Eline Vere (58 page)

However, when the Van Erlevoorts returned to The Hague in October, Frédérique heard that Paul was no longer painting in Italy. He was reported to have taken up residence in the town of Bodegraven, where he had found a position in local government, and that he was planning to become a mayor.

Dr Reijer had urged Eline yet again to find an occupation of some kind to distract her from the melancholy she languished in from morning till night. Eline had blamed her lethargy on the hot summer weather, which she found oppressive. Now that the leaves had begun to fall and the cool breezes of autumn refreshed her face, it seemed to her that she could breathe more freely, and she declared her resolve to find something to do with her time. Madame van Raat continued to regard Eline with anxiety, for her rasping, hacking cough had returned along with the improvement in her humour. In the meantime she had begun to lavish far more care on her appearance again, and took to practising diligently on the new Bechstein piano. But music alone did not satisfy her, and she looked further afield for something to do.

Although she had neglected her acquaintances of late, she still saw them from time to time at Betsy's salons. On one of these occasions she agreed, out of sheer ennui, to accompany the Honourable Miss Eekhof, an elderly maiden aunt of Ange and Léonie, to a service in the French chapel the following Sunday. She had not been there for years, and on the Saturday felt so disinclined to go that she was on the point of sending the honourable lady a note to excuse herself. Madame van Raat, however, would not hear of it, so Eline obliged. There was a new preacher, with large, dark, soulful eyes and pale, aristocratic hands. Eline returned home all excited, full of news about the wonderful sermon and how she had hung on to the preacher's every word. Her only regret was that the interior
of Protestant churches was so bare, and the singing so poor, oh, if only she were Roman Catholic, then her soul would have been borne aloft on the wings of a soaring
Ave Maria
or
Gloria in Excelsis
, she would have been able to lose herself in the mystical splendour of the altar and the holy sacrament, she would have swooned away in the theatrical piety diffused by clouds of incense.

But she was not Roman Catholic, so she had to make do with her French chapel, going there several times in the company of the Eekhof girls' maiden aunt. Before long she was in attendance every Sunday, nodding gravely at her acquaintances with a soft, melting look in her eyes and a sorrowful cast to her closed lips, and word of Eline Vere's astonishing, newfound piety spread quickly in The Hague.

Miss Eekhof was on the committee of numerous ladies' associations devoted to good works, and it took little persuasion on her part to induce Eline to join two of these charities. She was even, at Miss Eekhof's instigation, appointed to the board overseeing the crèches for the children of paupers, which kept her occupied on fixed days. She spent a whole week working hard for a fancy fair, without however going so far as to participate in the sale of items on the day itself. And the honourable lady frequently persuaded Eline to accompany her on her visits to the poor.

At first she found a certain fulfilment in her virtuous, philanthropic pastimes, but before the month was out she found herself getting bored by the preacher's repetitive style of officiation; she could predict the exact moment at which he would raise his eyes to heaven during a hymn, the exact gesture his pale hand would make for the benediction. The singing set her nerves on edge, for the voices were hoarse and untrained, and she was increasingly irked by the plainness of the white-walled interior with its lectern and wooden pews. She began to have misgivings about the congregation, suspecting them of hypocrisy. The preacher was probably a hypocrite, too, and so were the high-and-mighty deacons; the same could be said of Miss Eekhof, sitting beside her – and Eline herself, with her melting eyes and grave expression, was no better.

From Miss Eekhof she had heard about all sorts of petty disagreements and rivalries existing between the ladies governing the
various institutions, which made her wonder about the good they professed to be doing. The entire notion of good works became odious to her; she found herself unable to believe in the sincerity of any of the ladies of her recent acquaintance, not even the ones who had become friends; they were all insincere and self-serving, every one of them; they all had their secret motives, thinking only of themselves under the guise of helping others. Quite what those motives were she could not tell, but they all had them, of that she was certain.

The visits to the poor in the company of the elderly maiden aunt now filled her with revulsion. Their crowded, airless dwellings, the misery and privation, constricted her throat, and she felt she would suffocate to death if obliged to spend a single day in such filthy, cramped conditions. Having lost her trust in the bountiful ladies, she now distrusted the poor themselves. She had read somewhere that there were people in London who posed as beggars while secretly possessing vast amounts of money, which they spent on lavish feasts with streams of champagne and beautiful women. All the paupers to whom she and Miss Eekhof dispensed alms actually had hoards of jewels and gold sewn into their repulsive mattresses, and whether their response was grovelling gratitude or dumb brutishness made no difference; it was sham, like everything else about them.

While remaining a member of various charities and continuing to give Miss Eekhof money intended for this ailing widow or that blind organ-grinder, she stopped going to church; she also stopped visiting the repugnant poor and resigned from her position on the governing board of the crèches.

Winter arrived, and Eline's cough kept her indoors. She dragged herself from one uneventful day to the next in monotonous indolence with only Madame van Raat for company, and for the umpteenth time Eline asked herself what purpose there could possibly be to her life if she was not to be happy.

After the disillusionments of philanthropy and religion, she no longer trusted anyone. Looking about her, she could not believe that Georges and Lili were truly in love now that they were married; of course they were disappointed in each other, and only pretending
to be happy. She did not believe that Betsy was happy, either, even though she was rich, because how could she love Henk? How could she not long for more passion? Nor did Eline believe that Otto had ever truly loved her; how could he, while his character was so very different from hers? Her feelings of distrust reached such a pitch that she even doubted whether Madame van Raat's love for her was sincere. Madame had been hoping to find in her an agreeable lady's companion, that was all, and it was obvious that Eline did not live up to her expectations. Henk's mother was a hypocrite, like everybody else.

At one time such bitter sentiments would have thrown Eline into black despair, but as it was her soul had become so numbed that she was unaffected by them. She did not care; what difference did it make to her that life was one great lie? It was so, and could not be helped, least of all by her, so she might as well lie like everybody else.

Rather, she would lie as a last resort, when forced by circumstance to show some emotion, some sign of ‘life'. For the rest she would submerge herself in the torpor of detachment.

Such were her thoughts, and she forced her youth to bend under the yoke of apathy and listlessness. Her drift into self-willed indifference even caused her charming manner of old to desert her, and the sympathy she evoked among her associates dwindled as she grew increasingly sullen and unapproachable.

She would stay in bed for the greater part of the morning, and although Madame van Raat disapproved, she permitted Eline's breakfast to be served in her room, as that was the only way she could be brought to eat anything at all.

Even so, Eline often left it untouched. When she finally rose she did not get dressed at once; instead, she slipped on a peignoir and lounged on her couch or in a chair, staring vacantly out the window. She did not go downstairs until around noon, bowed by the lassitude that seemed to run in her veins like some debilitating, tepid fluid. Reijer called regularly, and insisted that she go out and brave rain, wind or snow, but although secretly she longed for some fresh air, she either remained closeted indoors, or returned home after five minutes. Her only movement would be to hobble from her seat
by the window to a chair by the stove, coughing and shivering, with ice-cold fingers, glazed eyes, and her lips tightly pursed.

Madame van Raat lost all hope of her ability to restore some measure of vitality in Eline. It was as she had feared: the task Reijer had assigned to her, and which she so dearly wished to fulfil, was proving beyond her powers. Her hopes faded, and she subsided into the grey mists of her own private melancholy. Hours went by during which the old lady and the young girl sat together in the same room without exchanging a single word, each of them lost in hopeless reverie.

. . .

Eline was aware that this desultory cohabitation could not last. There was something about Madame van Raat and about her home, something she could not define, that irritated her. She found herself unable to contain her exasperation at times, and would burst out with some harsh, unkind remark, often for no reason whatsoever. The old lady's only answer would be a momentary, wounded stare, which would instantly fill Eline with remorse. Sometimes she could not bring herself to apologise, and would scarcely open her mouth for the rest of the day. At other times she was so consumed by guilt that she went down on her knees and hid her face in the old lady's lap, weeping and begging to be forgiven, lamenting that when she was in one of her black moods . . . she knew not where they came from or how to control them . . . oh, it was like being possessed by demons, as if she had no will of her own!

Madame van Raat dissolved in tears, too, and kissed her, but the next day the same demons bore down on Eline to crush her will.

Something had to be done, thought Eline. She wrote a long letter to her uncle Daniel and Eliza, in which she bared her soul more than she had ever dared before. She informed them that she felt utterly miserable in The Hague, that she would die of dreariness if she stayed much longer with Madame van Raat, notwithstanding the latter's great kindness to her, and that she longed desperately for a change of environment. Uncle Daniel came to The Hague
and declared to Eline, in the old lady's presence although without mentioning the letter, that he and his wife missed her and wondered whether she would pay them another visit.

Eline was undecided, but Madame van Raat urged her in mournful tones to accept her uncle's kind invitation, and it was arranged there and then that she should accompany him to Brussels two days later.

When Daniel Vere was gone, Madame van Raat sat slumped in her chair, her grey head sunk down upon her breast, shattered by the enormity of her disappointment. Another two days and Eline would leave! That would be the end of it! Weak as she was, she had hoped to make herself useful, she had hoped to infuse just a little fresh vigour into the dear young creature's listless existence, but she could not help seeing that she was defeated: Eline was languishing in her home, Eline yearned for variety! How could she, an old woman, have had such presumption!

Seeing the old lady's mute sorrow, Eline was overcome with despair, despair over her own egotism. She had not given the slightest thought to Madame van Raat when she wrote that letter to her uncle Daniel; she had thought only of herself, and now she was causing the old lady great distress, even though she herself was convinced that exchanging The Hague for Brussels would not change anything, really, least of all rid her of the fatigue that had plagued her body and soul for the past two years.

‘My dear little Mama!' she cried tearfully. ‘Are you very sad to see me go? I can hardly think you would have wished to keep me with you, me, ungrateful, cross creature that I am!'

She sank down on a low stool at the old lady's feet and kissed her hand.

‘Sad? Yes, it makes me sad, Elly!' faltered Madame van Raat, gently stroking Eline's forehead. ‘But it will be for the best. Far be it from me to wish you to leave, even if you are not always as sweet-tempered with me as you used to be. Oh, if only I could be confident that you would find happiness here eventually, then I would not tell you to go. But as it is, I say to you: go, my poor child, with my blessing, and come back whenever you wish.'

Eline began to sob.

‘It's all my fault, I know it is! You are such a dear, you have been so very kind to me, and I have yet to hear you utter a single word against me. You spoil me as if I were your own flesh and blood, and in return I fly into rages and say abominable things! Oh, what a wretched creature I am! How I wish I could be different! Time was when I would have loved nothing more than to be spoilt by you, but now . . . now it makes no difference! It's not that I don't love you, because I do, I love you more than anyone else in the world, but, you see, nothing matters to me any more, nothing, nothing!'

‘Fie, Eline, fie! You shouldn't say such things.'

‘Oh, I know I'm horrid! But am I to blame? Don't you think I would much rather be good and kind and happy? But I cannot change the way I am, it's impossible! You told me that I ought to pray, you said it would make me feel better. Well, I went to church, and it didn't help . . . and I can't pray properly the way you do, either! I did pray for something once, a long time ago, but my prayer went unanswered.'

She thought of that night at De Horze, when she had prayed to God that her happiness, the gentle felicity she had found with Otto, might remain with her for ever.

‘I'll tell you what I prayed for!' she pursued hoarsely, coughing as she rose to her feet and began to walk aimlessly about the room, wringing her thin hands as if they were ice-cold. ‘I was so happy then, happier than I thought I could ever be. It was a lovely time, so peaceful and so tranquil; everyone was good and kind to me. I couldn't imagine what I had done to deserve such great happiness, and then . . . then all of a sudden I began to be afraid that things might change. That was when I prayed to God to make that wondrous happiness last for ever. And from that moment on – when I was afraid and prayed to God – from that moment on things did begin to change, very slowly, but surely. I can see it so clearly now! I shouldn't have given in to doubt, I shouldn't have been afraid, I shouldn't have prayed! Don't you see? That is why I cannot and will not pray any more.'