Eline Vere (18 page)

He took her hand, smiling.

‘Why, you talk as if we were to be married tomorrow.'

‘Oh please tell me, then – don't think I'm prying – you haven't already proposed to her, have you?'

He looked at her, still smiling, and slowly shook his head.

‘In that case, I wish you'd think it over carefully. Just don't get carried away all of a sudden,'

She leant her head on his shoulder, tears rising to her eyes.

‘You're a dear, Freddie, but honestly–'

‘You must think it ridiculous of me to try and tell you what to do!'

‘Not at all. On the contrary, I appreciate your concern very, very much. Still, you shouldn't judge someone on the basis of a mere feeling, a lack of sympathy shall we say – which is quite baseless, anyway. So, little sister, be a good girl and take my advice, and I shan't think you in the least ridiculous.'

She hid her face in his shoulder and he kissed her several times on the forehead.

‘You will forgive me, won't you? It was tactless of me, I shouldn't have spoken to you like that.'

‘But I love you most of all for being honest and forthright with me, and I'm counting on you to stay that way in future.'

‘Then you'll only think me impolite and not at all charming, I'm sure,' she said tartly.

‘Now you're being a bit spiteful. You're not jealous of Eline, are you?'

‘Yes I am,' she replied gruffly.

‘On account of the fan, I take it?' he laughed.

‘Oh, you do tease me so!' she wailed. ‘No, not because of that – I have a dozen fans already – but because you've gone and fallen in love with her.'

‘Let's make a pact, then. You go and look for a nice girl who would make me a suitable consort, someone you aren't jealous of and who you like, and when you've found her, and if I like her too, I'll never think of Eline again. What do you say?'

She gave no answer and stood up, rubbing the tears from her eyes. She felt hurt by his flippant tone; clearly he hadn't taken her seriously at all. She approached the table, pointed to the cup of tea, and said:

‘Your tea's getting cold, Otto; I'd drink it now if I were you.'

Before he could respond she slipped away, full of contradictory feelings – on the one hand relieved to have spoken her mind and glad to have gained Otto's confidence, on the other wondering whether she would not have done better to hold her tongue.

. . .

For the past five mornings Eline had not seen Fabrice on her walk, and the disappointment soured her entire day. At first she was quiet, downcast and irritable, but soon she grew so morose that she lost all desire to sing, to the point where she cancelled her appointment with Roberts, her music teacher, as well as her Thursday afternoon singing session with Paul van Raat. Returning from her walk one morning at about half-past ten in pensive mood, she dropped onto her couch and, leaning back, unfastened her cloak with listless fingers. Ben's company was too much for her, and she sent him off to the nursery forthwith. Her large hazel eyes, moist and glistening with unfulfilled longing, roamed idly about the room, lingering on the prints along the walls, the potted palms, the Canova figurines. She felt enveloped in a fog of despondency, and asked herself what the purpose of her life could be if all happiness were denied to her. To give her amorphous sorrow some kind of shape, she cast around for grievances and piled them up: what she needed was love, and there she was, with no one to love her. She was finding it increasingly difficult to get along with Betsy; they quarrelled frequently, and most of the time it wasn't even her fault. Then there was Frédérique, who was noticeably cool towards her, for what reason she hadn't the faintest idea, and although Madame van Raat seemed as fond of her as ever, Eline herself had not lately been minded to display the winsome, respectful openness that had endeared her to the old lady. There was no point to her life, the way she drifted aimlessly from one day to the next, and she yearned for some vague
ideal, a dream without a particular contour but replete with figments of passion and love ranging from the exalted to the mundane, from the heights of idyllic romance to the simple, quiet joys of home and hearth.

She sighed, raising her hand to the overhanging aralia, and almost crushed the leaf between her nervous fingers as she tried to force her reveries to take a more determinate form. All at once, through an abrupt twist of her fancy, she saw herself with Fabrice, on stage, in a large city. They loved one another, they were famous, they were being deluged with wreaths and bouquets, and in her mind's eye rose the entire vision as it had risen that time when she and Paul were singing those love duets.

But she had not seen Fabrice for such a long time that her fantasy, being deprived of fresh impressions, foundered; the vision dissipated, leaving her in a grey, sombre frame of mind that appeared to reflect the sky outside, heavy with dark rain clouds. She felt hot tears brimming over her lashes, then a keen wish for Henk's company. At least with him she could pour out her misery; he was so devoted to her, so good at comforting her in his own kindly, gauche way – the sound of his voice alone, so deep and warm, was as balm to her soul.

She wept quietly and thought how disagreeable it was that she and Betsy were on such bad terms. The following day was her, Eline's, birthday. Would Betsy take the first step towards a reconciliation, or was she herself really to blame for their latest tiff? Had she felt sure of her sister's reaction, she would gladly have offered to make peace with her, or even apologise if necessary, but as it was she feared Betsy's coolness. So she would wait; yes, she would wait.

The afternoon seemed interminable, the hours dragged on as though weighed down by her melancholy. Then it was time to dress for dinner with the Hijdrechts, although she had not the slightest expectation of finding any amusement there. She wished she could ask Betsy to say that she was unwell and unable to join them, but no, that wouldn't do. Unlike the Verstraetens, the Hijdrechts might well be piqued by her failure to attend, and besides, Betsy might refuse point-blank to do as she asked. So she went, having worked
herself up into a spirit of coquettish gaiety by which one and all were taken in, so adept was she at concealing her emotions.

. . .

The following day was January 20th and Eline's birthday. She stayed in bed longer than usual, snuggled down among the warm blankets in the soft red glow of the curtains, without the least inclination to rise, not even to go for her morning walk. She wouldn't see him anyway, even if she did go out – she could feel it in her bones. Superstitious fancies began to crowd her mind, and she wagered that if Mina came to prepare her washstand before the clock struck nine – it was now close upon the hour – she would see Fabrice in the Wood tomorrow. But Mina came after nine o'clock, and when she left again after setting out the toiletries Eline had another fancy: she would see Fabrice if she had left her bracelets on the large coaster last night, but if she had left them on one of the small coasters she would not. She sat up, swept aside the red damask bed-curtain and peered at her dressing table. There lay the bracelets, on the large coaster! With a smile, she subsided on to her pillows once more.

It was time to get up, she thought, but why not stay abed in the cosy warmth, since she was so downhearted, why start a new day? In a while her friends would come to congratulate her, she would have to turn on her smiles and receive their birthday gifts with ecstatic exclamations, but her humour was by no means amenable and she had no desire to see anyone.

The clock struck half-past ten, and she thought Betsy was bound to come up before long, with a few friendly words to make up the quarrel. She listened for her sister's tread on the stairs, but heard nothing, and at last, unnerved by her own lassitude, she got out of bed and slowly proceeded to dress.

She saw her face in the glass and noticed the sad look in her eyes and the hint of bitterness about her lips, and thought herself almost ugly today. But what of it? For whose sake should she be beautiful, given that no one loved her with anything resembling the passion she knew her heart capable of?

When she was finally dressed she had qualms. If she went downstairs now, how should she approach Betsy? Should she take a passive attitude? Why didn't Betsy meet her halfway? Why did she continue to bear a grudge for so long, about such a trifling matter?

The idea of seeing Betsy in the breakfast room filled her with trepidation, and she stepped into her boudoir, where the stove was already lit and burning brightly. She slumped onto her couch, feeling bereft and abandoned. Why, oh why did she live?

She sank deeper and deeper into despondency, when relief came at last with the sound of Henk and Ben climbing the stairs. Presently they were on the landing, she could hear their voices, then there was a loud banging on her door.

‘Where are you, Eline dear, still in bed?' cried Henk.

‘No, I'm here, in my boudoir!' she answered, raising her voice slightly.

The door opened to reveal Henk, shaking his head from side to side, while Ben, clutching a posy in his small fist, wriggled his way in past his father's riding boots.

‘Many happy returns, Auntie! Here, this is from Ben!' recited the well-rehearsed little fellow as he thrust the flowers in her lap.

‘My dear girl, how could you stay cooped up in your rooms for so long? You're usually back from your walk at this hour!' exclaimed Henk.

She made no comment, merely hugged the child, fighting back her tears.

‘Put them in some water, Ben, there's a good boy; tepid water is best. Thank you, thank you, poppet. Here then, take the vase, careful now.'

Ben, docile as ever, went off with the vase, squeezing past his father's legs again. Eline fell back against the cushions, giving her brother-in-law a wan smile.

‘I don't feel at all well this morning,' she said listlessly. Henk approached her with his hands on his back.

‘What, not well on your birthday?' he asked cheerily. ‘Come, come, it's time you went downstairs, you lazy girl, but let me give you a big kiss first! Happy birthday, dear Eline!' He pressed his lips to each cheek in turn, while she lay still, smiling weakly.

‘And here's a little something for you, Elly. I hope you will like it,' he continued, handing her a small box.

She gave a light laugh.

‘How funny that you should come and bring me my present up here! Thank you, Henk, thank you very much.'

She opened the box and saw a hairpin in the shape of a diamond spider.

‘But Henk!' she cried. ‘How you spoil me! I can remember seeing it in the window at Van Kempen's a while ago, and I know I mentioned liking it very much. I shall have to be more careful about what I say in future, I do believe,' she said, with a touch of embarrassment. She was thinking of her Bucchi fan.

‘Betsy made a mental note of it at the time,' he responded. ‘We're both very happy to give you something you like.'

Hearing this she almost felt annoyed at their gift, but flung her arms around his neck and kissed him anyway.

‘Really, you do spoil me!' she faltered.

‘Oh, fiddlesticks!' he burst out. ‘But now I must go for my canter. And you must come downstairs, my dear, or else I shall carry you down myself.'

‘No, no, that you shall not!'

‘All right then, but be quick, or else–'

‘Yes, yes, I'll be down in a moment. But no nonsense, Henk, do you hear?' she said firmly and with some alarm, for she could see a frolicsome intention on his part and was in no mood for banter.

He reassured her, laughing, and it was on the tip of his tongue to suggest that she make peace with his wife, but he could not think of a tactful way of raising the subject. She might fly into a rage, and besides, it would all sort itself out soon enough, he reasoned, and left the room.

Reluctantly, Eline rose from the couch, thinking that Betsy must have instructed Henk to take the present upstairs so as not to have to give it to her herself. She thought how awkward it was that it now fell to her to take the first step towards a reconciliation. It was a blow to her pride. It would look as if she was so pleased with their gift that all bad feelings were instantly forgotten. How tiresome this was, but still: she could hardly just say good morning
and start eating her breakfast without referring to the gift at all. She regretted not having followed her instinct yesterday to attempt appeasement. Oh, how stupid it all was, their falling out like this, and only because of those dogs!

In an impulse of vanity she held the diamond spider this way and that to her hair, then to her neck . . .

. . .

Before going downstairs Eline opened a compartment of her writing table. With a secretive smile she removed the album and opened it. It contained nothing but portraits of Fabrice in various poses and costumes, which she had been purchasing over a period of time with much discretion and nervousness, now in one shop, then in another, never returning to the same one in case the shopkeeper might guess what was on her mind. On one occasion, when she was in Amsterdam for the day to visit some friends, she had been particularly daring: she had swept into a bookshop with an air of haughty indifference and had bought seven at once. No one there knew who she was, anyway, and she vowed never to set foot in that shop again for as long as she lived.

Her eyes shone with furtive delight as she surveyed her collection; on every page his swarthy features with the black beard met her gaze, and on some his expression was exactly the same as when she saw him in the Wood, wearing his soft felt hat and his muffler. Ah, there it was, that rush of emotion incomparably more intense than admiration, the sheer impropriety of which for a young lady of her station sent a little shiver down her spine. She pressed her lips to his beloved likeness; yes, she could feel it now, the passion that replenished her mind with bliss, the love for which she would make any sacrifice that might be demanded of her . . . by him.