.
Nguồn: Wikisource English — Old People and the Things that Pass/Chapter XI. Văn bản được nhập và định dạng lại; CC BY-SA 4.0, có thể áp dụng điều khoản bổ sung của tác phẩm.