Eline Vere (11 page)

This time Betsy was still upstairs, no doubt with Ben, as Eline assured Madame van Raat, although it was actually Anna, the nursemaid, who put the little boy to bed in the evenings.

She led the old lady into the anteroom, where a small crystal chandelier spread a soft glow over the violet plush upholstery, its twinkling glass prisms reflected in the round pier glass.

‘And Henk?' asked the old lady.

‘Oh, still dozing, I expect!' laughed Eline. ‘Wait, I'll go and call him.'

‘No, no, leave him be,' said Madame van Raat. ‘Let him sleep, poor dear, and stay with me a while for a chat.'

She sank down on the sofa, smiling at Eline, who settled herself on a pouffe close by.

Eline took the old lady's dry, veined hand in hers.

‘And how are you, dear lady? Well, I trust? You look remarkably fresh and youthful today – not a line to be seen on your brow, I do declare!'

Madame van Raat was much taken, as always, with the warmth in Eline's voice and with her beaming smile, to which she now, with or without intent, imparted a suggestion of naiveté.

‘You wicked girl! Making fun of me in my old age! Elly, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!' She put her arm around Eline's
shoulders and kissed her on the forehead. ‘And how is Betsy these days, not too tiresome?' she added in a whisper.

‘Ah well, you know, Betsy isn't so bad, really, just a little – a little quick-tempered in the things she says. All us Veres are quick-tempered, and I am too, although I don't remember Papa ever getting cross, but then he was a man without equal. Betsy and I get along splendidly; of course we have our little disagreements, but that's only natural if you spend so much time together. I think it would even happen to you and me if I lived in your house.'

‘Well, I would be delighted for you to come and give it a try!'

‘Oh no, I'd be far too tiresome in the long run. You think I'm nice because you don't see a great deal of me, but if you did . . .!' she laughed gaily.

‘What a bad girl you are, making me out to have be so short-tempered!'

‘Oh no, I didn't mean it like that. But truly, Betsy has a kind heart when it comes down to it, and I assure you, she makes Henk a charming wife.'

‘Well, if you say so. But I'm not sure who I would have chosen for my boy if it had been up to me . . . Betsy, or someone else maybe . . .'

She laid her hand on the top of Eline's head and looked at her meaningfully, her eyes bleary and a sad smile about her pinched mouth.

Eline was slightly unnerved. Madame van Raat's words had called forth her own old thoughts, long passed and almost forgotten, those moments of sudden longing for Henk's company, the vague wish to lean on his shoulder and let him take charge. But it was all a long time ago, and those sentiments now seemed to her so distant, so hazy as to be merely shadows of thoughts, ghostly shadows . . . They seemed rather silly now, even grotesque, and the recollection of them almost made her smile.

‘Oh, Madame,' she murmured, giving a light, pearly laugh, ‘who knows how unhappy he might otherwise have been? Even if Betsy is a little domineering, he's hardly a downtrodden husband: her feet are far too tiny!'

‘Hush,' whispered Madame van Raat. ‘Someone's coming.'

It was Henk. He drew aside the door curtain and declared that he had no idea it was so late. Eline laughed at him and asked if he had been having sweet dreams.

‘You eat too much, that's what makes you so lazy in the evening. Oh, Madame, you should see how much he eats!'

‘There, Mother, now you know. This is the kind of treatment your son gets in his own home, even from his dear sister-in-law – she can be so trying!'

‘Oh, stop it, Henk! It's no use pretending, because your mama won't believe any ill of me, not even from her beloved Henk! Isn't that true, Madame? You can't deny it, can you?'

Eline opened her almond eyes wide and gazed up at the old lady with an air of child-like innocence. Her entire being radiated such sympathy that Madame van Raat could not resist embracing her.

‘You're a darling!' she said happily, basking in the warmth of youth's bright sun shining on her old age.

. . .

When Betsy came downstairs she apologised profusely for taking so long, and suggested her mother-in-law might prefer to take tea in the salon rather than remain cooped up in the anteroom.

‘Paul said he would drop by later,' said Madame van Raat as Eline pulled up a marble foot-warmer for her. ‘Then you can sing some duets. What do you say, Elly?'

‘It would be a pleasure, dear lady.'

Madame van Raat brought out her spectacles and her crochet-work while Betsy seated herself by the tea tray laden with polished silver and Japanese porcelain, and prattled away about this and that, including the ball at the Eekhofs, which she had found most enjoyable.

‘And you, Elly, did you enjoy yourself?' asked the old lady.

‘Yes indeed, the dancing was lovely, and there was a splendid cotillion, too.'

‘And what about you, Henk?'

‘Oh, Henk!'

They all laughed, and Eline exclaimed that he was too stout for dancing, really, although he might still cut an elegant figure doing
a minuet – and minuets were coming back into fashion, as dear Madame was bound to have heard.

The old lady joined in with the merriment, and Henk had just finished his steaming cup of tea when the front doorbell rang. Paul made his entrance, announcing that he had just been to see Hovel in his office on Prinsengracht. He had meant to call at the lawyer's residence the previous evening, but having run into Vincent Vere in Hoogstraat he had postponed his visit in order to join some friends for a glass of wine in Vincent's rooms. He had found Hovel most kind on closer acquaintance, an altogether decent fellow, very amiable, and they had come to an agreement: Paul was to start work at the office the following Monday.

Madame van Raat was unable to suppress a sigh of relief, now that the long-discussed visit had finally taken place. The last time she had seen her brother-in-law she thought she there had been a hint of annoyance in his voice at the mention of Paul, and for matters concerning her youngest son she relied heavily on the aid of Verstraeten, who had been Paul's co-guardian until he came of age.

Hearing Paul's account of his visit, Betsy bit her lip; why did her Henk waste all his time on that dratted horse of his, and those dratted hounds? But what could she do? She had told him often enough, and she could hardly raise the subject yet again in the presence of her mother-in-law.

‘Well, Paul?' Eline cried. ‘How about a song then?'

Paul said he was willing, and got to his feet; Eline sat down at the piano. They met every Thursday to practise singing together, and already boasted a modest repertoire. Paul had never had singing lessons and could barely play the piano, but took to heart all Eline's suggestions for improvement. She for her part maintained that he owed his singing ability to her alone. By now he had learnt to open his mouth wide and to keep his tongue down, but she still thought he ought to take some lessons from Roberts. No one could be expected to sing without proper study.

‘What shall we have?
Une Nuit à Venise
?'

‘Right you are:
Une Nuit à Venise
it shall be!'

She opened a songbook bound in red leather, with ‘Eline Vere' in gilt lettering on the cover.

‘Remember to sing out here, will you? But don't hold your high sol too long there,' she instructed. ‘Better sing it in your middle register, and not from the chest; it'll sound much more melodious. And begin very softly, then you can swell there, and there. And mind you keep in good time with me towards the end, there's that flourish of notes, remember? Careful now, Paul.'

She played the prelude to Lucantoni's duet, and when Paul had given a little cough to clear his voice, they broke into song together, starting softly with:

Ah, viens, la nuit est belle!
Viens, le ciel est d'azur!

His light tenor sounded a little shaky at first, but its innate charm went very well with the plangent ring of her soprano. She found great pleasure in singing together like this, provided Paul was in voice and followed her recommendations. It seemed to her that she sang with more emotion when accompanied by another voice, and particularly so in the repetition of lines such as:

Laisse moi dans tes yeux,
Voir le reflet des cieux!

which she now infused with the languishing passion of an Italian paramour.

She fancied that in this way the duet gained in dramatic intensity, and she pictured herself with Paul as the tenor, both of them reclining in a gondola, against a painted backdrop of a Venetian canal ablaze with the magnesium glow of artificial moonlight. She saw herself richly attired as a patrician lady, him in the garb of a poor young fisherman; they loved one another, and they lay dreaming and singing in his craft as they drifted towards the lagoon before an enchanted audience.

Devant Dieu même
Dire: Je t'aime
Dans un dernier soupir . . .

They were nearing the final run of notes, and she began to worry that Paul would drag, so she slowed down a fraction, but no, Paul kept perfect time with her, and she exulted in the harmony of their voices as they faded away:

Dans un dernier soupir . . .

. . .

‘Exquisite, Eline, that was exquisite!' enthused Madame van Raat, who had been listening with rapt attention.

‘You're in good voice, Paul,' said Betsy, for want of anything better to say.

‘Well, Eline, it's time you sang us a solo now!' said Paul, pleased with his success.

In the meantime Mina had brought the newspapers,
Het Vaderland
and
Het Dagblad
, and Henk was immersed in them, taking care to make as little noise as possible turning the crisp pages.

‘But Paul, what about you?' said Eline. ‘Don't you want to sing any more, or are you too tired?'

‘I'd rather you sang on your own, Eline.'

‘Nonsense, if you're not too tired I would prefer another duet. Honestly, I love singing with you. How about the grand duo with Romeo? Come on then, I dare you!'

‘I mean it, Eline. I don't know the part very well yet, and it's very difficult.'

‘Well, you knew it perfectly well the other day. If you just keep it light and sweet, and don't force your voice, you'll be fine. Look – you can sing this entire passage in the middle register. Just don't shout.'

With a look of disquiet he asked her advice about a phrase here and a note there, and she was glad to oblige.

‘Come now, be bold! No shouting, though, it never works. Besides, if we do get stuck, what of it?'

‘Oh, all right then, if you insist.'

Eline glowed with contentment, and she played the tender prelude to the grand duo in the fourth act:

Va! Je t'ai pardonné, Tybalt voulait ta mort!

she began, in splendid form, to which Paul responded with his recitative, and together they sang:

Nuit d'hyménée, o, douce nuit d'amour!

Once more the stage version rose up before her: Juliet's chamber, with Romeo in his splendid costume reclining on the cushions at her feet. And Romeo ceased to be Paul; Romeo became Fabrice, the new baritone, on whose shoulder she leant her head as she sang:

Sous tes baisers de flamme
Le ciel rayonne en moi!

Paul's voice began to waver, but Eline was hardly aware it was him singing. In her mind it was still the rich timbre of Fabrice's voice she was hearing, and hers grew in volume and resonance until she, unbeknownst to herself, entirely eclipsed her partner.

There, the lark was announcing the dawn, and she fancied herself lying in Fabrice's arms as she asked:

Qu'as tu donc . . . Romeo?

Paul, having recovered during the bar of rest, responded in steadier tones:

Ecoute, o Juliette!

whereupon Juliette's voice rang out in protest: no, it was no lark Romeo had heard, it was a nightingale, and the gathering light no dawn but a moonbeam, and Eline was still with Fabrice, falling into his arms as the orchestra swelled in the chords she struck on the piano. In the brief pauses between the vocal parts Eline came to earth; then the vision of the stage and Fabrice evaporated, and she saw herself in Betsy's drawing room with Paul at her side, turning the pages of the score. But the next moment she was Juliette again, Juliette admitting that it was unsafe for Romeo to stay any longer, even urging him to leave, and he answered:

Ah! reste encore, reste dans mes bras enlacés!
Un jour il sera doux, à notre amour fidèle,
De se ressouvenir de ces douleurs passées!

This was a passage in which Paul's lyrical sensibility came into its own, and Eline, waking from her reverie, smiled and thought how melancholy and dulcet his delivery was. She felt a pang of conscience, realising that it had been unfair of her to sing so loudly during the duet just now, and she vowed to be more careful in the future.

She launched into the finale, favouring a beseeching tone over impassioned despair, so that Paul's high chest notes would sound to better effect. But the vision had passed: the stage, the audience, and Fabrice – all gone.

Adieu, ma Juliette!

sang Paul, and she gave a faint cry, to which he responded with his pledge:

Toujours à toi!

. . .

‘Oh, how I love singing like this!' cried Eline ecstatically, and she ran to give Madame van Raat a joyful hug. ‘Didn't Paul sound lovely, and isn't it a shame he won't take proper lessons? You ought to make him, you know.'

Paul rejoined that Eline gave him enough lessons, and that she would be the death of him with her difficult duets. Eline, however, assured him that he had sung to perfection.

Betsy gave a quiet sigh of relief, for she thought the Veronese lovers' farewell had sounded rather too overwhelming in her salon with its delicately painted ceiling and plush hangings; it had been more of a shouting match as far as she was concerned. Why couldn't Eline sing something light-hearted and pretty, a song from some opéra bouffe, for instance?