‘Ooh, Black Jack!’ cried Léonie. ‘Fie on him!’
Eline smiled wanly, brushing away a tear that clung to her lashes, and Madame van Raat smiled too.
‘There, see how splendidly those aces are turning up!’ Ange pursued excitedly. ‘Have no fear, Mr van Erlevoort, have no fear, it’s all clearing up nicely.’
‘The cards seem to bode well,’ murmured Madame van Raat.
Eline smiled with pursed lips, but she was unnerved. Black Jack had reminded her of Fabrice.
…
The whist players had risen, and everyone was talking at once. The fortune-telling had given rise to merriment all round, and when Ange prophesied that Etienne would never marry, he protested vehemently, saying he had no intention of remaining a bachelor all his life.
Ange and Léonie then prevailed upon Paul to sing a piece by Massenet, to Léonie’s accompaniment. While he sang, Betsy kept a watchful eye on her sister and Otto; she was sure that nothing had transpired between them as yet. Why was Eline being so coy? Betsy herself had not made such a fuss in her day, she had accepted Van Raat’s stammered proposal quite graciously. What was Eline dithering about? What reason could she possibly have to reject Van Erlevoort? They were made for each other. She was annoyed by her sister’s sentimental wavering when she had the opportunity of marrying into a good family, and a man in a fair position to boot. Her glance rested coldly on Eline’s slender frame, to which that very wavering quality lent an additional allure, and Betsy noted this, as she noted the unwonted earnestness in her sister’s demeanour. What a to-do about such a simple matter! But when her eye fell on her husband, who was chatting to Otto, she felt even more annoyed. What a simpleton he was! Did he really have no idea why Otto was dining at their house tonight?
Madame van Raat had already left, later than was her habit and in considerable disappointment, for she had been hoping to hear the announcement of Eline’s engagement in the intimate setting of her son’s home. It was now past midnight; Madame Eekhof and her daughters took their leave, as did Emilie. Vincent and Paul also prepared to go, while Henk and Etienne escorted the high-spirited girls down the hall to their carriage.
Betsy, Eline and Otto stayed behind in the anteroom. An awkward silence fell. Then Betsy went through to the salon, where she busied herself tidying the card table.
Eline felt the ground crumble beneath her feet. She could not hide her confusion from Otto, who, although he had not meant to impose on her a second time this evening, found himself unable to resist the temptation to do so, since they were alone.
‘Eline,’ he whispered in a choked voice, ‘must I really leave you like this, without an answer?’
She held her breath a moment in fright; then, with a shuddering sigh, she murmured:
‘Otto … truly, I … I cannot … not yet!’
‘Goodnight, then, please forgive me for asking again,’ he said, and with that he lightly pressed her fingers and left.
She, however, suddenly felt herself melting away. Quaking all over, she almost fell to the floor, but saved herself by clutching the door curtain for support, and she cried out, in full surrender to the tide of her emotion:
‘Otto! Otto!’
A low cry escaped him as he came running back to catch her in his arms, and beaming with joy he drew her into the anteroom again.
‘Eline, Eline!’ he cried. ‘Is it true?’
She did not speak, but flung herself sobbing, broken, defeated, against his chest, and felt his arms tighten about her.
‘So you … you will be my wife?’
She ventured to lift her face to him, locked in his embrace, and answered him only with her tearful gaze and a fleeting smile.
‘Eline, my angel,’ he whispered, pressing his lips to her forehead.
From the salon came the sound of voices: Henk and Etienne had returned from the vestibule, Etienne in his greatcoat, holding his hat in his hand.
‘What’s keeping Otto?’ Eline heard him exclaim, and she also heard Betsy whisper something in reply.
Otto looked down, smiling at Eline’s emotion as she wept with her cheek to his chest.
‘Shall we?’ he said simply, radiating joy.
Slowly, very slowly she allowed him to lead her towards the salon, softly sobbing in his arms, her face buried in his shoulder. Betsy came towards them, smiling, and darted a glance of complicity at Otto as she shook his hand. Henk and Etienne were taken completely by surprise.
‘Van Raat, may I … may I introduce you to my fiancée?’ said Otto.
Henk too began to smile, while Etienne grinned from ear to ear and rolled his eyes.
‘What a sly old fox you are!’ he exclaimed, wagging his finger at his brother. ‘Keeping us in the dark like this!’
But Eline, still in tears, broke away from Otto’s embrace and flung her arms around Henk’s neck. He kissed her, and mumbled in his deep voice:
‘Well, well, little sister, I congratulate you with all my heart! Now then, don’t cry, no need for that, is there? Come on, give me a smile, there’s a good girl.’
She hid her face in her hands, which moved Betsy to step forward and smooth a stray curl from her sister’s forehead before kissing her too.
‘I’m so glad my little soirée turned out so well!’ she said pointedly.
…
Henk wanted Otto to stay a little longer when Etienne discreetly made to slip away, but Eline murmured faintly that she was ever so tired, so Otto declined. He was too elated to wish for anything more: he would go, brimming with joy. And she thought it very sweet of him to simply shake her hand in farewell instead of kissing her in front of everyone.
As soon as the brothers had gone Eline fled to her room, where she came upon Mina lighting the lamp. The maids had already heard the news from Gerard, who had entered the salon at an inopportune moment, and Mina congratulated her, peering at her with an inquisitive smile.
‘Thank you, Mina … thank you,’ stammered Eline.
Alone at last, she glanced in the mirror, and was shocked to see the tear-streaked pallor of her cheeks. But the next instant she felt as though her soul were sliding into a tranquil, blue lagoon, she felt the still waters close over her and found herself in what appeared to be realm of eternal peace, a Nirvana of hitherto unimagined beatitude.
XVI
It was a fresh, bright day in May, after a week of nothing but rain and chilly mist. Jeanne had sent the children – Dora, Wim and Fritsje – for a walk in the Scheveningen woods with the nursemaid while she stayed behind, as there was always so much to do. She now felt lonely and forlorn in the cramped apartment over the grocer’s shop, sitting there all by herself, doing the mending in the pallid ray of sunlight that she now welcomed in her abode, without a thought for her carpet and curtains. Frans was out; he had taken the train to Amsterdam to consult a specialist. It was now half-past one, she established, glancing at the mantel clock ticking loudly in the quiet room. Frans would not be back until about half-past five. The intervening hours seemed to her like an eternity, for all that she was glad of the chance to work without interruption.
When the sunbeam slanted on her face she did not mind; on the contrary, she basked in its feeble warmth. The light shimmered about her light-brown hair, giving her pale, sunken cheeks an alabaster translucence; it shimmered, too, over the slender, delicate fingers plying the needle with practised regularity. Oh, how she longed for the summer! She could not wait for May to end – all that damp, misty weather they’d been having, and so rarely a clear day! How silly of her to have expected this month of May to live up to the exalted reputation it had among all those romantic poets!
She smiled sadly as she bent over her sewing, pressing the seam down with her nail as she stitched. How curious it was the way her illusions, even the most modest ones, kept vanishing into thin air while her life rolled on, and how the future, which held an unspeakable dread for her, kept receding to make way for the monotonous reality of her day-to-day existence. She shudd
ered at the presentiment lurking in her soul like a shrouded ghost, the fear that some catastrophe would strike and crush them all. Pressing her hands to her chest, she took a deep, quaking breath, and shuddered again, not for herself, not for her husband, but for her children.
She stood up. She found it impossible to continue her work, and yet she should not be idle on the rare sunny day when the children were out and there was no one to disturb her. Oh, why was she not stronger? She leant against the window, relishing the sunshine like a pale hothouse flower craving light and air, and looked down on the square patch of garden at the back of the grocery. A lilac bush was budding into leaf, but there was nothing growing in the central flower bed or along the sides, and suddenly she had a vision of Persian roses, like the ones they had grown on their estate at Temanggoeng, a riot of pink blooms diffusing the sweetest of fragrances. She could smell them now, and the remembrance of the blushing roses seemed to drive her cares away, leaving only a sense of mild nostalgia for warmth and love.
She was standing thus when the doorbell rang; a moment later Mathilda van Rijssel came in.
…
The two women had met a few times at the Van Raats’, and had found that they had a sympathy for one another.
‘I have come with an ulterior motive, I must confess, because I want you to take a walk with me,’ said Mathilda warmly. ‘It’s such pleasant weather, and it would do you good to take some air.’
‘But Tilly, the children are out, and so is Frans. So I really ought to take advantage and get some work done.’
‘Well, can’t I tempt you anyway?’ persisted Mathilda. ‘It’s not as if you have to guard the house, is it?’
‘No, but the children … they’ll be back soon, and what if they don’t find me at home?’
‘Oh really, Jeanne, they’ll survive. You spoil them. And as for your husband being out, well, that’s hardly a reason for you to stay in, is it? So please put on your hat and coat, there’s a sensible girl, and come with me. You can catch up on your sewing when it rains.’
Jeanne was only too relieved to be taken in hand by her new friend, in whose kind voice, even when jesting, there was an undercurrent of despondence. That was settled, then, she would go, and she ran upstairs to change, humming under her breath.
She was ready in no time, and after repeated admonitions to Mietje she accompanied Mathilda into the street. The cool breeze cleared her head and brought a little colour to her pale cheeks as her friend chatted on, explaining that she had just dropped Tina and Jo off at Nassauplein because Betsy and Eline were taking Ben on an outing and had invited the older children along.
‘And the little ones?’ asked Jeanne.
‘Oh, Mama insisted on taking Madeleine and Nico for a walk, she dotes on her grandchildren so. Dear Mama!’
Having reached the end of Laan van Meerdervoort, they turned into the road to Scheveningen. There were few people about. Mathilda felt invigorated by the fresh air and, contrary to her habit, grew talkative.
‘You have no idea how good Mama is to me,’ she said. ‘All she cares about is the family, her children and her grandchildren. She never thinks of herself, her entire life is dedicated to us. And I’m sure that if you asked her which one of us she loves the most she’d be unable to tell you. Of course she worships Etienne, he’s always as happy as a sandboy, and he makes her laugh, but I have no doubt whatsoever that she’s equally devoted to Frédérique and Otto, and to my little ones, too. And she’s always sending letters to her far-flung offspring complaining that she doesn’t see enough of them. You can imagine how affected she was when Catherine and Suzanne left home to marry. What she would really like, I do believe, is to build a sort of hotel so that she could have all of us to live with her: Theodore, Howard, Stralenburg and all the rest. Dear, kind Mama!’
Neither of them spoke for a while. The lane stretched ahead like a grey ribbon, affording a long perspective of tree trunks beneath a tracery of budding branches. The sunlight glinted on the greeny-yellow leaves unfurling against the bright blue sky, the timeworn trunks were clad in new velvety moss, and the twitter of birdsong sounded crystalline in the clear air.
‘How lovely it is here!’ said Mathilda. ‘So refreshing. But let’s take one of the footpaths. Then we won’t have to see those people over there, and they won’t have to see us. We humans look out of place in natural surroundings. People spoil the view, I find, especially in spring, when everything is so intensely green … I’m waxing philosophical, would you believe!’
Jeanne laughed. She felt quite elated; the world was full of beauty and goodness, full of love, too, and her thoughts turned to Frans …
…
They sat down on a bench for a rest, and Jeanne ventured to ask:
‘What about you, Mathilda? You always talk about your mama, never about yourself.’
Mathilda gave a start.
‘About me? I do my best not to think about myself … I … I’m nothing, nothing without my children. I’d do anything for my little ones. If it weren’t for them I’d be dead.’
The sadness of her words belied the resignation of her tone.
‘Imagine believing you are happily married to a loving husband for whom you would sacrifice body and soul, and then waking up one day to find … But let’s not talk about that now; it’s all in the past.’
‘Is the memory of it too painful?’
‘Oh no, not any more, but there was a time when the pain was so bad that I thought I was losing my mind, and I blamed God for my suffering. But since then the pain has become a blur, and I don’t feel it any more. I never think of it, I only think of my four darlings. And they keep me far too busy to mope about the past. You know I have been tutoring them at home, don’t you? But it’s time Tina and Jo went to school, I suppose, at least that’s what Otto says, but I’d miss them terribly, and of course Mama agrees with me about this. I do love them so!’
Jeanne thought she detected a hint of bitterness in Mathilda’s voice, and reached out to take her friend’s hand.
‘You poor dear,’ she whispered.
‘Yes, I am,’ replied Mathilda simply. ‘Poorer than you, anyway, because at least you are a wife as well as a mother!’ She tried to smile, and her eyes filled with tears as she pursued: ‘I know you aren’t having an easy time of it by any means, but you aren’t as poor as I am. You can think of that as a consolation when you feel low, just think of me and how much I’d envy you if I didn’t feel quite so … so dead inside.’
‘Oh, Mathilda, it pains me to hear you say such a thing!’
‘Well, there’s no reason why it should, since I don’t feel the pain any more myself. It’s only a far-off memory of something that’s over and done with, you know. That’s all. Still, it’s better not to talk about it, let bygones be bygones.’
‘Oh, Mathilda, how can you bear to keep it all bottled up inside you? I could never do that, I’d have to pour my heart out to someone …’
‘No, Jeanne, no! I mean it! Don’t ever mention the subject again, I beg you, or I … I might come alive again.’
She leant against the back of the park bench, her eyes brimming with tears. Dressed all in black, ashen-faced, she resembled an icon of infinite, lacerating woe.
She did not wish to come alive again; she wished she were dead.
…
Jeanne wanted to be back by the time Frans returned, so they set off homewards.
‘Oh dear, I’m afraid I’ve made you sad, while all I wanted was to take your mind off things with a pleasant stroll,’ said Mathilda. ‘That comes of all my philosophising. I do hope you’ll forgive me.’
Jeanne could find nothing to say, so she merely shook her head with a smile to show that no, she was not sad. And it was true: deep in her heart she had to admit that while she had at first been distressed by Mathilda’s quiet despair, she realised, now that Mathilda had resumed her air of acceptance and self-possession, that the pity she felt for her friend made her own troubles appear posi
tively trivial by comparison. Had she herself suffered a tragedy like Mathilda’s, she would never have got over it. She reproached herself for ever feeling ungrateful for all the good that had been bestowed on her, and felt remorse at having grumbled about her domestic circumstances while she had been spared so much misfortune! And dear Frans … he had his flaws, naturally, he could be short-tempered and churlish with her when he was unwell, but he always came round quite quickly once he realised he was in the wrong. And he cared for her. He loved her. Her heart lifted with pride, and she found she could no longer be sad out of pity for Mathilda. That was selfish of her, but never mind, such moments of sweet satisfaction with the circumstances of her life were so fleeting and so rare – surely a moment’s egotism couldn’t do any harm?
Arriving at the grocery, Mathilda said goodbye and proceeded on her way. Jeanne, left to herself in her upstairs apartment, was eager for her children to return. They soon appeared, fresh-faced from their outing, and she hugged and kissed each one in turn, wanting to know exactly where they had gone and what games they had played, and when Dora pulled a long face she did her best to make her daughter smile again with a joke and a romp. No, indeed all was quite well with the world.
XVII
Lili was reading a book in the drawing room when the doorbell rang. It was Frédérique, making her final call of the afternoon.
‘Where’s Marie? Is she not in?’ asked Freddie.
‘Yes she is,’ responded Lili. ‘We went out earlier, but she’s upstairs now.’
‘Upstairs? How odd,’ said Frédérique. ‘She always seems to be upstairs when I call. You haven’t fallen out, have you?’
‘Oh no, not at all,’ replied Lili. ‘She’s probably drawing, or else writing.’
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