Even now, fingering the small socks and shirts, she felt herself being drawn deeper and deeper into the muffled depths of weariness. Unable to summon her strength and set to work, she was oblivious to Dora and Fritsje squabbling over the building blocks. How she would have loved to fill her little abode with sunshine and harmony, but she was no fairy godmother, she felt so weak and ineffectual, so daunted by the small vexations of her daily life that she did not even dare hope for a rosier future. Indeed, whenever she thought of what the future might hold, her timorous nature was overcome with a vague sense of darkness and doom, which she found impossible to put into words.
She propped up her head with her other hand, and a few teardrops fell on the laundry. Oh, if only she could have gone to sleep, gently caressed by someone who loved her and whose tenderness would make her feel calm and carefree and safe! And she thought of her Frans, and of the day he had proposed to her beneath the blossoming lilac in the garden, and of what had become of her: water dripping on a stone, drip, drip, drip. .
Oh, she knew she hadn’t made him happy; she was a bitter disappointment to him, but it wasn’t her fault that he had refused from the start to see her for what she was: a simple, weak creature, someone in need of much, very much love, and much tenderness and intimacy, someone with a touch of sentimental poetry in her soul. .
She took a deep breath and drew herself up, telling the children not to make so much noise, for Papa was downstairs, and Papa had a headache. She looked about her for her sewing basket, but she had left it in the sitting room, so she told Dora to be a big girl and take charge of her brothers for a moment. She was in the habit of addressing the child in a tone as if she were a grownup daughter, and Dora, flattered by her mother’s trust, was glad to oblige. Casting off her lethargy, Jeanne went downstairs to her sitting-cum-dining room, and was hunting for her sewing basket when her husband came in.
Frans had heard her tread on the stairs and felt an urge to make amends for his harshness earlier. He crept up behind her in his slippers as she searched beside the chimneypiece, and gently caught her by the arms.
She looked up, startled, and in his eyes she saw the old warmth she so often longed for as he murmured with a pleading, almost anxious smile:
‘I say, are you angry with me?’
She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. Then she put her arm around him and leant her head on his shoulder.
‘Really not?’
She shook her head again, smiling between her tears, and closed her eyes as she felt his bristly moustache on her lips when he kissed her. How quick he was to repent when he had been harsh to her, and how good it made her feel to forgive him!
‘There, there, don’t cry, it’s all right. .’
She heaved a sigh of relief and clung to him.
‘As long as you’re kind and gentle with me, oh, then I feel so. . so strong, strong enough to tackle anything!’
‘My dearest little wife. .’
Again he kissed her, and in the warm tenderness of his lips she forgot the cold in the unheated room, which was making her shiver in his arms.
VIII
It was December 4th, the Eve of St Nicholas, and since early morning the Erlevoort residence had been in a state of heightened excitement — all whispers and knowing smiles and objects being whipped out of sight the moment one entered the room.
The Verstraetens arrived a little after seven, bringing the boys, Jan and Karel, who had taken part in the tableaux. Then came the Van Raats and Eline, followed by old Madame van Raat and Paul. Henk, however, did not enter the salon but slipped unseen with Jan Verstraeten into a side room, where Marie and Lili had laid out their costumes.
In the spacious salon stood Madame van Erlevoort, wreathed in smiles as she received her guests, when suddenly a deafening chorus of welcome was raised by the Van Rijssel foursome and Hector, which even the combined efforts of Mathilda and fat Nurse Frantzen were barely able to quell.
‘Oh, Betsy, why didn’t you bring Ben?’ demanded a peeved Madame van Erlevoort.
‘Ben’s not old enough for parties; he’s only three, after all, and it would be well past his bedtime by the time we finish.’
‘We could have sent him home with Martha, when it’s the children’s bed-time. I’ve got him such a dear little present, too,’ said Madame van Erlevoort regretfully.
There was a stir in the drawing room, where the girls stood about chatting with Otto, Paul and Etienne; the Van Rijssel youngsters looked up, breathless with anticipation, as Martha, the upstairs maid, came in. Grinning, she passed a whispered message to Frédérique.
‘Quiet please! I have an announcement to make!’ cried Frédérique, looking solemn. ‘St Nicholas has arrived, and he wants to know if he may make his entrance. Shall we invite him in, Mama?’
Everyone kept a straight face, stealing looks at the wide-eyed children.
St Nicholas appeared in the doorway, wearing a white tabard and a long red cloak piped with gold at the hem; he had long grey hair and a long white beard, and on his head he wore a golden mitre. He made his entrance with due ceremony, leaning on his staff, and was attended by a black page, whose fancy costume was bound to look familiar to all who had seen the tableaux. After them came Willem and the three maids, all of whom slipped into the drawing room to watch the proceedings from there.
The grown ups, smiling self-consciously, bowed before the bishop from Spain.
St Nicholas intoned a greeting and, almost tripping over his too-long tabard, advanced across the room towards the assembled company. Occupying the sofa were old Madame van Raat and Madame Verstraeten, and around them sat Madame van Erlevoort, Mr Verstraeten, Mathilda, Betsy and Otto. No one bothered to stand up, and Madame van Erlevoort welcomed the venerable guest in a tone of cordial familiarity.
‘Why did Granny stay sitting down?’ whispered Ernestine, lifting her wise little face to Marie. ‘She always gets up when someone she doesn’t know very well comes to call.’
‘Hark at her, how observant she is!’ whispered Marie to Eline, who was standing beside her.
Eline, however, did not hear; she was laughing with Paul and Etienne at St Nicholas, whose tabard had come loose and was now trailing over his shoes, while a telltale streak of fair hair peeped out between the mitre and the sagging grey locks.
. .
St Nicholas hitched up his tabard with a flourish. Raising his full, deep voice, he summoned the Van Rijssel foursome to come forward. They were suspicious at first, but when St Nicholas took one of the sacks from his page and they both began to scatter the contents, the youngsters forgot their fear and shrieked with delight, tumbling over Hector and rolling over the floor to gather up all the goodies: russet apples, dried figs in little baskets, hazelnuts, tangerines and chocolates.
‘Pick them all up, help yourselves!’ urged St Nicholas. ‘We’ve got plenty more, look! And what of the big boys, wouldn’t you like some too?’
The Verstraeten boys did not need to be asked twice, and happily joined the scramble.
‘Will you keep this for me, Granny?’ cried Nico, pouring his booty into his grandmother’s lap. ‘Then I can go and get some more!’