There were murmurs of: ‘It’s Lili!’
‘How graceful she is,’ Emilie whispered to Cateau. ‘But how does she do it? How can she hold that pose for so long?’
‘She’s bolstered up with cushions, but it’s a tiring pose anyway. You can’t see the cushions, of course,’ said Cateau.
‘Of course you can’t! It’s very lovely; I have never seen anything more poetic. But aren’t you supposed to be taking part yourself, Cateau?’
‘Yes I am, but only in the final scene, together with Etienne van Erlevoort. I should be off now, to change into my costume.’
She hopped down from her chair. The light flickered, the sliding doors closed. There was a clatter of applause, after which the white vision of foaming gauze reappeared; an angel now leant over the cross, extending an arm to raise the hapless maiden swooning at the base.
There was more applause, louder this time.
‘Of course Marie won’t be able to keep a straight face,’ said Emilie with a toss of her head. ‘She’ll burst out laughing any moment now.’
And sure enough, a tremor of unseemly mirth was seen to be hovering about the lips of the angel, whose soulful expression acquired a somewhat comical cast beneath a pair of nervously raised eyebrows.
…
Although everyone could see that the artistes were tired, since none of them were able to keep perfectly still, the final tableau was received with great jubilation. Four or five encores were demanded. It was an allegory of the five senses, enacted by the four girls, all of whom were richly draped in heavy fabrics – cloth of gold and silver, brocade and ermine – and by Etienne, the youngest of Frédérique’s brothers, who was garbed as a minstrel in personification of Hearing.
Then it was all over.
Due to the long intervals between the tableaux it was now two o’clock, and the guests gravitated towards the host and hostess to take their leave.
‘Will you stay to supper with Cateau?’ Madame Verstraeten murmured to Madame van der Stoor. ‘Nothing formal, you know.’
But Madame van der Stoor deemed the hour too late; she would go as soon as her daughter was ready.
The artistes, having changed as quickly as they could, repaired to the salon, where they received congratulations on their acting skills and good taste from the last departing guests. In the meantime a triumphal march could be heard being played on the piano by Emilie, who, being a close friend of the family, would stay to supper along with Henk and Betsy.
‘But you’ll be coming tomorrow afternoon, won’t you, Cateau? The photographer will be here at two!’ called Marie.
The following day was Thursday; Cateau would not be going to school in order that she might rest, and she promised to be there at two o’clock.
The fatigued artistes sat sprawled in the easy chairs of the spacious conservatory, where a light repast was laid out – turkey, salad, cake and champagne.
‘Which one was the best? Which did you like most?’ they clamoured.
Opinions were compared and contrasted, booed and cheered, amid the general clatter of plates, forks and spoons and the clinking of glasses filled to the brim and rapidly emptied.
II
At half-past two the Van Raats made their way homeward to Nassauplein. All was quiet at the house, the servants having gone to bed. As Henk slipped his key back into his pocket and drew the bolt across the front door, Betsy was reminded of her rosy little boy upstairs in his white crib, asleep with bunched fists. She took the candle from the newel post and started up the stairs, while her husband stepped into the dining room with the newspapers. The gas light was on, tempered to a wan glow from a small, fan-shaped flame.
Betsy’s dressing room was likewise illuminated. She turned the knob, causing the light to flare up brightly, and drew her fur wrap off her shoulders. In the small grate a flame leapt upwards like the fiery tongue of a heraldic lion. There was something soothing about the room, something reminiscent of a warm bath and the sweet perfume of Parma violets. For a moment she stood over the white crib in the darkened adjoining nursery, then returned and with a sigh began to undress, letting the lace gown slide down her hips like a black cloud. The door opened and Eline came in, looking rather pale in a white flannel peignoir, with her hair loose and flowing.
‘Why Elly, not in bed yet?’
‘No, I … I’ve been reading. Did you enjoy your evening?’
‘Yes indeed, it was very nice. I only wish Henk weren’t so insufferably dull. He never said a word, just stood there fidgeting with his watch chain and looking awkward, except when they played whist during the intervals.’
Somewhat tetchily, Betsy wedged the toe of one foot against the heel of the other and kicked off a dainty shoe of gilded leather and beadwork
Eline stretched herself languidly.
‘Did you tell Madame Verstraeten I was indisposed?’
‘Yes I did. But you know me, Sis, after a late night like this I can’t wait to get to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow, all right?’
Eline was used to her sister being mildly out of sorts after an evening out, regardless of whether she had enjoyed herself, desiring only to shed her clothes as soon as possible.
Nevertheless, she was tempted to make some sharp reply, but in the next instant felt too lethargic and feeble to do so. She touched her lips to Betsy’s cheek and, without thinking, leant her head against her sister’s shoulder in a sudden craving for tenderness.
‘You’re not really ill, are you?’
‘No. Just feeling a bit lazy, that’s all. Goodnight then.’
‘Sleep well.’
Eline, languorous and graceful in her white peignoir, retired. Betsy picked up her lace gown from the floor and continued undressing.
…
In the corridor Eline felt a vague sense of banishment, which caused her momentary displeasure. She had been quite alone all evening, having giving in to a whim of indolence and ennui not to go out, and any length of solitude tended to bring on melancholy, making her long for some company and lighthearted banter. She paused in the dark, undecided, then groped her way down the stairs and entered the dining room.
Henk had flung his tailcoat on the sofa, and now stood in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves preparing his nightly hot toddy. Swirls of steam rose from the glass as he replaced the kettle on the hot plate.
‘Hello, my dear!’ he said heartily, an affable smile spreading beneath the bushy blond moustache as he regarded her with his sleepy, blue-grey eyes. ‘Weren’t you very bored this evening, all by yourself?’
‘A little, yes. Not as bored as you, maybe,’ she responded with a coy smile.
‘Me? Quite the contrary; the tableaux were really rather good.’
He stood straddle-legged, sipping his hot drink with audible relish.
‘Has the youngster been good?’
‘Yes, sound asleep all evening. Are you staying up?’
‘I just want to have a look at the papers. But why aren’t you in bed yet?’
‘Oh, no reason …’
Turning to the pier glass, she stretched her arms again lingeringly, then twisted her loose hair into a sleek, dark chignon. She felt a need to confide in him, to have a heart-to-heart talk, but in her vacant, dreamy state she was at a loss for any particular topic to engage his sympathy. She wished she could break down and weep, overcome by some not-too-lacerating grief, for the sole purpose of hearing his gentle, bass voice consoling her. But she could think of nothing to say, and continued to stretch herself with languishing gestures.
‘Is anything wrong? Tell me, my dear, is anything the matter?’
Widening her eyes, she shook her head from side to side. No, nothing was wrong.
‘You can tell me, you know!’
‘Well, I’m just a bit upset, that’s all.’
‘What about?’
She gave a little moan, pouting her lips.
‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s just that I’ve been feeling rather nervous all day.’
&n
bsp; He laughed his gentle, sonorous laugh.
‘You and your nerves! Come now, little sister, it’s time you cheered up. You’re such good company when you’re not in one of your moods; you really shouldn’t give in to them.’
Feeling insufficiently eloquent to persuade her of this, he grinned and changed the subject:
‘Care for a nightcap, Sis?’
‘Thank you. Yes, I’ll just have a sip of yours.’
She turned to face him, and he, chuckling beneath his blond moustache, raised the steaming glass to her lips. Then he noted the glint of a tear in her hooded eyes, and with brusque determination set down the glass and caught her hands in his.
‘There, there now, tell me what happened. Was it something between you and Betsy? Go on, you know you can tell me everything.’
He cast her a look of reproof with his uncomprehending, trusting eyes like those of a good-natured Newfoundland dog.
…
Only then, in a voice broken with sobs, did she let loose a torrent of misery, for no apparent reason other than the prompting of his voice and his eyes. The urge to pour her heart out was too strong to resist. What was she living for? What use could she be to anyone? She wandered about the room, wringing her hands and lamenting without pause. She didn’t care if she died within the hour, she didn’t care about anything at all, it was just that her existence was so futile, so useless, without anything she could wholeheartedly devote herself to, and it was all becoming too much to bear.
Henk sputtered in protest, discomfited by the scene, which was no more than a repetition of so many previous ones. He began to talk about Betsy and Ben, their little boy, and about himself, and he was on the point of mentioning that she too would be mistress of her own home one day, but then thought that might be indiscreet. She for her part shook her head like a stubborn child refusing to be distracted after not getting its way, and then, in desperation, hid her face against his shoulder and sobbed there, with her arm entwined around his sturdy neck. Her nerves were frayed from the lonely hours spent in an overheated room, and she resumed her halting tirade, bemoaning the pointlessness of her existence, the wretched burden life was to her, and in her tone he detected a hint of reproach directed at him, her brother-in-law, for being the cause of all her woes. He was much confused, and also touched by the warmth of her fragrant embrace, which he could hardly return with equal tenderness. All he could do to stem the flow of disjointed sentences was murmur trite words of consolation.
Slowly, slowly, to the soft tones of his sonorous voice, she cast off her melancholy mood, as though scattering rose petals on a stream.
She fell silent at last and took a deep breath, but continued to rest her head on his shoulder. Now that she had calmed down, he thought it incumbent on him to chide her for her foolishness. What nonsense it all was, to be sure! A lot of fiddlesticks! Because, dash it all, there was no call for such a fuss, now, was there?
‘But Henk, truly–’ she began, raising her moist eyes to his.
‘My dear girl, all this talk about there being no sense to your life – whatever gave you that idea? You know we all love you dearly.’
And, recalling his earlier, unspoken consideration of her eventual marriage, he added:
‘Fancy a young girl like you complaining of the futility of life! My dear sis, you must be quite mad!’
Tickled by this thought, and feeling there had been enough philosophy for now, he gave her arms a firm shake and tweaked her sad lips into a smile. She resisted, laughing, and it was as though the balance in her mind had been restored by her outburst. When a few moments later they started up the stairs together, she could barely suppress a shriek of laughter as he suddenly swept her off her feet and carried her the rest of the way while she, fearing a fall, half-ordered and half-begged him to desist.
‘Now Henk, let me go! Don’t be silly! Put me down at once, Henk, do you hear?’
III
Eline Vere was the younger of the two sisters, with darker hair and eyes and a slimmer, less rounded figure. The lambent darkness of her gaze, in combination with the translucent pallor of her skin and the languishing quality of certain of her gestures, gave her something of an odalisque lost in reverie. Her beauty was of great concern to her; she made it glow and sparkle like a treasured jewel, and this sustained attention rendered her almost infatuated with what she considered her best features. She would gaze at her reflection for minutes on end, smiling as she traced the line of eyebrows and lashes with the tip of a rosy fingernail, pulling the lids sideways a fraction to make almond eyes, or rumpling her mass of brown locks into the wild exuberance of a gypsy girl. Her wardrobe, too, was the object of long and earnest meditation, involving the effects and harmonies of the cold sheen of satin, the warmer, changeable shades of silk plush, the froth of tulle and gauze, and the sheerness of mousseline and lace. From the quivering flashes of her diamond ring to the subtle emanations of her scented sachets, the assortment of fineries gave her a pleasant sensation of luxury and delicate femininity.
…
Being somewhat dreamy and romantic by nature, she would sometimes while away the hours in self-indulgent remembrance of her childhood. Her memories were like beloved relics to her, to be taken out and freshened up at regular intervals, and in the course of her contemplations she would quite deliberately replace the more faded images with new, idealised ones. Calling them to mind again later, she would lose sight of what was true and what invented, and would, with complete assurance, relate all manner of trivial episodes of the old days in this polished, poetic form. Betsy, with her more practical, matter-of-fact turn of mind, never missed an opportunity to tone down anything resembling glorification of the past, and for all her nostalgic leanings, Eline, when thus corrected, would usually succeed in distinguishing the bare facts from the fantastic blooms of her imagination.
She recalled her father, a painter, a man of refined, artistic temperament but wanting in the strength to create, married at a young age to a domineering wife several years his senior. He had felt oppressed by her, and his highly-strung nerves, like those of a noble musical instrument, had quivered beneath the roughness of her touch, much as Eline’s now quivered beneath that of her sister. She recalled her father’s features of yellowed ivory, and his pallid, transparent fingers lying idle and listless while he cogitated on some painterly masterpiece that would be abandoned after the first few brushstrokes. She had been his little confidante, as it were, and in her mind his embattled genius matched that of the great Raphael, painter of sad-eyed Madonnas with flowing tresses. Her mother had always inspired a quiet fear in her, and as her memories of the disillusionments of childhood were primarily bound up with her, she was unable to idealise her mother as she did her father.
She recalled how, after the death of her father in the disaffection of an unfulfilled life and the subsequent demise of her mother due to heart failure, she and her sister had lived under the kindly guardianship of a widowed aunt. Old-fashioned, thin and upright, with a mournful cast to her regular features of erstwhile beauty, she loomed in Eline’s memory as a figure behind a plate-glass window, her timeworn hands working four shiny knitting needles in a measured, tremulous minuet. Aunt Vere spent her days in her spacious front room amid the gently stultifying trappings of her wealth, invariably clad in sweet-smelling, velvety garments, with a thick Deventer rug underfoot, a flaming log in the grate, and by the door a Japanese screen of yellow silk embellished with scarlet peonies and storks on the wing.
The two sisters, growing up together under the same tutelage and in the same surroundings, developed along parallel mental and moral lines, but as the years went by each followed the bent of her individual temperament. Eline’s languorous, lymphatic disposition entailed the need of tender reassurance and warm affection, and her nerves, delicate as the petals of a flower, often suffered, despite the plush comfort of her surroundings. She was overly sensitive to any opposition or impediment, and in self-defence took to bottling up her feelings,
which led her to harbour a host of small, private grievances. Release from her long-pent-up emotion would come with the occasional outburst of temper. In Betsy’s more full-blooded nature there grew an inclination to take control, which was exacerbated by Eline’s want of self-reliance. At times her dominance was such that she could almost enter into the psyche of her sister, who, after the initial shock, would soon swallow her pride and even experience a measure of calm and satisfaction in being taken in hand. But neither Eline’s highly-strung sensitivities nor Betsy’s overruling egotism had ever precipitated a tragic crisis, for within the cushioned confines of their aunt’s residence the contrasting hues of their personalities blended into a uniform shade of grey.
…
Later – after several balls at which Eline, resplendent in floaty, pastel-coloured dresses and dainty slippers of white satin, had glided and whirled to the intoxicating three-quarter time in the arms of a succession of eager cavaliers – later, she had received two offers of marriage, both of which she had declined. They lingered in her mind as easy conquests, bringing a calm smile of satisfaction to her lips when she thought of them, although her remembrance of the first often elicited a faint sigh as well. For it was at that time that she had met Henri van Raat, and since that first encounter she often wondered how it was possible that such a big bumbling fellow, as she thought of him, a man so unlike the hero of her dreams, should appeal so strongly to her sympathies that she often found herself, quite suddenly, longing for his company. In the hero of her dreams there were touches of the idealised image of her father, and likewise of the heroes in Ouida’s novels, but none at all of Van Raat, with his mellow, lazy manner arising from the full-bloodedness of an overly sanguine humour, his uncomprehending, blue-grey eyes, his slow diction and unrefined laugh. And yet there was in his voice and in his glance, as in his candid bonhomie, something that attracted her, something protective, so that she sometimes felt vaguely inclined to rest her head on his shoulder. And he too sensed, with a certain pride, that he meant something to her.
Eline Vere Page 2
