CHAPTER XVIII
INA D’HERBOURG was waiting for them in the
little house of her son-in-law and daughter, Frits
and Lily van Wely: Frits, a callow little officer;
Lily, a laughing, fair-haired little mother, up again
pluckily after her confinement. There were the two
children, Stefanus a year and Antoinetje a fortnight
old; the monthly nurse, fat and pompous;
the maid-of-all-work busy with the little boy; the
twelve-o’clock lunch not cleaned away yet; a bustle
of youth and young life: one child crowing, the
other screaming, the nurse hushing it and filling the
whole house with her swelling figure. The maid let
the milk catch, opened a window; there was a
draught; and Ina cried:
“Jansje, what a draught you’re making! Shut
the window, shut the window, here are Uncle and
Aunt! …”
And Jansje, who knew that Uncle Anton and
Aunt Stefanie were godfather and godmother, flew
to the door, leaving the milk to boil over, forgetting
to close the window, with the result that the old
people were received amidst a cold hurricane which
made Aunt Stefanie, whose throat was already irritated
by Anton’s smoke, cough still more and
mumble:
“It’s not the thing, a draught like this; such a
draught! ”
The fire which Jansje had lighted in the little
drawing-room had gone out again; and Lily and
Frits, wishing above all to make things pleasant for
the old people, now brought them back again to the
dining-room, where Jansje, in her eagerness to clear
the table, dropped and broke a plate, whereupon
exclamations from Jansje and reproaches from Lily
and despairing glances of Ina at her son-in-law
Frits. No, Lily did not get that slovenliness from
her, for she took after the IJsselmondes and they
were correct; Lily got it from the Derckszes. But
Frits now understood that he must be very civil
to Uncle Anton, whom he detested, while Lily, whom
Uncle Anton always kissed at very great length,
loathed him, felt sick at the sight of him, for Lily
also had to make up to Uncle Anton, that being
Mamma’s orders. She had married Frits without
any money; but the young couple had very soon
perceived that money was not to be despised; and
the only two from whom there was a trifle to be
expected were Aunt Stefanie and Uncle Anton.
The old man, after being dragged there by his
sister against his will, had recovered his good temper
thanks to the lingering kiss which he had given
Lily and, with his fists like clods upon his knees, sat
chuckling and nodding in admiration when Nurse
held up the yelling brat to him. And, though he
was jealous of young, vigorous people, he found an
emotion in his jealousy, found young, vigorous
people pleasant to look at and considered that that
virile little Frits, that callow, stiff little officer, might
well make a good husband to his wife. He nodded
at Lily and then at Frits, to convey that he understood
them, and Lily and Frits smiled back vacuously.
They did not understand him, but that didn’t
matter: he guessed that they were still very much
in love, even though they had two brats; and he
also guessed that they were keen on his bit of money.
Well, they were quite right from their point of view;
only he couldn’t stand Ina, because, ever since
D’Herbourg had helped him in his trouble with the
little laundry-girl, she treated him with a kindly
condescension, as the influential niece who had saved
her imprudent uncle from that soesah. He grinned,
seeing through all that coaxing pretence and
chuckling to himself that it was all wasted, because
he had no intention of leaving them his bit of money.
But he knew better than to let this out to Stefanie
or any of them; on the contrary, amid all the pretty
things that were said to him, he gloated over the
gin-and-bitters which Frits so attentively set before
him, after helping him off—he wasn’t feeling cold
now, was he?—with his great-coat. He thought
the whole farce most diverting and laughed pleasantly
and benevolently, with the air of a good, kind
uncle who was so fond of the children, while he
thought to himself:
“They sha’n’t get one cent!”
And he chuckled so deliciously at the thought that
he was quite pleased to give the fat monthly nurse
a couple of guilders. They were all taken in—Aunt
Stefanie, Ina and the young couple—when they saw
Uncle behaving so good-naturedly and so generously;
they looked upon him as hooked; and he left
them in the illusion, which he so cleverly saw
through. What the devil, he thought, in a dull,
gathering rage, did he care about those young
people? Hadn’t they enough with their youth and
their two vigorous bodies, that they must go
coveting his few thousand guilders? And what did
he care about that brat which they had christened
Antoinette after him? He had a horror of newborn
children, though he had sometimes thought
children very nice when they were just a few years
older. Things misted before his eyes, but he
mastered himself in his dull rage and in his slimy
thoughts and behaved benevolently and genially as
the well-off uncle and godfather who was going to
leave all his money to the brat.
“And Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor arrived yesterday,”
said Ina d’Herbourg, with a suppressed
sigh, for she looked upon the Indian relations as
unpresentable. “We said we’d call on them together
to-day, didn’t we, Aunt Stefanie? ”
“That’ll save her a cab-fare,” thought Anton
Dercksz.
“Yes,” said Lily, “we might as well be going
on, don’t you think so, Uncle?”
“Certainly, dear.”
“Frits’ll come on presently, won’t you, after barracks?
I’ll just go and get on my things. I do
think it so nice of you, Uncle Anton, to come and
have a look at the baby. I had begun to despair of
your ever coming, for you had promised me so
long….”
“You see Uncle always keeps his promises,
dear….”
He said it with the appearance of kindliness, put
out his hand as she passed, drew her to him and,
as though under the softening influence of the visit,
gave her another long, lingering kiss. She shuddered
and hurried away. In the passage she met
her husband, buckling on his sword.
“Don’t let that filthy old scoundrel kiss you like
that!” hissed Frits, furiously.
“How can I help it? The brute makes me
sick! …”
He went out, slamming the front-door, thinking
that his young happiness was already being defiled
because they were hard up and had to besmirch
themselves in consequence. Ina, Uncle and Aunt
waited in the dining-room until Lily was
ready.
“Uncle Daan must be very comfortably off,”
said Ina, with glittering eyes. “Papa, who is bound
to know, always refuses to talk about money and
wouldn’t say how much he thought Uncle Daan
had….”
“And how much would you say it was?” asked
Aunt Stefanie.
“Oh, Aunt,” said Ina, with a well-bred glance of
her weary eyes, “I never speak or think about money
and I really don’t know how rich Uncle Daan is
… but still I believe he is worth seven hundred
thousand guilders. What makes them come to Holland
so suddenly, in the winter? Business, Papa
said; and he ought to know. But, as you know,
Papa never says much and never talks about business
or money. But I’ve been wondering to myself,
could Uncle Daan have lost all his money? And
mark my words: if so, Papa will have him on his
hands.”
For Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor, who were unpresentably
Indian, had children of their own; there
were no expectations therefore from that quarter;
and Ina hated them with a profound hatred and,
jealous of their wealth, spoke as much ill of them
as she dared.
“Should you say so?” asked Aunt Stefanie.
“They’ve always been in business together,” said
Ina, “so, if Uncle Daan has lost his money, Papa
is sure to have him on his hands.”
“But, if he’s worth seven hundred thousand
guilders?” asked Anton Dercksz.
“Yes, in that case,” said Ina, covetously. “But
perhaps he hasn’t seven hundred thousand. I don’t
know. I never talk about money; and what other
people have is le moindre de mes soucis.”
Lily came down, looking the sweetest of little fair-haired
women in her fur boa; and the four of them
went to the cab, while Jansje created a fresh draught
by opening the door too wide.
And Ina insisted that Uncle Anton should sit in
the front seat, beside Aunt Stefanie, and she and
Lily with their backs to the horse, while Uncle Anton,
with pretended gallantry, tried to resign the place
of honour to her, though he was glad that she did
not accept it. All that family was only a tie, which
bound you without doing you the least good. There
was that old bird of a Stefanie, who had dragged
him from his reading, his warm room, his pipe, his
Suetonius and his pleasant reverie, first to look at
a brat to whom he wasn’t going to leave a cent and
next to call at an hotel on a brother who chose to
come from India to Holland in December. All such
unnecessary things; and what thousands of them you
did in your life! There were times when you simply
couldn’t be your own master…. He indemnified
himself by pressing his knees against Lily’s
and feeling the warmth of her fresh young body.
His eyes grew misty.
The cab stopped at the big pension where Uncle
Daan was accustomed to stay when he came home
from India. They were at once shown in to Aunt
Floor, who had seen them through the window; a
baboe was standing at the door of the room.
“Come inn! Come insside!” cried Aunt Floor,
in a bass voice and accentuating her consonants.
“How d’ye do, Stefanie? How d’ye do, Anton?
And how d’ye do, Ina … and you, little
Lily: allah, two childr-r-ren alr-r-ready, that little
thing!”
Aunt Floor had not got up to receive them; she
was lying on a sofa and a second baboe was massaging
her huge, fat legs. The girl’s hands glided
to and fro beneath her mistress’ dressing-gown.
“Caughtt cold!” said Aunt Floor, angrily, as
though the others could help it, after renewed words
of welcome on their part and enquiries after the voyage.
“Caughtt cold in the train from Paris. I
assur-r-re you, I’m as stiff as a boar-r-rd. What
came over Dhaan, to want to come to Gholland at
thiss time of year, I cannott make out….”
“Why didn’t you stay behind in India, Aunt?”
asked Ina, well-bred and weary-eyed.
“Not likely! I ssee myself letting Dhaan gho
alone! No, dear, we’re man and wife and where
Uncle Dhaan ghoes I gho. Old people like us belong
to one another…. Dhaan is with Gharold now,
in the other room: your Papa arrived a moment
agho, Ina. Those two are talking bissiness of course.
I asked Dhaan, ‘Dhaan, what on ear-r-rth do you
want to gho to Gholland for?’ ‘Bissiness!’ says
Dhaan. Nothing but bissiness, bissiness. I don’t
understand it: you can always wr-r-rite about bissiness.
Year after year that confounded bissiness;
and nothing ghoes r-r-right: we’re as poor as r-r-rats.
… There, Saripa, soeda, that’s enough: I’m as
stiff as a boar-r-rd all the same.”
The two baboes left the room; the anthracite-stove
glowed like an oven, red behind its little mica
doors. Aunt Floor had drawn herself up with a
deep sigh and was now sitting: her fat, yellow face,
with the Chinese slanting eyes, loomed like a full
moon from out of the hair, still black, which went
back, smooth and flat, to a large kondé; and there
was something of a mandarin about her as she
sat, with her legs wide apart in the flannel dressing-gown
and her fat, swollen little hands on her round
knees, just as Anton Dercksz often used to sit. Her
sunken breast hung like the bosom of a tepèkong
in two billows on her stomach’s formidable curve;
and those rounded lines gave her an idol-like
dignity, as she now sat erect, with her stiff, angry
mandarin-face. From the long lobes of her ears hung
a pair of enormous brilliants, which gleamed round
her with startling brightness and did not seem to
belong to her attire—the loose flannel bag—so much
as to her own being, like a jewel set in an idol. She
was not more than sixty; she was the same age as
Ottilie Steyn de Weert.
“And is old Mamma well? … It’s nice of
you to have come,” she said, remembering that she
had not yet said anything amiable to her relations.
Her gelatinous mass now shook more genially on
the sofa, while around her sat Stefanie, with her
wrinkled witch-face; Anton, who recollected Floor
forty years ago, when she was still a strapping young
nonna, a nonna with Chinese blood in her veins,
which gave her an exotic attraction for the men;
Ina d’Herbourg, very Dutch and correct, blinking
her eyes with a well-bred air; and the fair-haired
little wife, Lily.
“Why dhoesn’t Dhaan come?” exclaimed Aunt
Floor. “Lily, gho and see what’s become of your
gr-r-randpapa and your uncle.”
“I’ll go, Aunt,” said Ina d’Herbourg. “You stay
here, dear. She mustn’t walk about much yet,
Aunt.”
And Ina, who was curious to see the rooms which
Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor occupied, rose and went
through Aunt’s bedroom, with a quick glance at the
trunks. One of the baboes was busy hanging up
dresses in a wardrobe.
“Where are the gentlemen, baboe?”
“In the study, njonja.”
The baboe pointed the way to Ina through the
conservatory. Well, they were handsome and no
doubt expensive rooms. Ina knew that the pension
was not a cheap one; and Uncle Daan and Aunt
Floor would hardly be poor as “r-r-rats.” So Uncle
had his own bedroom and a study besides. Papa
was with him now and they were doubtless talking
business, for they were jointly interested in various
undertakings. At home Papa never talked about
business, vouchsafed no information, to Ina’s great
despair…. She heard their voices. And she
was thinking of creeping up quietly through the conservatory—who
knew but that she might overhear
some detail which would tell her of the state of
Uncle Daan’s fortune?—from sheer innocent curiosity,
when she suddenly stopped with a start. For
she had heard Uncle Daan’s voice, which had not
changed during the five years since she had seen
Uncle, exclaim:
“Harold, have you known it all this time?”
“Ssh!” she heard, in her father’s voice.
And Uncle Daan repeated, in a whisper:
“Have you known it all this time?”
“Don’t speak so loud,” said Harold Dercksz,
in a hushed tone. “I thought I heard somebody….”
“No, it’s the baboe clearing up … and she
doesn’t understand Dutch….”
“Speak low for all that, Daan,” said Harold
Dercksz. “Yes, I’ve known it all this time!”
“All the time?”
“Yes, sixty years.”
“I never … I never knew it.”
“Speak low, speak low! And is she dead now?”
“Yes, she’s dead.”
“What did you say her name was?”
“Ma-Boeten.”
“That’s it: Ma-Boeten. I was a child of thirteen.
She was Mamma’s maid and used to look
after me too.”
“It was her children who began to molest me.
She told her son about it: he is a mantri in the
rent-office.”
“Yes.”
“He’s a damned villain. I gave him money.”
“That was right…. But, you see, Daan,
it’s so long ago now.”
“Yes, it’s a very long time ago.”
“Don’t speak about it to Floor.”
“No, never, never. That’s why it’s just as well
she came with me. If she had stayed at Tegal, that
damned villain might have … Yes, it’s certainly
a very long time ago.”
“And it’s passing…. It’s passing….:
A little longer and …”
“Yes, then it will all be past…. But to think
that you, Harold, should have known it all this
time!”
“Not so loud, not so loud! I hear something
in the conservatory….”
It was Ina’s dress rustling. She had heard with
a beating heart, tortured with curiosity. And she
had not understood a word, but she remembered
the name of the dead baboe, Ma-Boeten.
She now deliberately rustled the silk of her skirt,
pretended to have just come through the conservatory,
threw open the doors, stood on the
threshold:
“Uncle Daan! Uncle Daan!”
She saw the two old men sitting, her father and
his brother. They were seventy-three and seventy.
They had not yet been able to recover their ordinary
expression and relax the tense dismay of their old
faces, which had gazed with blinded eyes into the
distant past. Ina thought them both looking ghastly.
What had they been talking about? What was it
that they were hiding? What had Papa known
for sixty years? What had Uncle Daan only known
for such a short time? … And she felt a shiver
going along her, as of something clammy that went
trailing by.
“I’ve come to look for you, Uncle Daan!” she
exclaimed, with an affectation of cordiality. “Welcome
to Holland, Uncle, welcome! You’re not
lucky with the weather: it’s bleak and cold. You
must have been very cold in the train. Poor Aunt
Floor is as stiff as a board…. Uncle Anton is
there too and Aunt Stefanie; and my Lily came
along with us. I’m not interrupting you … in
your business?”
Uncle Daan kissed her, answered her in bluff,
genial words. He was short, lean, bent, tanned,
Indian in his clothes; a thin grey tuft of hair and
the cut of his profile gave him a look of a parrot;
and, thanks to this bird-like aspect, he resembled his
sister Stefanie. Like her, he had quick, beady eyes,
which still trembled with consternation, because of
what he had been discussing with his brother Harold.
He clawed a few papers together, crammed them
into a portfolio, to give the impression that he and
Harold had been talking business, and said that they
were coming. They went back with Ina to the
sitting-room and greetings were exchanged between
Uncle Daan and those who had come to welcome
him.
“Aunt Floor knows nothing,” thought Ina, remembering
how Aunt had just spoken about her
coming to Holland.
Why had they come? What was the matter?
What was it that Papa had known for sixty years
and Uncle Daan for only such a short time? Was
that why he had come to Holland? Had it anything
to do with money: a legacy to which they were
entitled? … Yes, that was it, a legacy: perhaps
they would still become very rich. Did Aunt Stefanie
know about it? Uncle Anton? Aunt Ottilie? Grandmamma?
Mr. Takma? … What was it? And,
if it was a legacy, how much? … She was burning
with curiosity, while she remained correct, even
more correct than she was by nature, in contrast with
the Indian unconstraint of Uncle Daan—in his slippers—and
the Chinese tepèkong that was Aunt
Floor, with her bosom billowing down upon her
round stomach. She was burning with curiosity,
while her eyes glanced wearily, while she made well-bred
efforts to conceal her eager longing to find out.
And stories were told that did not interest her.
Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor talked about their
children: Marinus, who was manager of a big sugar-factory
and lived near Tegal, with a large family
of his own; Jeanne—”Shaan,” as Aunt called her—the
wife of the resident of Cheribon; Dolf unmarried,
a magistrate. She, Ina d’Herbourg, did
not care a jot about the cousins, male or female,
would rather never see them: they were such an
Indian crew; and she just made herself pleasant,
condescendingly, but not too much so, pretending to
be interested in the stories of Clara, Marinus’
daughter, who was lately married, and Emile,
“Shaan’s” son, who was so troublesome.
“Yes,” said Aunt Floor, “and here we are, in
Gholland, in this r-r-rotten pension … for bissiness,
nothing but bissiness … and yes, kassian,
we’re still as poor as r-r-rats! What am I to do
here for five months? I shall never stand it, if
this weather keeps on. Luckily, I’ve got Tien
Deysselman and Door Perelkamp”—these were two
old Indian ladies—”and they’ll soon look me up.
They wr-r-rote to me to bring them some Chinese
cards and I’ve brought twenty packs with me: that’ll
help me get through the five months….”
And Aunt Floor glared out of her angry old
mandarin-face at her husband, “Dhaan.”
No, thought Ina, Aunt Floor did not know about
the legacy. Perhaps it wasn’t a legacy. But then
what was it? …
She and Lily went back in the cab that came for
Harold; Stefanie drove Anton home in hers. Ina at
once went in search of her husband: she must consult
somebody and she knew of no one better. She
found him in his office:
“Leopold, can I speak to you?” she asked.
“I have a consultation presently,” he said, consequentially.
She knew that he was lying, that he had nothing
to do. She sat down quietly, without removing her
cloak or hat.
“Leopold …”
She frightened him.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“We must find out why Uncle Daan and Aunt
Floor have come to Holland.”
“Goodness gracious!” he exclaimed. “Papa’s
affairs haven’t gone wrong, have they?”
“I don’t know, I don’t think so; but there’s something
that’s brought Uncle Daan over.”
“Something? What?”
“I don’t know, but there’s something: something
that Papa has known for sixty years, ever since he
was a child of thirteen. Uncle Daan has only known
it a little while and apparently has come to Holland
to consult Papa.”
“How do you know?”
“I know: take it from me that I know. And I
know more besides.”
“What is that?”
“That Aunt Floor does not know and that Uncle
Daan does not mean to tell her. That Grandmamma’s
old baboe was called Ma-Boeten and that
she’s dead. That her son is a mantri at Tegal and
that Uncle Daan has given him money. That’s all
I know.”
They looked at each other. Both of them were
very pale.
“What an incoherent story I” said Leopold
d’Herbourg, barrister and solicitor, with a consequential
shrug of the shoulders.
Ina, well-bred as usual, cast up her eyes wearily:
“It’s very important. I don’t know what it is,
but it’s important and I want to know. Could it
have to do with a legacy?”
“A legacy?” echoed D’Herbourg, failing to see.
“Something that’s due to us? Could that mantri
know things which, if Uncle Daan gave him
money …”
“Perhaps,” said D’Herbourg, “it has to do with
money which Papa and Uncle Daan owe …”
This time, Ina turned very pale:
“No,” she exclaimed, “that would be …”
“You can never tell. The best thing is not to
talk about it. Besides, Papa won’t let anything out,
in any case.”
But Ina’s curiosity was too much for her. She
nodded her head in her well-bred way, under the
white bird of paradise in her hat:
“I must know,” she said.
“How will you find out?”
“You might speak to Papa, ask him what’s depressing
him….”
“What’s depressing him? But I’ve never known
him to be anything but depressed, during all the
twenty-three years that we’ve been married. Papa
never talks to me; he even employs another solicitor
for his business, as you know.”
“Then I will ask Papa.”
“That won’t be any good.”
“I must know,” said Ina, rising. “I don’t see a
legacy in it, after what you’ve said. Oh dear, oh
dear, who knows what it can be? Money perhaps
which …”
“It’s certainly money.”
“Which Papa and Uncle Daan ….”
“May have to repay, if …”
“Do you think so?”
“They do so much business in common. That
leads to all sorts of complications. And it won’t be
the first time that men who do a great deal of
business … ”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Perhaps it’s better not to mix yourself up in
it at all. You would do wiser to be careful. You
never know what hornets’ nest you’re bringing about
your ears.”
“It happened sixty years ago. It dates sixty years
back. What an immense time!” said Ina, hypnotized
by the thought.
“That’s certainly very long ago. The whole thing
is out of date!” said D’Herbourg, pretending to
be indifferent, though inwardly alarmed.
“No,” said Ina, shaking the white bird of paradise,
“it’s something that is not yet past. It can’t
be. But Papa hoped that, before very long …”
“What?”
“It would be past.”
They both looked very pale:
“Ina, Ina, do be careful!” said D’Herbourg.
“You don’t know what you’re meddling with!”
“No!” she said, like a woman in a trance.
She must know, she was determined to know. She
resolved to speak to her father that evening.
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