The Later Life. Louis Couperus

himself that time: his wife, at any rate, was his wife; his wife was Baroness van der Welcke; and he couldn’t stand it, that they should insult his wife and before his face too; and, if Paul had not prevented him, he would have struck the snobbish ass in the face, thrashed him, thrashed him, thrashed him! His blood still boiled at the thought of it. … Well, there it was! Paul had held him back … but still, he would have liked to challenge the fellow, to have fought a duel with him! … He grinned—pedalling like mad, bending over like a record-breaker at the last lap of a bicycle-race—he grinned now when he thought of the despair of the whole family, because their revered brother-in-law Van Naghel, “his excellency,” whom they all looked up to with such reverence, might have to fight a duel with a brother-in-law who was already viewed with sufficient disfavour at the Hague! … Well, it hadn’t come off. They had all interfered; but it wasn’t for that reason, but because dear old Mamma van Lowe had taken to her bed—and also for Addie’s sake—that he had not insisted on the duel. Yes, those Dutchmen: they never wanted to fight if they could help it! He, Van der Welcke, would have liked to fight, though Van Naghel had been a thousand times his brother-in-law, a thousand times colonial secretary. And it wasn’t only that the whole family had thought the very idea of a duel so dreadful; but his wise son had interfered, had taken up a very severe attitude to his father, had reproached him because he—still “a young man,” as Addie put it in his amusing way—wanted to insult and strike a man of Uncle van Naghel’s age, even though it was for Mamma’s sake! And Addie had gone to Frans van Naghel, the eldest son, the undergraduate, of whom he was very fond; and Frans was furious, wanted to take his father’s place and fight in his stead. But Addie had said that Papa was in the wrong, that Papa had lost his self-control; and he had calmed Frans and told him, his father, positively, that it was his, Van der Welcke’s, duty to apologize to Uncle van Naghel! That boy, that boy, thought Van der Welcke, thinking half-angrily of his son’s perpetual tutelage. It was really too silly: if he didn’t look out, the brat would twist him round his little finger entirely. A little chap like that, a schoolboy of fourteen … and yet the beggar had managed so that Frans did not challenge Van der Welcke and that Van der Welcke had sent Van Naghel a note of apology, a note the thought of which made him boil even now, made him rant and curse at the thought that he had let himself be persuaded by the fourteen-year-old schoolboy. And then he had had to express his regret to Mamma van Lowe into the bargain; but that he didn’t mind, for she was an old dear and he thought it too bad that the wretched affair should have made her ill. And so the fourteen-year-old schoolboy had succeeded in hushing up a Hague scandal, just like a grown-up man. … When you came to think of it, it was simply absurd, incredible; you would never have believed it if you read it in a book; and it was the positive truth: the schoolboy had prevented the cabinet-minister or his son from fighting a duel with the schoolboy’s father! … And now Van der Welcke had to choke with laughter at the thought of it; and, as he spurted along the roads, like a professional, with his back bent into an arch, he roared with laughter all by himself and thought:

      “Lord, what an extraordinary beggar he is!”

      But the boy’s mother, after scene upon scene with him, the father; his mother, furious that her husband should have dared to raise his hand against that revered brother-in-law, “his excellency;” his mother, driven out of her senses, with every nerve on edge after all that she had had to endure that Sunday: his mother the boy had not been able to restrain; a woman is always more difficult to manage than a man; a mother is not half so easy as a father! Constance, after one of those scenes which followed one upon the other as long as the atmosphere remained charged with electricity, had said:

      “I’m sick of it all; I’m going away; I’m going abroad!”

      And even the fact that she was leaving her son behind her did not bring her to reason. She packed her trunks, told Truitje to keep house for the master and Master Addie as she herself used to and went away, almost insolently, hardly even saying good-bye to Addie. … They thought at first that she would do something rash, goodness knows what, and were anxious because they didn’t know where Constance had gone; but the next day there was a telegram from Paris to reassure them, telling them that Constance was going to Nice and meant to stay some time. Then letters came from Nice and they had no more fears, nor had Mamma van Lowe; they all thought the change might even do her good; and she continued pretty sensible. She wrote to her mother, to Addie; she wrote to Truitje, impressing upon her to look after the house well and after the master and Master Addie and to see that everything was going on all right when her mistress returned. And this sensible, housewifely letter had done more than anything to reassure Mamma van Lowe and the two of them; and now they didn’t grudge Constance, Mamma, her trip, for once in a way. But it was an expensive amusement. Constance, it was true, had taken some money of her own with her; but still, since they had come to the Hague, Van der Welcke no longer made anything out of wine- and insurance-commissions; he was no longer an agent for the Brussels firms; and they had not much to live on and had to be very economical. And so Van der Welcke, after seven weeks had passed, was obliged to tell Addie that it wouldn’t do for Mamma to stay on at Nice, in an expensive hotel, and that he had better write to her. And the schoolboy had written asking his mother to come back now, telling his mother that that would have to do and that there was no money left. And Constance was coming home that evening.

      Van der Welcke was in good spirits all day, perhaps through the after-effects of his dream—he kept seeing those sands before his eyes—and, pedalling along like mad, he sat shaking in his saddle, thinking of that young scamp of his, who ruled over his father and mother. It wasn’t right, it was too absurd, soon they would neither of them be able to call their souls their own; but the boy was so sensible and he was always the little peacemaker, who settled everything. Yes, the scamp was the joy of his life; and really, really, except for the boy, everything was unrelieved gloom. … If only he could buy a motor-car, or at least a motor-cycle. He must find out one day, just ask what a motor-cycle cost. … But, apart from that, what was there? Especially now that they two—Constance in particular—had wanted at all costs to “rehabilitate” themselves, as Constance called it, in Hague society and now that they had failed utterly through that scene with Van Naghel, things were stodgier than ever … with no one to come and see them but Van Vreeswijck, with no outside interests whatever. It was his fault, his fault, his wife kept reproaching him in their scenes, almost with enjoyment, revelling in her revenge, because he, not long ago, had reproached her that it was her fault, her fault that they were buried away there, “cursing their luck in the Kerkhoflaan.” And he was sorry too because of Marianne: she used to come and dine once in a way; when Van Vreeswijck was coming, Constance would ask either Paul or Marianne, to make four; and, now that he had insulted her father, she wouldn’t come again, they were on unfriendly terms not only with the parents, but also with the daughter … and with the sons, to the great regret of Addie, who was very fond of Frans and Henri. … His fault! His fault! Perhaps it was his fault, but he couldn’t always restrain himself, control himself, master himself. Possibly, if he had stuck to his career, he would have learnt to do it, after his training in diplomatic reserve … or else he would always have remained an indifferent diplomatist. That might have happened too; it was quite possible! … Yes, he was sorry … because of Marianne. She was a nice girl, so natural, so unaffected, in spite of her worldly environment; and he liked her eyes, her voice. He was sorry … because of Marianne; but it couldn’t be helped: although he had written to her father, she would not come to the house again, she would never come again, he thought.

      And he almost sighed, sadly, he did not know why, no doubt because life would be still more stodgy without Marianne’s eyes and voice. But, after all, it was only once every four or five weeks that she used to come and dine; so what did it really matter? What did it matter? No, really nothing mattered; really, the whole world was a sickening, stodgy business, rottenly managed. … Oh, if he could only have bought a motor! The longing was so intense, so violent that he was almost tempted to ask his father for one straight out. And now, while he spurted home after his long ride, he hummed between his teeth, to the rhythm of the flying wheels, a song which he suddenly made up for himself:

      “A motor-car—and a motor-car: Ottocar in a motor-car—Ottocar in a motor-car!”

      And burning with his longing for the unattainable, he pedalled away—Ottocar