Old People and the Things that Pass/Chapter XXVIII

by Louis Couperus

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.