a little vulgar in his jests, even exaggerating his noisiness and vulgarity out of a sort of bravado, an instinctive desire to hide his real self. Yes, that was it: he hid himself, he was invisible; nobody saw him, nobody knew him: not his wife, nor his family, nor his friends; nobody knew him in those strange fits of giddiness and faintness which suddenly seemed to empty his brain, as though all the blood were flowing out of it; nobody knew the secret of his temperateness, the hidden weakness that would not even allow him to take two glasses of champagne without that horrible congestion at his temples which made him feel as if his head were bursting; nobody, not even the wife at his side, knew of that heavy, oppressive nightmare which came to him when, after lying awake for hours, he dozed off, that nightmare of piled-up mountains and rocky avalanches weighing upon his brain; nobody knew of his fears and anxieties about his children, while outwardly he was the gay, jovial father, "a healthy brute," as some of his brother-officers had called him.
Sometimes, he had silently thought of the designation and smiled at it, because he knew himself to be neither a brute nor healthy. Gradually, almost mechanically, he had gone on showing that unreal side, posing successfully as the strong man, with cast-iron muscles and a simple, cast-iron conception of life: to be a good husband, a good father and a good officer; while inwardly he was gnawed by a queer monster that devoured his marrow: he sometimes pictured it as a worm with legs. A great, fat worm, you know; a beastly crawling thing, which rooted with its legs in his carcase, which lived in his back and slowly ate him up, year by year, the damned rotten thing! Of course, it wasn't a worm: he knew that, he knew it wasn't a worm, a worm with legs; but it was just like it, you know, just like a worm, a centipede, rooting away in his back. Then he felt himself all over, proud notwithstanding of his sound limbs, his well-trained, supple muscles, his youthful appearance, though he was no longer so very young; and then it seemed to him incomprehensible that it could be as it was, that that confounded centipede could keep worrying through those limbs, at those muscles, right into the marrow of his strong body. Nothing on earth would ever have induced him to see a doctor about it: he took walking-exercise, horse-exercise, rode at the head of his squadron; and the brazen blare of the trumpets, the dull thud of the horses' hoofs, the sight of his hussars—his lads—would make him really happy, would make him forget the confounded centipede for a morning. As he sat his horse, with head erect, twisting his fair moustache above his curved lip, a burly, straight-backed figure, he would say to himself:
"Come, get rid of all those tom-fool ideas and be a man—d'ye hear?—not a nervy, hypochondriacal girl. You and your centipede! Rot! I just had a peg yesterday; and that, damn it, is what I mustn't do: no peg at all, not one! … Perhaps not even any wine at all … and then not more than one cigar after dinner. … But, you see, giving up drinking, giving up smoking: that's the difficulty. … "
Gerrit had just finished his breakfast and was putting little Gerdy down, when there was a violent ring at the front-door bell. Adeline gave a start; the children shouted and laughed:
"Ting a-ling, ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling!" cried little Piet, mimicking the sound with his mug against his plate.
"Hush!" said Adeline, turning pale. She had seen Dorine through the window, walking up and down outside the door excitedly, waiting for it to be opened. "Hush, it's Auntie Dorine. … I do hope there's nothing wrong at Grand-mamma's! … "
But now the maid had opened the door and Dorine rushed into the room excitedly, perspiring under her straw hat, with a face as red as fire. She was in a furious temper; and it was impossible at first to make out what she said:
"Just think … just think. … "
She could not get her words out; the passion of rage seething inside her made her incapable of speaking; moreover, she was out of breath, because she had been walking very fast. Her hair, which was beginning early to turn grey, stuck out in rat-tails from under her sailor-hat, which bobbed up and down on her head; her clothes looked even more carelessly flung on than usual; and her eyes blinked with a look of angry malevolence, a look of spite and discontent gleaming through tears of annoyance.
"Just think … just think. … "
"Come, Sissy, calm yourself and tell us what's the matter!" said Gerrit, admonishing her in a good-natured, paternal, jovial fashion.
"Well then—just think—that horrible creature came to Mamma first thing this morning … and made a scene. … "
"What horrible creature?"
"Why, are you all deaf? I'm telling you, I began by telling you: Miss Velders, the creature who keeps the rooms where Ernst lives … came and made a frightful scene … and upset Mamma awfully … and Mamma sent for me. Why me? Why always me? What can I do? I'm not a man! Why not Karel? Why not you? … Oh dear no: Mamma of course sent for me! … Off I went to Mamma's, found Mamma quite ill, that horrible creature there. … Then I went off with Miss Velders … first to Karel's … but Karel was absolutely indifferent … a selfish pig, a selfish pig: that's what Karel is. … Miss Velders had to go home. … Then I went off to Ernst … and, when I had seen him, I came on to you. … Gerrit, you're a man … you know about things, you know what to do; I'm a woman … and I do not know what's to be done!"
Her voice was now a wail and she burst into tears.
"But, Sissy, I don't yet know what's happened!" said Gerrit, quietly.
"Why, Ernst, I'm telling you … Ernst, I'm telling you. … "
"What about him?"
"He's mad!"
"He's mad?"
"Yes, he's mad! … He wanted to go out into the street last night: he's mad! … "
Adeline had rung for the nurse, who took the children away.
"He's mad?" Gerrit repeated, passing his hand over his forehead.
"He's mad," Dorine repeated. "He's mad. He's mad."
"Oh, well," said Gerrit, in a vague, conciliatory tone, "Ernst is always queer!"
"But now he's mad, I tell you!" Dorine screamed, in a shrill voice. "If you don't believe me, go and see him. Don't you see, something's got to be done! I, I don't know what. I'm a woman, do you hear, and I'm utterly unnerved myself. Why didn't Mamma send for you at once? Why me? Why me? And Karel … Karel is a nincompoop. Karel at once said that he had a cold, that he couldn't go out. Karel? Karel's a nincompoop. … A cold, indeed! A cold, when your brother's gone mad all of a sudden! … "
"But, when you say mad … is he really mad?" asked Gerrit, doubtfully.
"Well, go and see him for yourself," said Dorine, fixing her irritated gaze full on Gerrit. "You go and see him for yourself; and, when you've seen him as I've seen him … then you won't ask me if he's mad. … "
"All right," said Gerrit. "I'll go at once. I must look in at barracks first and then. … "
"Oh, you must look in at barracks first," said Dorine, angrily. "Of course you must look in at barracks first. And then, if you have a moment to spare. … "
"I can go from here," said Gerrit, dejectedly. "Are you coming?"
"I?" screamed Dorine. "Do you think I'm going back with you? No, thank you. I've told Mamma, I've told you and now I'm going home to bed. For, if I'm not careful and go trotting about wherever you send me, I shall go off my head myself. … I? I'm going to bed. … "
She rose, walked round the table, sat down again; and suddenly her voice changed, tears of pity came into her eyes and she wailed:
"Poor Mamma! She's quite ill. … What an idea of that horrible creature's, to go running straight to Mamma. Why frighten her like that? Why not first have told one of us? … I'll just go round to Constance … and to Adolphine: then they can console Mamma a bit. … You call in at Paul's on your way: he may be able to help you, if there's anything to be done. … But, after that, I'm going home to bed."
"Yes," said Gerrit, "I'll go now."
And