CHAPTER XXVIII
THAT afternoon, Lot and Elly went to Grandmamma’s.
Since the evening when Mamma Ottilie had told
her of Dr. Roelofsz’ death, the old woman had not
left her bed. Dr. Thielens called every day, declaring
that she was really remarkably well: she was not
suffering from any complaint whatever; she was
perhaps suffering from old age; her brain was perfectly
clear; and he was amazed at that splendid
constitution, the constitution of a strong woman
who had possessed a great deal of blood and a
magnificent vitality.
When Anna opened the door in the Nassaulaan,
just as Lot and Elly rang, they found her talking
in the passage to Steyn.
“I’ve come to see how Mamma is,” he was saying.
“Do come in, please!” said Anna. “There’s a
nice fire in the morning-room.”
The old servant shooed the cat to the kitchen.
She did not care for chatting in the passage, but
thought it pleasant in the morning-room, when the
relations were waiting there or came to ask for news;
and she at once brought out her brandy-cherries:
“That’s nice and comforting in this cold weather,
Mr. Lot and Mrs. Elly…. Yes, the old lady
has been in bed ever since…. Ah, who can tell
if it’s not the beginning of the end! … Still,
Dr. Thielens is pretty satisfied…. And, you
know, Mrs. Thérèse is here too!” she added in a
whisper.
“Oh?” said Lot. “When did she come?”
“Yesterday…. And the mistress saw her at
once … and she’s very nice, I must say …
but, you see … she’s on her knees all day by the
mistress’ bed, saying her prayers … and whether
that’ll do the mistress any good, who was never
very religious ,… And then those Catholic
prayers, they last so long, so long … I wonder
Mrs. Thérèse doesn’t get stiff knees from it: I
couldn’t stand it, that I’m sure of…. Yes, yes,
Mrs. Thérèse is here: she sleeps at an hotel, but
she’s here all day praying … and I believe she
would have liked to stay last night … but the
companion said that, if the mistress got worse, she’d
ask the people next door to telephone at once: they
have a telephone; the mistress would never have one.
… So Mrs. Thérèse went away, but she was
here by seven o’clock this morning, before I myself
was up! … Mr. Daan called yesterday, so did
Mrs. Ina; they saw Mrs. Thérèse; I don’t think
she’s calling on any of the family: she says she
hasn’t the time—likely enough, with all that praying—and
she thought she could see the family
down here, where I always keep up a good fire.
… Yes, I asked Dr. Thielens: ‘Doctor,’ I said,
‘is it a good thing that Mrs. Thérèse keeps praying
all day long by the mistress’ bed?’ But the doctor,
who had seen the mistress, said, ‘Well, it doesn’t
seem to excite her: on the contrary, she is very quiet
and pleased to see Mrs. Thérèse again … for
the last time perhaps!’ … Ah, Mrs. Elly and
Mr. Lot, it’s a sad home-coming for you! …
And who do you think I saw as well? Your brother,
Mr. Lot …”
“Hugh …?”
“Well, I just call him Mr. Hugo: I can’t manage
that English name. He came with Mrs. Ottilie; and
it’s a pleasure to look at them…. Not that I
think any the less of you, Mr. Lot, far from it; but
Mr. Hugo is a handsome fellow, so broad-shouldered
and such a jolly face, with his clean-shaven
upper-lip, and such nice eyes! … Yes, I can
understand that Mrs. Ottilie dotes on him: she
looked so pretty too, beside her son…. Yes,
it’s wonderful how young she looks, though she is
sixty: you’d never think it, to look at her….
You mustn’t mind my speaking so freely of your
wife, Mr. Frans … nor about Mr. Hugo either,
you mustn’t be angry. I know you’re not very fond
of him; and he’s a sly one, that I do believe; but he
makes you like him and no mistake about it….
Well, you always got on with Mr. Lot, didn’t you,
Mr. Frans? … And now I’d better tell Mrs.
Thérèse that you’re here….”
Old Anna tripped away and up the stairs and
Steyn asked:
“Haven’t you decided yet what you’re going to
do?”
“No,” said Lot.
“We shall stay in the Mauritskade till the house
is sold,” said Elly.
“I’m glad I saw you to-day,” said Steyn. “I’d
have come to you otherwise: I wanted to speak to
you, Lot…. Perhaps I can do so before any
one conies….”
“What is it, Steyn?”
“I wanted to tell you of a step I’ve determined
to take. You won’t like it, but it’s inevitable. I’ve
spoken to Mamma, as much as it’s possible to speak
to her…. I sha’n’t go on living with her,
Lot.”
“Are you going to get divorced?” cried Lot.
“That I don’t mind: if Mamma wants to, I’m
agreeable…. Lot, you were talking the other
day of the needless sacrifice which I was making in
living with your mother….”
“I meant …”
“Yes, I know, you meant that I could just go
away, without a divorce…. I shall certainly do
that. I can’t go on sacrificing myself, because …
well, there’s no need for it now. Since you left to
get married, the house is simply a hell. You brought
a certain peace and quiet at times; you managed to
ensure a little harmony at meals. But that’s all
gone now…. For you to come and live with
us … I shouldn’t even wish it. It would mean
a wretched life for Elly. Besides … Mamma
has money enough now to go where she likes …
and, now that she has money, Hugh remains with
her…. I asked her to talk as little as she
could about the legacy and I don’t believe that she
goes chattering about it either; but she has told
Hugh everything….”
“I know she has,” said Lot. “I’ve seen Hugh;
and he said, ‘Mamma’s had a good bit left her.'”
“Exactly … and he remains with her and
she with him. Formerly I used to think, if I go
leaving her, then I’m leaving her alone with you;
and money was scarce on both sides: I could never
bring myself to do it then; but now, Lot, I shall
go my own way.”
“But, Steyn, you can’t abandon Mamma to
Hugh’s mercies! ”
“Can’t I?” cried Steyn, flaring up. “And what
would you have me do? Look on? Look on while
she squanders her money on that boy? What can
I do to stop it? Nothing! I refuse to give the
least impression that I want to be economical with
her money. Let her throw it away on that boy!
She’s got a hundred thousand: it’ll be finished in a
year. What she’ll do then, I don’t know. But I
consider that I have suffered enough for what was
once my fault. Now, now that she has money and
Hugh, my sacrifice becomes needless…. I’m
going away: that’s certain. If Mamma wants a
divorce, I don’t care; but I’m going. I shall leave
the Hague. I shall go abroad. Perhaps I sha’n’t
see you for a long time. I can’t say…. Lot,
my dear fellow, I’ve stood it all for twenty years;
and my only comfort in my home was yourself. I
have learnt to be fond of you. We are two quite
different natures, but I thank you for what you have
been to me: a friend, a dear friend. If your gentle
nature had not smoothed over all that could be
smoothed over at home, I should never have stood
it for all these twenty years. Now I’m going away,
but with pleasant memories. You were eighteen
years old when I married your mother. You and I
have never had a single harsh word; and the merit
of it is due to you entirely. I’m a rough chap and
I have become very bitter. All the kindness in my
life has come from your side. When you got married …
I really missed you more perhaps than
Mamma did: don’t be angry with me, Elly, for
saying so…. There, perhaps we shall see each
other again … somewhere or other….
Don’t cry, Lot, there’s a good fellow!”
He took Lot in his arms and kissed him as a
father kisses his son. He held him in his embrace
for a moment and then shook him firmly by the
hand:
“Come, Lot, my dear fellow … be a
man! …”
“Poor Mamma!” said Lot.
His eyes were full of tears; he was greatly
moved.
“When are you going?” he asked Steyn.
“To-morrow.”
“At what time?”
“Nine in the morning … for Paris.”
“I’ll come and see you off….”
“So will I, Steyn,” said Elly.
She kissed him.
He turned to go; but there was a ring and Anna
came down the stairs:
“I didn’t dare disturb Mrs. Thérèse,” she said.
“She’s so wrapped up in her prayers that …
Why, look, Mr. Lot: there’s Mamma … and
your English brother! …”
“Damn it!” said Steyn, between his teeth. “I
can’t see her again….”
“Steyn!” said Elly, in a voice of entreaty.
She was sorry for Lot, who sat huddled in a
chair and unable to restrain himself: he was crying,
though he knew that it wasn’t manly.
Anna had opened the door and Ottilie and Hugh
came in. They met Steyn in the passage. He and
she looked each other in the eyes. Hugh’s hand
went to his cap, as in salutation to a stranger. They
passed one another without a word; and Steyn
walked out of the door. That was his leave-taking
of his wife: he never saw her again; and with him
there passed the last remnant of all her life of love.
“I came to see how Mamma is,” she said to Elly,
to Anna. “And Hugh would so much like to see
his grandmother. But Mamma is still in bed, isn’t
she, Anna? …”
She entered the morning-room:
“Ah, Lot! … Why, what’s the matter, my
boy?”
“Nothing, Mummy, nothing….”
“Why are you looking so sad? Have you been
crying?”
“No, Mummy, no…. Nerves a bit unstrung,
that’s all…. Hullo, Hugh! That’s a
thing you don’t suffer from, slack nerves, eh, old
chap? No, I don’t expect you ever cry like an old
woman, as I do….”
Lot mastered himself, but his eyes were full of
sorrow; they looked at his mother and his brother.
… His mother did not care about dress; and
he was struck by the fact that she had had a short
tailor-made skirt built for her in London and a
little simple, black-cloth coat that was moulded to
her still young and slender figure, while her hat
displayed a more youthful curve than he was accustomed
to see on her pretty, grey-blond curly hair.
She was sixty years of age! But she was all smiles;
her smooth, round face, scored by scarce a wrinkle,
was bright and cheerful; and—oh, he knew his
mother so well!—he could see that she was happy.
That was how she looked when she was happy,
with that blue innocence in her eyes…. She was
an old woman, she was sixty; but, when she now
entered beside her English son, she was of no age,
because of a happiness that owed nothing to real
maternal feeling, a happiness due only to a little
affection which her English son bestowed upon her
in words of flattery and caresses. He said coaxing
things to her, roughly; he fondled her, roughly;
and she was happy, she brightened under a new
happiness. Lot she did not miss: he no longer existed
for her … at the moment. She was simply
radiant because she had Hugh by her side. And
Lot, as he saw the two of them, felt a pang pierce his
soul…. Poor Mamma! He had always been
fond of his mother and he thought her so nice and
such fun; and, thanks to his natural gentleness and
tact, they had always got on well together. He
knew that she was fond of him too, even though he
was out of her mind for the moment. She had always
loved Hugh best, of her five children. She had
always loved Trevelley best, of her three husbands.
… Poor, poor Mamma, thought Lot. She had
her bit of money now: what was a hundred thousand
guilders, if it was not properly looked after? What
was a hundred thousand … to Hugh? And,
when that hundred thousand was finished—in …
in a couple of years, perhaps—what would poor
Mamma do then? For then his handsome English
brother, with the bold eyes and the shaven upper-lip,
would not stay with poor Mamma…. And
what would her old age be like then? Poor, poor
Mamma!
“You’re extraordinarily like Mamma, Lot,” said
Hugh.
Yes, he was like his mother: he too was short, had
very nearly her eyes, had very nearly her pretty hair,
had the moulding of her young face…. He
had been vain sometimes of his appearance in his
youth, when he knew that he was a good-looking,
fair-haired little chap. But he was vain no longer;
and, beside Hugh, he felt an old woman, a slack-nerved
old woman…. To be so tall, so broad-shouldered,
so bold-eyed, with such a smiling-selfish
mouth, such a cold heart, such calm, steel muscles
and especially nerves; to care for nothing but your
own comfort and victorious progress; to be able to
live quietly on your mother’s money and, when
that was finished, calmly and quietly to throw your
mother overboard and go your own way: that was
the real sign of a strong attitude towards life! That
meant keeping the world and your emotions under
your thumb! That meant having no fear of what
was coming or of approaching old age! That meant
knowing nothing of nervous dread and never blubbering
like an old woman, a slack-nerved old
woman!
“Yes, Hugh, I’m like Mamma.”
“And Elly’s … like you,” said Hugh.
“And, in a very ugly edition, like Mamma:
at least, so people say, Mummy,” said Elly,
softly.
And she kissed her mother-in-law: she too was
sad, thinking of the old man … and of Steyn
… and of poor Lot….
The bell suddenly rang upstairs, twice: that was
for the companion.
“Is Aunt Thérèse upstairs?” asked Elly.
“I haven’t seen her yet,” said Ottilie. “But
what can it be? …”
“Oh dear, oh dear!” cried Anna, coming from
the kitchen and driving the cat away. “It must
be the mistress again, behaving funnily: you know,
she sees things….”
But the companion came tearing down the stairs,
with a pale face:
“I believe she’s dying!” she exclaimed, “I’m
going next door … to telephone for the doctor….”
“Stay!” said Lot. “I’ll go.”
He took his hat and went out. Dismay hovered
over the house. Mamma, Ottilie, Elly, the companion
and Anna went upstairs.
“You wait here, Hugh,” said Ottilie.
He nodded.
He remained alone in the morning-room, sat
down, amused himself by flinging his cap to the
ceiling and catching it each time it fell…. He
thought that his mother jmild not inherit much
from Grandmother…. There would be beastly
little; and even then it would be divided amon^
many.
He lit a cigarette and, when Lot came back,
opened the door to him, which Anna afterwards
thought very nice of Hugh.
Lot also went upstairs. In the bedroom—the
folding-doors were open, for the sake of the air,
making the bedroom of a piece with the drawing-room
where the old woman usually sat—dismay
hovered, but it was subdued. Only Mamma was
unable to restrain her sobs. It was so unexpected,
she considered. No, she would never have thought
it….
Beside the bed stood Aunt Thérèse. And it
seemed to Lot, when he entered, as though he were
seeing Grandmother herself, but younger….
Aunt Thérèse’s dark Creole eyes gave Lot a
melancholy greeting. Her hand made a gesture
towards the bed, on which the old woman lay, quite
conscious.
Death was coming gradually, without a struggle,
like a light guttering out. Only the breath came a
little faster, panted with a certain difficulty….
She knew that her children were around her, but
did not know which of them. They were children:
so much she knew. And this one, she knew, was
Thérèse, who had come; and she was grateful for
that. Her hand moved over the coverlet; she
moaned and said:
“Thérèse … Thérèse …”
“Yes, Mamma …”
“Thérèse … Thérèse … pray….”
She herself folded her hands.
Thérèse van der Staff knelt down beside the
bed. She prayed. She prayed at great length. The
old woman, with folded hands, lay dying, very
slowly, but calmly…. Mamma Ottilie was
sobbing in Lot’s arms….
There was a ring at the door downstairs.
“That dear Mr. Hugo!” whispered old Anna.
“He’s opening the door!”
It was Dr. Thielens, but there was nothing for
him to do. The old woman had hardly been ill: it
was a light burning out. Since they had told her of
Roelofsz’ death, since she herself had seen Takma
dead, she had not got up and had only still enjoyed,
in gratitude, the one great happiness of seeing her
daughter Thérèse appear so unexpectedly beside
her bed. No one had spoken to her of Takma’s
death, but speaking was not necessary: she had seen
and she knew…. She remembered quite well
that Thérèse had become a Catholic and that she
herself had sometimes longed for the peace of absolution
and the consolation of prayer, which would
be wafted by the saints to the throne of God and
Mary. And she had asked Thérèse to pray, to pray
for her old mother…. She, the mother, did not
know that Thérèse knew: she had forgotten, entirely
forgotten, the fever, many years ago, when she had
been delirious in her daughter’s arms…. And,
now that she was dying, she reflected, gratefully,
that God had been very good to her, notwithstanding
her sinful soul, for no one, no one knew. No
one, no one had ever known. Her children had
never known…. She had suffered punishment,
within herself, the punishment of remorse, borne for
long old years. She had suffered punishment in the
terror which “his” spectre had given her, rising
all bloody in the corner of the room, a few times
during those years, in the corner by the china-cabinet.
Yes, she had suffered punishment! …
But still God had been merciful: no one, no one
had known; no one, no one knew or would ever
know…. Now she was dying, with her hands
folded together; and Thérèse, who knew how to
pray, prayed….
Softly she sighed her breath away, the old
woman; long, long she lay sighing away her breath….
The silence of the room was broken by
Ottilie Steyn’s sobs and by the sighing of the old
woman’s breath…. Out of doors, the thaw
stole down the window-panes like a stream of tears.
“Oh!” Anna wept. “How long the old lady
takes dying! … Hark … there’s a ring!
… That kind Mr. Hugo, the dear boy, he’s a
great help to me, Mrs. Ottilie: listen, he’s opening
the door again! …”
Hugh did in fact open the door; and in quick succession
there entered Harold, Daan and Floor,
Stefanie and Anton, Ina, D’Herbourg and the Van
Welys. Lot had telephoned to them from the
neighbours’ to come, because Grandmamma was
dying. Aunt Adèle also arrived. She came upstairs,
just for a minute, to take a last glance from behind
the bed-curtain at the old woman, and then went
down again. The last sighing breaths pursued her
to the morning-room below. All that she had seen
in that brief moment, was the peacefulness of
the dying mother and, beside her bed, Thérèse,
whom she had not seen for years, praying without
looking up. Downstairs, Harold Dercksz had sunk
into a chair: he was suffering unendurable pains,
his face was twisted with torture and before his eyes
he saw his own deathbed: it would not be long now,
he had suffered too much lately; and it was only his
strength of will that kept him going. Daan Dercksz
stood in front of him and whispered in Harold’s ear:
“Harold … Harold … it is a good
thing that Mamma is dying … and she is
dying peacefully … so it seems….”
Yes, she was dying, dying peacefully….
Beside her bed Thérèse knelt and prayed, Thérèse
who did not know, so Harold thought: nobody
… nobody knew but himself and Daan….
The Thing … the Thing was passing….
Listen, upstairs his mother was sighing away her
last few breaths; and at each breath the Thing
passed, passed farther, trailing its misty veil: leaves
rustled, the thaw poured on as in a stream of tears,
spectres loomed behind the trees, but the Thing
… the Thing was passing! …
Oh, for years, for sixty long years he had seen
the Thing dragging past, so slowly, so lingeringly,
as if it would never pass, as if it would tarry for
ever, too long for a human life yearning for the
end! Sixty years long he had seen it thus, the
Thing; sixty years long it had stared him in the eyes.
… Listen, Mamma was moaning more loudly,
more violently for a while; they could hear Ottilie
sobbing more passionately….
The companion came downstairs. There stood or
sat the children, elderly people all.
“It is over,” she said, softly.
They wept, the old people; they embraced one
another; Aunt Floor screamed:
“Ah! … Kassian! … That poor-r-r,
dhear-r-r Mamma!”
Over the whole house hovered the emotion of
death which had come and was going….
Harold Dercksz gazed before him…. His
eyes of pain stared from his face, but he did not
move in his chair.
The Thing: he saw the terrible Thing! It was
turning at the last bend of its long, long, endless
path….
And it plunged headlong, into an abyss.
It was gone.
Only a mist, like the haze of its nebulous veil,
drifted to and fro before Harold’s eyes.
“O my God!” cried Ina. “Papa’s fainting!”
She caught him in her arms….
The dark evening fell.
One by one, the “children” went upstairs and
looked at their old mother. She lay in the peacefulness
of death; the lined porcelain face made a vague
blur in the shadow against the white of her pillow,
but it was now smooth, untroubled, at rest. And her
hands were folded together: she had died like that.
Thérèse knelt beside the bed.
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