And the hard-braced north-east winds, which had brought the nipping frost with them, came no more; they had passed; and it was no longer the strong, boisterous winds, but the angry winds, the winds that brought with them the clouds of grey melancholy, in eternal steady-blowing sadness, as though in the west, yonder, there were a dark realm of mysterious sorrow, whence blew huge howling cohorts of gigantic woes, titanic griefs, overshadowing the small country and the small people. The sky and the clouds now seemed bigger and mightier than the small country and the small people; the sky now seemed to be the universe; and houses, roads, trees and people, horizons of woods and moors, lastly, human souls all seemed to shrink under the great woes that drowned the small country and the small people from horizon to horizon. Curtains of streaming water cloaked the vistas and a damp fog blurred the distant wavering line of trees; a rainy mist washed out the almost spectral gestures, the silent, despairing movements of the windmill-sails; and the low-lying world, feeble, small, sombre and bowed down, endured the crushing, oppressive force of rain and wind lasting night and day and all day long.

Constance and Brauws were sitting once more in her own sitting-room, which was a replica of the little boudoir in the Kerkhoflaan at the Hague. Along the curving folds of the curtains, through the grey, clouded panes, they watched the grey rain falling, now in vertical streaks, now aslant, driven by the raging wind.

“I so well remember this weather,” he said, “in the old days, when I used to sit chatting with you at the Hague, in your room which was so like this room.”

“Yes,” she said.

“I would come late in the afternoon, find you sitting in the dark and scold you because you had not been out; and we used to talk about all sorts of things....”

“It’s a long time ago.”

“The years fly past. Do you remember, we used to fight a little, both of us, against the years that were overtaking us, against the years that would make us old?”

She laughed:

“Yes,” she said. “We no longer fight against them now. We are old now. We have grown old.”

“We are growing old. And yet what an amount of youth a human being possesses! As we grow older, we always think, ‘Now we are growing old.’ And, when we are older than when we thought that, we feel ... that we have always remained the same as we were from a child.”

“Yes ... a person doesn’t change.”

“Only all his joys and all his sorrows change and become blurred; but we ourselves do not.”

“No, we don’t change. Then why should there be joy and sorrow ... when, after many years, we have remained the same as we were from childhood?”

“Because we remain the same ... and yet do not remain the same.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “I understand what you mean. We remain the same from childhood ... and yet ... yet we change. It is like a game of riddles. I ... I am the same ... and I am changed.”

“I too. My soul still recognizes in itself my former child’s soul ... and yet ... yet I am changed.... Tell me: I believe things are running smoothly with you....”

“Sometimes.”

“Not always?”

“No.”

“I am so glad to see ... that things are going well as between you and Henri.”

“We are growing so old ... Everything gets blunted.”

“No, it’s not only that.”

“No, not only.”

“You have grown used to each other....”

“Without talking about it.”

“You set store by each other by now....”

“Perhaps.... Gradually....”

“Hans is a good sort.”

“Yes, he’s just simply that.”

“And you appreciate this now.”

“I think I do.”

“You both have full lives.”

“Yes. Who would ever have thought it?”

“You have so much to make you happy: Addie always with you....”

“My poor boy!”

“Why do you say that?”

“I am frightened....”

“What of?”

“I don’t know. On days like the last few days, I am sensitive to every sort of fear, I always have been.”

“Have the fears been justified?”

“Sometimes.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“I have sad thoughts.”

“That is sheer melancholy.”

“A melancholy which is a presentiment ... on days like these....”

“And everything is well.”

“Only the material things.”

“Be happy in that your life is so richly filled, both yours and
Hans’.... It’s a life of the richest security ... with all that you do.”

“With all that we do? We do nothing!”

“You do a great deal ... for people who are small!” he smiled.

“For small souls!... Do we do enough?”

“You do a great deal.”

She shook her head:

“I don’t.... Hans does: he is good.”

“Just simply good.... Tell me, is it merely because of the weather that things don’t seem to run smoothly?”

“No, material things aren’t everything.”

“Is it because of Addie?”

“Perhaps. I can’t say. I feel an oppression, here.” She put both her hands to her heart. “It’s always liable to come, a day....”

“Yes.”

“A day of sorrow, illness, wretchedness ... of misfortune ... of disaster.”

“Why should you think that?”

“I often think it: now there’s a misfortune coming, a disaster.... I sit and wait for it.... Oh, I’ve been waiting for it for months!... The children look at me, ask me what’s the matter, whether anything has happened ... with Mathilde.... No, nothing ever happens.... There is no sympathy between us ... but I, I am calm and I wish her every good ... my son’s wife....”

“You must get over that oppression.”

“It can’t be argued away.”

“You must be happy. I have been here for some days now. I see nothing but love all around you.”

“From her side?”

“Well, perhaps not from hers.”

“She always remains a stranger.”

“Then win her to you.”

“It’s very difficult, when there is no sympathy.”

“But, apart from that, there is nothing but love around you. Really, you are wrapped about with silent happiness.”

She shook her head:

“They are fond of me ... but there are things slumbering....”

“There are always slumbering things. Happiness without shadow doesn’t exist. And one even doubts whether it ought to.”

“No, perhaps not ... for later, for later. But ... there are things that slumber, silent, sorrowful things.”

“I see you can’t overcome it.”

“No. I am glad to see you again.”

“After so many years. And I too am glad to see that things are going so well with you ... even though there are sorrowful things that slumber.”

“There are many good things.”

“There is much love ... and much living for others.”

She laughed softly:

“So simply ... with no great effort!”

“When we are not great ... why should we act as though we were? We are small; and we act accordingly. If we do good in a small way ... isn’t that a beginning?”

“A striving....”

“For later.”

“Yes, for later.”

“I, I can’t even say ... that I am doing good in a small way.”

“Tell me about yourself.”

“There is nothing to tell. Thinking, living, seeking ... always seeking.... There has been nothing besides.”

“Then do as we do,” she laughed, softly. “Do good in a small way ... as you say that we do.”

“I shall try.... But I am disheartened. I admire you and I envy you.”

“I ... I am disheartened. I am sometimes quite dejected. I should like to live quietly, with a heap of books around me. I ... I’m giving it up.”

“The struggle?”

“Yes, the struggle to seek and find. Little by little, it has conquered me. Can you understand me? You ... you have conquered it.”

“What have I conquered?”

“You understand.”

“You rank that conquest too high.... And you, why are you conquered?”

“Because ... because I have never achieved anything.... I may sometimes have found, but never, never achieved.... And now I want to rest ... with a heap of books around me ... and, if I can, follow your example ... and do good in a small way.”

“I will help you,” she said, jesting, very sadly.

They were silent; and between her and him the room was full of bygone things. The furniture was the same, certain lines and tones were the same as years ago.... Out of doors, the unsparing night of the clattering rain and raging wind was the same as years ago. Life went on weaving its long woof of years, like so many grey shrouds. They both smiled at it; but their hearts were very sad.