no one here; we can speak at our ease."
"No, there's no one. … "
"Did you think there was some one?"
"No, not now. … Sometimes … "
"Yes?"
"Sometimes … you know … I think there is."
"There's no one."
"No, there's no one."
"Why are you afraid?"
"Afraid? Am I afraid? What should I be afraid of? I am too old … much too old … to be afraid now. … Even though he may stand over there."
"Ottilie!"
"Ssh!"
"There's no one."
"No."
"Have you … have you seen him lately?"
"No. … No. … Not for months, perhaps not … for years, for years. … But I did see him for many, many years. … You never saw him?"
"No."
"But … you used to hear him? … "
"Yes, I … I used to hear him. … My hearing was very good and always keen. … It was hallucinations. … I often heard his voice. … Don't let us talk about it. … We are both so old, so old, Ottilie. … He must have forgiven us by now. Else we should never have grown so old. Our life has passed peacefully for years: long, long, old years; nothing has ever disturbed us: he must have forgiven us. … Now we are both standing on the brink of our graves."
"Yes, it will soon come. I feel it."
But Takma brought his geniality into play:
"You, Ottilie? You'll live to be a hundred!"
His voice made an effort at bluff braggadocio and then broke into a shrill high note.
"I shall never see a hundred," said the old woman. "No. I shall die this winter."
"This winter?"
"Yes. I foresee it. I am waiting. But I am frightened."
"Of death?"
"Not of death. But … of him!"
"Do you believe … that you will see him again?"
"Yes. I believe in God, in the communion of souls. In a life hereafter. In atonement."
"I don't believe in an atonement hereafter, because we have both of us suffered so much in our lives, Ottilie!"
The old man's tone was almost one of entreaty.
"But there has been no punishment," said she.
"Our suffering was a punishment."
"Not enough. I believe that, when I am dead, he, he will accuse me."
"Ottilie, we have become so old, quietly, quietly. We have only had to suffer inwardly. But that has been enough, God will consider that punishment enough. Don't be afraid of death."
"I should not be afraid if I had seen his face wearing a gentler expression, with something of forgiveness. He always stared at me. … Oh, those eyes! … "
"Hush, Ottilie! … "
"When I sat here, he would stand there, in the corner by the cabinet, and look at me. When I was in bed, he appeared in my mirror and gazed at me. For years and years. … Perhaps it was an hallucination. … But I grew old like that. I have no tears left. I no longer wring my hands. I never move except between this chair and my bed. I have had no uneasiness … or terror … for years: nobody knows. Of the baboe[1] … "
"Ma-Boeten?"
"Yes … I have had no news for years. She was the only one who knew. She's dead, I expect."
"Roelofsz knows," said the old gentleman, very softly.
"Yes … he knows … but … "
"Oh, he has always kept silent! … "
"He is … almost … an accomplice. … "
"Ottilie, you must think about it calmly. … We have grown so very old. … You must think about it calmly, as I think about it. … You have always been too fanciful … "
His voice sounded in entreaty, very different from its usual airy geniality.
"It was after that in particular that I became full of fancies. No, I have never been able to think about it calmly! At first I was afraid of people, then of myself: I thought I should go mad! … Now, now that it is approaching … I am afraid of God!"
"Ottilie!"
"It has been a long, long, long martyrdom. … O God, can it be that this life is not enough?"
"Ottilie, we should not have grown so very old—you … and I … and Roelofsz—if God … and he also had not forgiven us."
"Then why did he so often … come and stand there! Oh, he stood there so often! He just stared, pale, with dark, sunken eyes, eyes like two fiery daggers: like that! …"
And she pointed the two slender, wand-like fore-fingers straight in front of her.
"I … I am calm, Ottilie. And, if we are punished afterwards, after our death, we must endure it. And, if we endure it … we shall receive mercy."
"I wish I were a Catholic. I thought for a long time of becoming a Catholic. Thérèse was quite right to become a Catholic. … Oh, why do I never see her now? Shall I ever see her again? I hope so. I hope so. … If I had been a Catholic, I should have confessed … "
"There is no absolution among Catholics for that."
"Isn't there? I thought … I thought that a priest could forgive anything … and cleanse the soul before you died. The priest at any rate could have consoled me, could have given me hope! Our religion is so cold. I have never been able to speak of it to a clergyman. … "
"No, no, of course not!"
"I could have spoken of it to a priest. He would have made me do penance all my life long; and it would have relieved me. Now, that is always here, on my breast. And I am so old. I sit with it. I lie in bed with it. I cannot even walk about with it, roam about with it, forget myself in movement. … "
"Ottilie, why are you talking about it so much to-day? Sometimes we do not mention it for months, for years at a time. Then the months and years pass quietly. … Why are you suddenly talking so very much about it to-day?"
"I began thinking, because Lot and Elly are getting married."
"They will be happy."
"But isn't it a crime, a crime against nature?"
"No, Ottilie, do reflect … "
"They are … "
"They are cousins. They don't know it, but that isn't a crime against nature!"
"True."
"They are cousins."
"Yes, they're cousins."
"Ottilie is my daughter; her son is my grandson. Elly's father … "
"Well?"
"Do reflect, Ottilie: Elly's father, my son, was Lietje's brother. Their children are first cousins."
"Yes."
"That's all they are."
"But they don't know that they are cousins. Lietje has never been told that she is your daughter. She has never been told that she was your