Eline Vere

by Louis Couperus

  ‘Could it be from Vincent, by any chance?’ she asked.

  ‘From Vincent? No, of course not, whatever gave you that idea? It’s hardly the type of present he would give. May I have a look?’

  Eline handed her the fan.

  ‘It’s magnificent,’ said Betsy. ‘Quite magnificent.’

  Eline shook her head slowly from side to side; she was perplexed.

  The fan was passed round for inspection, and Eline scanned each face in turn, without seeing the slightest indication of complicity. There was a moment, though, when Frédérique assumed a quizzical air, which faded almost at once into apparent indifference as she drew near.

  ‘May I see the case?’ she asked.

  Eline handed it over and Frédérique ran her fingertip over the grey-velvet lining.

  ‘Are you quite sure you have no idea who it might be from?’ asked Eline, throwing up her hands in a show of utter bewilderment.

  Frédérique shrugged her shoulders and put the case down.

  ‘No, I haven’t the faintest idea,’ she said, a shade coolly, studying Eline’s expression. There was something unsympathetic about that gazelle-eyed look of hers, she felt, and could not help thinking Eline’s manner affected and her bewilderment about the fan’s provenance insincere. From then on Frédérique ignored the much-admired fan, and was unusually quiet for the rest of the evening.

  …

  The avalanche of presents had come to an end. Madame van Erlevoort invited her guests to follow her out of the salon and drawing room, now littered with wrapping paper, straw and pieces of string, and Willem reopened the sliding doors to the dining room, where a lavishly decked table awaited them.

  It was a very lively supper party. Mr Verstraeten, placed between Madame van Erlevoort and Betsy, kept the ladies amused with his witty banter, and Mathilda, who was sitting on Betsy’s other side, frequently joined in the hilarity. Henk, seated between his mother and his aunt, was quite content, while Otto and Eline conducted an animated conversation and Etienne, between Lili and Marie, talked at the top of his voice.

  ‘Freddie, chère amie, you’ve gone very quiet,’ said Paul, who was alternating mouthfuls of lobster salad with attempts to draw out his otherwise so loquacious neighbour. ‘Are you disappointed you didn’t get lots more presents?’

  ‘Me quiet? Fiddlesticks!’ retorted Freddie, and she began to prattle away with a speed and brightness much like that of her brother Etienne. However, she sounded a little overexcited, her gaiety seemed a touch forced, and she kept stealing glances at Eline, glowing with beauty as she exchanged pleasantries with Otto. Yes, there was something quite enchanting about her, something that reminded Freddie of a siren, the way her dreamy eyes narrowed when she laughed, the way the soft curve of her finely chiselled lips ended in a dimple in each cheek. And then there were her hands, dainty and pallid, fluttering so prettily about the black lace and dark red bows of her gown, and that coquettish single diamond quivering like a dewdrop amid the black tulle at her neck. Frédérique thought her enchanting indeed, but also unsympathetic, and she kept an almost fearful eye on Otto’s beaming countenance as he gazed upon the siren.

  Throughout this time she continued talking and laughing with Paul, with Etienne and Lili, and with Marie, eliciting from old Madame van Raat the comment from the other end of the table that Freddie was living up to her fun-loving reputation.

  The champagne flowed, and Mr Verstraeten raised a toast to the ever-youthful hostess with her handsome grey locks, thanking her for the lovely party with a kiss. Eline clinked glasses with Otto at some toast which Frédérique did not catch, and which she would gladly have given her best present to hear. But she did not venture to ask …

  ‘Etienne, you’re making a terrible din!’ she cried vexedly when her brother launched into a drinking song, waving his arm so as to very nearly spill his champagne over Lili’s slice of cake. But presently she regretted her outburst – after all, why shouldn’t the others be having fun even if she was not?

  The party drew to a close, the carriages were waiting, and the guests, laden with assorted items, took their departure amid effusive thanks for the many gifts bestowed on them. Mathilda was tired and soon went upstairs, while Madame van Erlevoort and Otto drifted about, gathering up the crumpled wrapping paper lying all around.

  ‘Look at the state of these rooms,’ said Frédérique, kicking a torn cardboard box out of the way. She went to the table, where the fan had lain, but Eline had taken it with her. Then she kissed her mother and Otto goodnight, rumpled Etienne’s hair, and took her presents upstairs to her bedroom.

  She undressed slowly, taking so long that the chilly air made her shiver. She crept into bed, and as she stretched herself under the covers Eline rose up before her again, enchanting and elegant in her black lace, smiling at Otto. It all began to whirl before her eyes, like a chaotic kaleidoscope: Henk dressed up as St Nicholas with his tabard trailing over the floor, the Verstraeten boy as his page, the box from London, the Bucchi fan …

  IX

  It was a few days after the feast of St Nicholas, and Eline decided to take little Ben for an afternoon stroll. The previous evening she had been to the opera with Madame Verstraeten, Marie and Lili, to see Il Trovatore, and that morning she had asked her old grumbler of a singing master to play the accompaniment to Leonora’s aria, ‘La nuit calme et sereine’.

  He had shaken his head, for he did not care for the bravura songs of the Italian school, on which his opinion and that of Eline frequently clashed. She found the music of Bellini, Donizetti and Verdi elegant and melodious, as though expressly written for her crystalline soprano, whereas he was inclined to dismiss as puerile their airy little tunes, insisting on the richer depths of Wagner. But he was under her thumb, and therefore did her bidding.

  ‘Come along now, Ben, don’t dawdle, there’s a good boy,’ Eline said to the chubby little fellow trailing a pace behind on his short legs. ‘Do try and keep up with Auntie. Aren’t you pleased to be going to the shops with me?’

  Last night at the opera, during the Comte de Luna’s cavatina, Eline had conceived an idea. In a shop window she had seen several portraits of Fabrice, showing him in different costumes and poses, and a sudden craving to possess one had come over her. Now she was on her way to the shop to pick one out, secretly smiling to herself as she pictured his tall, strong build and his handsome head with the black beard. How wonderful it must be to be an actor on stage!

  From Fabrice her thoughts drifted back to her new fan, which she had used last night. Betsy had told her it was idiotic to do so before she even had a clue as to who the giver was, but she had chosen to ignore her sister’s advice; on the contrary, the notion of being seen with it in public gave her a thrill, and in her mind she had already conjured an episode from a romantic novel to account for the anonymous gift: Fabrice had seen her in the Verstraeten’s box, he had fallen head over heels in love with her, henceforth he sang for her and her alone, and was heartbroken when he failed to spot her in the audience; it was he who had sent her the fan so discreetly addressed to Mlle E Vere, and yesterday he had seen her using it, and sooner or later he was bound to send her some signal by means of a knowing look or a particular tone to his singing …

  She had to smile at her own extravagant fantasies, and in a flash remembered where she had first seen a fan decorated by Bucchi. There had been a painting show at the Academy last summer, and among the exhibits there had been several works by him: unmounted fan paintings on silk displayed behind glass. She remembered having been full of praise for the artist at the time, saying how much she would love to possess such a fan. Somebody had obviously taken note of her wish. With whom had she gone to see the exhibition? With Emilie de Woude, or with Georges perhaps … surely Georges couldn’t have … or could it possibly have been that young man she had danced with, the one who had proposed to her and whom she had turned down? Oh, it was preposterous! She gave up, she refused to think about it any more. She would find out
eventually, anyway.

  They walked down Parkstraat and then Oranjestraat, and were nearing the shop with the pictures at Noordeinde when she began to have qualms: wouldn’t the proprietor think it strange for a young lady to come and buy a portrait of an actor? She was afraid her courage would fail her, but before she knew it there they were, standing by the plate-glass window, peering at the display. Amid the clutter of large engravings, photographs and sundry artistic items such as figurines in biscuit or terracotta, her eye was immediately drawn to a row of portraits, actors and actresses from the opera, with their names written underneath: Estelle Desvaux, Moulinat, Théo Fabrice …

  ‘Come along, Ben!’ she said, gently pushing him into the shop. Inside, there were several ladies choosing photographs, all of whom looked up as she entered. She was sure she felt her cheeks colouring slightly behind her short veil of white tulle.

  ‘May I see some of your New Year’s cards, like the ones you have in your window?’ she asked the shopkeeper when he turned to serve her. ‘Don’t touch those figurines, Ben.’

  A wide range of cards were brought. She inspected them with close attention, holding each one up between gloved fingertips, and laid two or three aside. Glancing about her, she lit on a stack of portraits, and reached out her hand with a gesture of languid indifference. Among them were several of Fabrice.

  Which one should she choose? This soulful one, in the black-velvet costume and lace collar as Hamlet, or that one, as Tell? No, the other one, of him as Ben-Saïd, the way she had seen him the very first time. But she would also have a picture of Moulinat, the tenor, as well as one of Estelle Desvaux, the contralto; then it would be less obvious that her only interest was in Fabrice. And in that case she might just as well have the one of him as Hamlet, too.

  ‘I’ll have these cards, please; and here, these four portraits as well.’

  ‘Shall I have them delivered?’

  ‘Oh no, there’s no need. I shall pay for them now. How much do I owe you?’

  She paid him the money and the shopkeeper handed her a sturdy envelope containing her purchases. Taking Ben by the hand she made her way to the door, imagining herself observed by the browsing ladies as if they could all read her innermost thoughts.

  …

  Outside, Eline’s face lit up once more. Pleased with her audacity, she set off homewards in an ebullient mood, praising little Ben with the fond tones of a doting mother. When she looked across the street and caught sight of Jeanne Ferelijn in her shapeless, flapping winter coat and her plain black hat, she tightened her hold on Ben’s hand and, dodging between two carriages, hurriedly led him to the other side, wreathed in smiles. She greeted Jeanne warmly, and they proceeded on their way together. Jeanne informed her that Dora was well on the way to recovery, but that she had been obliged to hire a nursemaid because Mietje was altogether too careless to look after the children properly, and consequently had an additional financial burden to contend with. Eline had to force herself to pay attention to this latest instalment of domestic woe, but Jeanne soon cheered up and started chatting about Frans, about her father, Mr van Tholen, and about Dr Reijer, with whom her relations had much improved lately. Noting Eline’s expression of sympathy as she listened, and also her mild, affectionate manner with Ben, she began to reminisce about their schooldays together, and they both laughed as they recalled Eline’s hood-full of purloined cherries and all the pranks they had played. Jeanne blamed herself for her misgivings about Eline the other evening at the Van Raats’, for now she seemed so sincere and warm-hearted.

  ‘But don’t let me keep you any longer, Eline,’ she said, stopping short. ‘I have some tiresome errands to do. I must order some new pans, and a milk jug to replace the one broken by Mietje – such a clumsy girl.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not in a hurry; I’ll come with you if you like, and if Ben isn’t too tired. Ben, dear, you aren’t tired, are you? He’s such a fine walker, you know!’

  And so Jeanne ordered her new pans and Eline helped her to pick out a pretty milk jug at a china shop. Thoughts of Fabrice crowded her mind all the while, and she could barely resist opening the envelope in her hand for a peep at the portraits. She did so love music, and Fabrice sang with such extraordinary pathos, with so much more feeling than any of the other artistes. He was quite young, she believed, and bound to become very famous – he would soon be engaged to sing in Paris, she had no doubt. Jeanne never went to the opera, so presumably she had never heard of Fabrice.

  Would she, Eline, ever cross him in the street some day? What would he look like in his ordinary clothes? She decided to make some excuse to go out early one morning so she could walk past the opera house; with any luck there would have been a rehearsal and she would see the artistes leaving the building. Absorbed in her own calculations, she only heard half of what Jeanne said as they walked side by side, but glanced at her from time to time, giving the luminous smile that was her greatest attraction.

  Reaching Hoogewal, they bade each other goodbye and went their separate ways.

  ‘Au revoir then, Jany, I shall call at your house soon, I promise. Do give my regards to Ferelijn. Don’t forget, will you? Now then, Ben, shake hands with the lady.’

  Jeanne felt a stir of warmth and tenderness at the sound of her girlhood name, a poignant reminder of the old days, of her girlhood, when everyone called her Jany.

  She hurried onward to Hugo de Grootstraat full of cheer and eager to return to her small abode, where her husband and her darling children would be waiting.

  Eline smiled to herself as she struck across the park on her way home. The bare branches overhead glistened with hoarfrost, the freezing air was clear and tingling, alive with promise, and she felt an urge to burst into a brilliant roulade so that she might fill the sky with her elation.

  Could it be that she was a tiny bit smitten with that … that artiste?

  Oh nonsense, it was just that he sang so well!

  X

  The flames in the stove sent huge, elongated shadows like black ghosts flitting over the walls and ceiling in the darkened room. Wavering gleams were to be seen on an antique silver jug, on the carved edge of a sideboard looming dark and massive at the back, and on the various decorative plates and mugs displayed on the walls.

  Vincent Vere reclined on his couch, watching the shadow play through half-closed eyes. The prevailing gloom shot through with that strange ruddy glow was agreeable to him, and made him forget the dinginess of his rented rooms in Spuistraat, where the shabby, bourgeois aspect was relieved only by the few personal valuables that accompanied him on his travels. He lay musing a while in the Dantesque twilight.

  The last few days he had been overcome with fatigue. He was barely able to move; he felt as though there were tepid water running through his veins instead of blood, as if some sort of fog descended on his brain from time to time, robbing him of the ability to think. His veined eyelids drooped over his lacklustre, pale-blue eyes, and his lower lip was slack, thereby imparting a suggestion of suffering to his small mouth. The feeling was not new to him, but this time he blamed the atmosphere of The Hague, which he found stifling. He yearned for more space and more air, and could not imagine what had induced him to seek quarters in a city that had never held any attraction for him. Yes, he could recall, through the haze of his exhaustion, looking forward to a period of rest after his extended travels, but already he felt a nervous flickering of desire to plunge anew into the maelstrom of change. Rest and regularity had a numbing effect on him, and despite his weakness he found himself wishing for movement, for action, for ever-changing horizons. Although he lacked the energy to devote himself to any kind of employment with due determination, his capricious temperament kept driving him onwards in his fruitless search for new alliances and new circles that might be congenial to him.

  The fortnight he had now spent in The Hague seemed to him like a century of tedium. The day after meeting Betsy and Eline at the opera he had called at the Van Raats at coffee hour, and ha
d asked Henk for a loan of five hundred guilders, saying he was expecting some money to arrive from Brussels any day, and would repay his debt at the very first opportunity. Henk took this promise from his wife’s cousin with a pinch of salt, but did not like to refuse him, and consequently handed over the requested sum. So now Vincent was surviving on borrowed money, which he allowed to trickle through his fingers like water one day only to cling on to it with parsimonious economy the next, while the cheques from Brussels failed to materialise.

  He was little concerned about the future; he had always lived from day to day, having known times of luxury in Smyrna and times of privation in Paris and London, but whatever his circumstances, he had always been spurred on by that feverish desire for change. But for the time being, faced with having to get by on five hundred guilders, he was so out of sorts that the burden of his weakness tended to be outweighed by a sheer lack of energy.

  Thus his thoughts drifted on as he stared into the semi-darkness, where the ruddy glow from the stove made the furniture stand out in ghostly relief, as befitting his pessimistic frame of mind. Why bother to make plans? Once the money ran out, which would be soon, he would see his way to obtaining some more one way or another, and what was wrong with that? Notions of good and evil had no relevance in the real world, things just happened to be the way they were, as the inevitable result of a sequence of causes and effects, everything that was had a right to be; no one could alter that which was, or was to be; no one had free will; everyone had a different temperament, and it was that individual temperament, subject to environment and circumstance, that governed one’s actions. That was the truth, people were always trying to fudge things up with a mixture of childish idealism and hogwash about goodness, and, as often as not, a smattering of pious poetry thrown in for good measure.

  ‘My God, how miserable life is!’ he thought, holding his head in his hands while his fingers toyed with the light brown curls at his neck. ‘The life I’m leading now, anyway. If it goes on like this I’ll be either insane or dead within the year. Tomorrow will the same as today: dull, dreary and boring.’