CHAPTER XII
OLD Mr. Pauws came to meet them at the station,
in the evening, at Brussels:
“My dear boy, my dear boy, how are you? And
so this is your little wife! My dear child, I wish
you joy with all my heart!”
His arms, thrown wide, embraced first Lot and
then Elly.
“And I’ve taken a room for you at the Metropole,
but I reckoned on it that you’d first come and
have supper at my place. Then I shall have been
at your wedding too. I don’t expect you’re tired,
are you? No, it’s nothing of a journey. Better send
your trunks straight to the hotel. I’ve got a carriage:
shall we go home at once? Do you think
there’s room for the three of us? Yes, yes, we’ll
fit in nicely.”
It was the second time that Elly had seen the
old gentleman, a pink-and-white, well-preserved man
of seventy: she had been with Lot to look him up
during their engagement. There was something decided
and authoritative about him, together with a
cheerful gaiety, especially now, because he was seeing
Lot again. He would receive them at his own place,
at his rooms, for he lived in bachelor quarters. He
opened the door with his latch-key; he had paid the
cabman quickly, before Lot could; and he now
hustled the young couple up the stairs. He himself
lit a gas-jet in the passage:
“I have no one to wait on me in the evening, as
you see. A femme-de-menage comes in the morning.
I take my meals at a restaurant. I thought of treating
the two of you to supper at a restaurant; but I
think this is pleasanter…. There!”
And he now lit the gas in the sitting-room, with a
quick movement, like a young man’s. Elly smiled
at him. The table was laid and there were flowers
on it and a few pints of Heidsieck in a wine-cooler.
“Welcome, my dear child!” said the old man,
kissing Elly.
He helped her take off her hat and cloak and
carried them into his bedroom:
“You’d better bring your coat in here too, Lot.”
“Your father is wonderful!” said Elly.
The little sitting-room was cosy and comfortable;
it was his own furniture. There were books about;
photographs on the walls and prints of horses and
dogs; arms on a rack; and, underneath—it impressed
Elly, just as it had impressed her the first
time—a portrait of Ottilie at twenty, in an old-fashioned
bonnet which made her look exquisitely
pretty, like a little heroine in a novel. Strange,
thought Elly to herself, Steyn also had pictures of
dogs and horses in his room; Steyn also was a hunting
man, a man of out-door pursuits; Steyn also was
good-looking. She smiled at her reflection that it
was always the same sort of manliness that had
attracted Ottilie; she smiled just as Lot sometimes
smiled at his mother.
“You two are very like each other,” said Pauws,
as they sat down to table. “Look, children, here’s
what I’ve got for you. Everything’s ready, you see.
Hors d’ceuvres. Do you like caviare, with these
toasted rolls?”
“I’m mad on caviare,” said Lot.
“I remembered that! After the hors d’oeuvres,
a mayonnaise of fish: perhaps that’s rather too much
fish, but I had to think out a cold menu, for I’ve no
cook and no kitchen. Then there’s cold chicken and
compote: a Dutch dish for you; they never eat the
two together here or in France. Next, there’s a
paté-de-foie-gras. And tartlets for you, Elly.”
“I’m fond of tartlets too,” said Lot, attentively
examining the dish.
“All the better. A decent claret, Chateau-Yquem
and Heidsieck. I got you some good fruit. Coffee,
liqueurs, a cigar, a cigarette for you, Elly, and that’s
all. It’s the best I could do.”
“But, Papa, it’s delightful!”
The old gentleman was uncorking the champagne,
quickly and handily, with a twist of the wires:
“Here goes, children!”
The wine frothed up high.
“Wait, Elly, wait, let me fill up your glass….
There, here’s to you, children, and may you be
happy!”
“You take after Lot,” said Elly.
“I? In that case, Lot takes after me.”
“Yes, I meant that of course.”
“Ah, but it’s quite a different thing!”
“Yes, but Lot … Lot is also like his
mother.”
“Yes, I’m like Mamma,” said Lot.
He was short, slender, almost frail of build and
fair; the old gentleman was solid in flesh and figure,
with a fresh complexion and very thick grey hair,
which still showed a few streaks of black.
“Yes, but I think Lot also has that flippancy of
yours, though he is like his mother.”
“Oh, so I’m flippant, am I?” said old Pauws,
laughing.
His hands, moving in sweeping gestures, were
busy across the table, with the hors d’oeuvres, which
he was now handing.
“Would you ever believe that Papa was
seventy?” said Lot. “Papa, I’m amazed every
time I see you! What keeps you so young?”
“I don’t know, my boy; I’m built that way.”
“Were you never afraid of getting old?”
“No, my dear fellow, I’ve never been afraid
… of getting old or of anything else.”
“Then whom do I get it from? Mamma hasn’t
that fear, not as I have it, although …”
“You’re an artist; they have those queer ideas.
I’m just ordinary.”
“Yes, I wish I were like you, tall and broad-shouldered.
I’m always jealous when I look at
you.”
“Come, Lot, you’re very well as you are!” said
Elly, defending him against himself.
“If you were like me, you wouldn’t have attracted
your wife, what do you say, Elly?”
“Well, there’s no telling, Papa!”
“How are things at home, my boy?”
“Same as usual, just the same.”
“Is Mamma well?”
“Physically, yes. Morally, she’s depressed ….,
because I’m married.”
“How do she and Steyn get on?”
“They quarrel.”
“Ah, that mother of yours!” said Pauws. “Elly,
will you help the mayonnaise? No, Lot, give me
the Yquem: I’ll open it…. That mother of
yours has always quarrelled. Pity she had that in
her. Temper, violent words … all about
nothing: it was always like that in my time. And
she was so nice otherwise … and so sweetly
pretty!”
“Yes,” said Lot, “and I’m like Mamma, an ugly
edition.”
“He doesn’t mean a word of it,” said Elly.
“No,” said the old gentleman, “not a word of
it, the conceited fellow!”
“All the same, I’d rather be like you, Papa.”
“Lot, you’re talking nonsense…. Some more
mayonnaise, Elly? Sure? Then we’ll see what the
cold chicken’s made of. No, give it here, Lot, I’ll
carve…. And your wedding was very quiet?
No religious ceremony?”
“No.”
“No reception?”
“No, Elly has so few friends and I have so few,
in Holland. We lead such a life of our own, at
the Hague. I know more people in Italy than I do
at the Hague. The whole family rather lives a life
of its own. Except the D’Herbourgs there’s really
nobody.”
“That’s true.”
“Those very old, old people are out of the
question, of course.”
“Yes, Grandpapa, Grandmamma…… And
the old doctor….”
“Uncle Anton lives his own life.”
“H’m, h’m … yes….”
“Uncle Harold is old also.”
“Two years older than I.”
“But he’s poorly.”
“Yes … and queer. Always has been. Quiet
and melancholy. Still, a very good sort.”
“We at home, with Steyn and Mamma: what’s
the use of our entertaining people?”
“You forget Aunt Stefanie: she’s an aunt with
money to leave, just as Uncle Anton is an uncle with
money to leave; but your aunt has plenty.”
“Oh, Lot is quite indifferent to what money he
inherits!” said Elly.
“Besides, you two won’t be badly off,” said old
Pauws. “You’re right: what’s the use of wedding-festivities?
As for acquaintances …”
“We none of us have many.”
“It’s a funny thing. As a rule, there’s such a lot
of movement around Indian families. ‘Swirl’ we
used to call it.”
“Oh, I don’t know: there’s no ‘swirl’ of acquaintances
round us!”
“No, we’ve had ‘swirl’ enough among ourselves:
Mamma saw to that at least!”
“It made Mamma lose her friends too.”
“Of course it did. Mamma’s life has really been
hardly decent … with her three husbands!”
“Well, of course…. I don’t allow it to
upset me…. But the family isn’t thought
much of.”
“No. Grandmamma was the first to begin it.
She also did just what she pleased….”
“I’ve heard a lot of vague rumours….”
“Well, I’ve heard a lot of rumours too, but they
weren’t vague. Grandmamma was a grande
coquette in her day and inspired more than her
share of the great passions in Java.”
“They say that Mamma …”
“I don’t know, but it’s quite possible. At least,
you two are so like each other that you might be
brother and sister.”
“Well, at the worst, we’re cousins,” said Elly.
“Yes, Grandmamma began it…. There was
a lot of talk…. Oh, those people are so old
now! Their contemporaries are dead. And things
pass. Who is there now to think and talk about
things that are so long past?”
“Grandmamma’s lovers?”
“Innumerable!”
“The doctor?”
“So they say. And Elly’s grandpapa.”
“Those old people!” said Elly.
“They were young once.”
“And we shall be old one day,” said Lot. “We’re
growing old as it is.”
“Shut up, boy! There’s time enough for that
when you’re seventy…. Yes, Grandmamma
de Laders, Grandmamma Dercksz: I can remember
her in India fifty years ago.”
“O my God, what a time to remember things!”
said Lot, shuddering.
“Take some more champagne, if it makes your
flesh creep…. Fifty years ago, I was little
more than a boy, I was twenty. Grandmamma was
still a fine woman, well over forty. She became a
widow quite young, on the death of her first husband.
Well, let’s see: when Dercksz was drowned, she
was … about … thirty-six…. Then
Mamma was born.”
“What a long, long time ago that was!” said
Lot. “It makes one giddy to look back upon.”
“That’s sixty, yes, sixty years ago now,” said
Pauws, dreamily. “I was a child then, ten years
old. I still remember the incident. I was at
Semarang; my father was in the paymaster’s department.
My people knew the Derckszes. The
thing was talked about. I was a child, but it made
an impression on me. It was very much talked
about, it was talked about for years and years after.
There was a question of exhuming the body. They
decided that it was too late. At that time, he had
been buried for months. They said that …”
“That a native … with a kris … because
of a woman…?”
“Yes; and they said more than that. They said
that Takma had been to the pasangrahan that
evening and that Grandmamma…. But what’s
the use of talking about it? What can it matter
to you? Elly’s as white as a sheet—child, how pale
you look!—and Lot is shivering all over his body,
though it happened so long ago.”
“Should you say that those old people …
are hiding something?”
“Probably,” said Pauws. “Come, let’s have
some champagne and not talk about it any more.
They themselves have forgotten it all by this time.
When you get as old as that …”
“You become dulled,” said Lot.
“So you’re going on to Paris to-morrow?”
“Yes.”
“Shall you look up Aunt Thérèse?”
“Yes, I expect so,” said Elly. “We mustn’t behave
quite like savages.”
“And then?”
“We shall go to Nice.”
“Oh, really? … And …… and will you
see Ottilie there?”
“Of course we shall,” said Lot.
“That’s right, that’s right…. Yes, how can
you expect a family like ours to keep up a circle of
decent acquaintances? … Ottilie writes to me
now and again…. She’s living with an Italian.
… Why they don’t get married is more than I
can make out.”
“And why should they get married?” asked Lot.
“But, Lot,” said Elly, “you and I did!”
“We are more conventional than Ottilie. I am
more conventional than Ottilie ever was. I should
never have dared to suggest to you not to get married.
Ottilie is more thorough than I.”
“She’s a thorough fine girl … and a devilish
handsome woman,” said Pauws.
“Now she’s like you.”
“But a good-looking edition!” said the old
gentleman, chaffingly. “Here, Elly, have some more
pate. But why they don’t want to get married I
can’t and never shall make out. After all, we have
all of us got married.”
“But how?” said Lot.
“I must say you’re not defending marriage very
vigorously on your wedding-day!”
“Ottilie has seen so many unhappy marriages all
around her.”
“That’s what she writes. But I don’t consider
that a reason. Hang it all, when a man falls in
love, he goes and gets married! He gets married
by the mayor and by the parson…. Yes, to tell
you the truth, I think it was rather feeble of you
two not to get married in church.”
“But, Papa, you surely don’t attach importance
to having your marriage blessed by a parson!”
“No more I do, but still one does it. It’s one
of the things one does. We’re not quite a law unto
ourselves.”
“No, but all social laws are being changed.”
“Well, you can say what you please: I stick to
it that you have to get married. By the mayor and
by the parson. You two have been married by the
mayor; but Ottilie refuses to be married at all. And
I’m expected to think it natural and enlightened and
I don’t know what. I can’t do it. I’m sorry for
her sake. It’s all very well: she’s a great artist and
can behave differently from an ordinary woman; but,
if one fine day she returns to our ordinary circles,
she’ll find that she’s made herself impossible….
How would you have friends and acquaintances
gather round such a family?”
“They don’t gather; and I’m glad of it. I have
the most charming acquaintances in Italy, friends
who …”
“Children, you may be right. Ottilie may be
right not to get married at all; and you may be
right to have been married only by the mayor.”
“At any rate,” said Elly, “I never thought that,
though there was no reception, we should have such
a cosy little supper.”
“And such a nice one,” said Lot. “Elly, these
tarts are heavenly!”
“Only we oughtn’t to have sat rooting up past
things,” said the old gentleman. “It makes Lot’s
flesh creep. Look at the fellow eating tarts! It’s
just what your mother used to do. A baby, a regular
baby!”
“Yes, I’m a baby sometimes too, but not so much
as Mamma.”
“And is she going to England now?”
“She promised me not to. But her promise
doesn’t mean much. We shall be so long away; we
shall be in Italy all through the winter. There’s one
thing makes me feel easier: Mamma has no money;
and I went to the bank before I left and asked them,
if Mamma came for money, to make up a story and
persuade her that it couldn’t be done, that there
was no money….”
“But she draws … she always did.”
“The manager told me that he would help me,
that he wouldn’t let her have any money.”
“Then she’ll get it just the same.”
“From whom?”
“I don’t know, but she’ll get it. She always gets
it, I don’t know how….”
“But, Papa!”
“Yes, my boy, you can be as indignant as you
please: I am speaking from experience. How often
haven’t I had questions about money with Mamma !
First there was none; and then, all of a sudden,
there it was! …”
“Mamma is bad at figures and she is untidy.
Then she finds some money in her cupboard.”
“Yes, I know all about it: in the old days she
was always finding something in her cupboard. A
good thing, that she goes on finding it. Still, we
should never have parted because of money. If it
hadn’t been for that damned Trevelley, we might
still … But, when Mamma had once set her
heart on anybody, then … Don’t let’s talk
about it…. Look here, you know this old photograph.
It’s charming, isn’t it, Elly? Yes, that’s how
she used to look. I’ve never been able to forget her.
I’ve never loved any one else. I’m an old fellow
now, children, but … but I believe that I’m
still fond of her…. I sometimes think that it’s
past, that it’s all past and done with; and yet, sometimes,
old as I am, I still suffer from it and feel
rotten…. I believe I’m still fond of her….
And, if Mamma had had a different character and
a different temper and if she hadn’t met Trevelley
….. But there are so very many ‘ifs’ in the case.
… And, if she hadn’t met Trevelley, she would
have met Steyn just the same…. She would
always have met somebody…. Come, Elly,
pour out the coffee. Will you have chartreuse or
benedictine? And stay on and talk a bit, cosily. Not
about old things: about young things, young things;
about yourselves, your plans, Italy…. It’s not
late yet; it’s barely half-past ten…. But, of
course, you’re only this moment married….
Well, I’ll see you to your hotel…. Shall we
walk? It’s no distance…. Let your old father
see you to your hotel and give you a good-night kiss
at the door and wish you happiness, every happiness
dear children!”
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