Eline Vere

by Louis Couperus

  ‘As a nursemaid? But you’re far too old!’

  ‘Don’t you believe it! Dressing them, giving them baths – you could easily leave all that to me.’

  ‘Now now, Dien, I think you’re being a bit forward,’ said Marie.

  ‘What’s forward about it? Good gracious, it’s gone midnight already! I must be off. Just one more thing, Miss Marie: it’s your turn next. You won’t lag behind your little sister for too long, will you?’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Dien!’ said Marie.

  ‘Well, sweet dreams then, and you too, dear Lili, sweet dreams of your young man. And tell him Dien thinks he’s ever so pretty, with that little blond moustache of his. Will you tell him I said so?’

  She gave Lili a playful tug on the shoulder.

  ‘Yes, Dien, I’ll tell him,’ giggled Lili. ‘But you needn’t shake me so, ouch! Goodnight, Dien, sleep well.’

  ‘Night, night then, my dears! Hush now, no more laughing or you’ll wake up your parents … Hush, hush! I’m off.’

  Dien gave them another wink and tiptoed out of the room in the yellow glow of her candle.

  ‘Funny old Dien!’ said Lili with a final chuckle as she fell back on her pillow, already half asleep. Silence reigned once more, and Marie lay very still with her eyes open, staring at the ceiling in the dark.

  XXII

  Vincent continued to feel very weak, and Dr Reijer ordered him to stay indoors for the next few weeks, as there was a possibility he might suffer another fainting fit at the slightest provocation. He dutifully followed this advice, for which the doctor praised him, adding that had Mr Vere not become so sensible lately he would no longer be among the living. He also praised Vincent for adopting a healthier way of life by not smoking, drinking little, and taking as much rest as possible in the soothing atmosphere of his cousin’s home. His only concern now was the patient’s lack of appetite.

  Vincent passed his days in Eline’s boudoir, as Betsy could not spare him a sitting room to himself. He would make himself comfortable on the Persian couch, snugly wrapped in an ample Turkish dressing gown – a memento of his days of luxury in Smyrna. Sallow-skinned, his pale, lustreless eyes resembling dulled blue porcelain, and his light brown hair cut short, he reclined beneath Eline’s aralia, his anaemic fingers holding a book in which he read not a line. He felt as though the capacity to think had vanished from his brain, that he had sunk into a mindless state of inertia akin to the fatigue caused by a stint of strenuous physical exertion. Only petty, childish thoughts floated into his mind from time to time, like so many evanescent soap bubbles, and his pleasures and disappointments were likewise petty: he felt gratified when Dr Reijer commended him for his progress, and exceedingly sorry for himself when Eline was two minutes late bringing him his breakfast. Beyond that he felt nothing, he simply lay there letting his eyes wander about Eline’s room, taking in all the pictures, the potted palms, the profusion of fineries and bric-a-brac.

  In the morning Eline kept him company, reading to him or singing snatches of songs to her own accompaniment on the piano, a phrase here and a roulade there, to which Vincent listened dreamily, lost in a strange vision brimming with unfamiliar fragrances and muted shades, all swirling together as in a kaleidoscope of colour and perfume. He maintained a pensive silence, and Eline too said little, suffused as she was by a romantic sense of fulfilment. During her vigils at Aunt Vere’s bedside she had experienced that same gratifying emotion, which arose from selfless dedication to the care of someone in need. Her fascination for Vincent grew, her heart went out to him, and she relished the opportunity to nurse the languishing invalid in his Turkish robe and Turkish slippers.

  The afternoons were usually spent at home until four, at which time Otto collected her to go for a walk. Whenever he gently rebuked her for not taking sufficient care of her own health, and for upsetting herself far too much about Vincent’s illness, she would look at him tearfully in disbelief – how could he not feel the deepest, deepest sympathy for poor Vincent, who was so forsaken, so hapless and so delicate? All these cares caused her to lose interest in discussing the manifold details of her trousseau with Betsy, and one day she even remarked, with a distant look in her eyes, how awful it would be to have the wedding in November should Vincent’s life still be in danger at that time. Betsy merely shrugged her shoulders and fetched out more catalogues of household linen and swatches of damask and lace, but Eline, finding it impossible to concentrate, went back to Vincent, who, so she fancied, gave her a reproachful look as she entered the room. Only recently, the conversation they had been having just before he fainted had come back to her, unleashing a flood of emotion in her soul. She remembered having asked him whether her marriage to Otto was her foreordained destiny, and could not help thinking that he might have collapsed in despair, and that the cause of his illness might be that he harboured a secret passion for her. After all, he had never spent so much time in The Hague before, almost a year it was now, whereas previously he had never stayed longer than a few weeks at a stretch. Poor Vincent! At least he had her to nurse him … only, wasn’t there a risk of her ministrations fanning the flames of his passion, a passion fated to be unrequited, since she could love only her Otto?

  She wished she had someone she could take into her confidence. But it was all so complicated, and she could not think whom she could turn to. To Otto? That would not be quite seemly, she felt, and there was little point in telling Betsy, because she was bound to react as she always did – by asking where on earth Eline got her ridiculous ideas from. Madame van Raat, then?

  Yes, that was a good idea, Madame van Raat would be able to advise her. She would go and visit her at home one morning alone, without Otto. Once there, however, she found it so difficult to put into words her suspicions about Vincent’s feelings for her that she departed again without any mention of the subject, consoling herself with the rueful notion that Vincent might yet die before she and Otto were married, in which case her tender care would have gone some way towards sweetening his final days.

  As time went by her conviction grew that Vincent was secretly in love with her, and she felt herself being engulfed by pity for her poor invalid. Her tranquil happiness, which she had believed to be unassailable, began to slip from her grasp like a wild bird bent on escape, and a nervous agitation took possession of her being, which she did not dare mention to Otto. Any thought of Vincent seemed to raise a dense fog between her and Otto, and the idea of that fog thickening any further sent shivers down her spine. After spending half the day at Vincent’s side, ridden with anxiety, she would long to see her Otto again, under whose calming influence she hoped to regain her composure. He arrived at a little after four; they went for a stroll; he stayed for supper; the pair of them spent time together, and then, when he left at half-past eleven and she retired to her bedroom, she would be on the brink of tears at the realisation that his company no longer had the same soothing effect on her as before. On the contrary, his calmness even irritated her now and then; she took it as a sign of indifference, which she found increasingly objectionable, especially when she compared him to the sensitive, grief-stricken Vincent. Even Otto’s plain way of speaking, in which she had only recently discovered such a wealth of love, irritated her now … Did he never have an outburst of passion about anything … anything at all? Would he always remain so calm, so stolid, so eternally even-tempered? Had he never known the torment of warring emotions? Was there nothing that could jolt him out of his calm repose, which seemed to her almost like lethargy … Oh yes, he was good and kind all right, but his feelings did not seem to run very deep; perhaps his calmness signified nothing but egotism, perhaps he was simply insensitive to the suffering of others! And as far as she was concerned, Vincent was human suffering personified …

  Thoughts such as these made Eline feel utterly wretched. Oh God, it was those ghosts again … here they were, evil and leering, the same as the one that had appeared to her so suddenly during her conversation with Vincent! No,
she would not let them get the better of her, she would chase them away! But they kept returning, one after another, chilling her soul with doubts, and she gathered herself to do battle with them. She forced herself to think back on the sweet emotions she had known during those halcyon days at De Horze, to relive that gentle happiness, that blue haze of ecstasy … but the happiness, the ecstasy, were gone! And then, one night as she lay in bed staring wide-eyed into the soundless dark, unable to sleep, she faced the cruel reality of her loss, and broke down into wild, racking sobs, clinging on to her pillow as though it were her very happiness, as though it were the bird struggling to escape from her grasp. She tossed her head from side to side … No, no, she did not want this! She wanted to be happy the way she used to be, she wanted to love her Otto the way she did then, in the pine grove! Dear God, was it possible that she no longer loved him? It was unthinkable, it could not be, she would not allow it, she would summon all the fortitude of her will to go on loving him as before, she would cling on to him as she now clung to her pillow, and no leering ghost would ever pry them apart … Listening to the silence in the house, she could make out the insistent, metallic sound of the big clock ticking in the kitchen downstairs, on and on, and she was seized with mortal fear … fear that her happiness would not allow itself to be forced back into her soul, fear that there were invisible forces pushing her down a steep slope, while all she wanted was to rise up and up … And then her agony turned into rage, rage because she was being assailed by thoughts she did not wish to think at all, and because she felt herself too weak to turn around and fight those invisible forces.

  …

  When Eline awoke the next morning she felt relatively calm. She was tired and had a slight headache, but the horror of the past night had faded into a bad dream, which she had no desire to recall, much less meditate on. No indeed, she would become her old self again, never again would she allow herself to think such nightmarish thoughts, which only came to her, casting her into a bottomless pit of wretchedness, because she could not sleep. That was all – she wasn’t well, she had trouble sleeping, and it was always during those wakeful nights when all was quiet as the grave that those terrible notions came to torment her. She made up her mind to consult Dr Reijer about her insomnia, and oh, how much better she felt already, seeing the pale light of day coming in through a chink in the curtains. She got up early, had a little romp with Ben downstairs, took Vincent his morning roll and hot chocolate as usual – a task she never entrusted to Mina – and settled down with Betsy to go over the catalogues and swatches of materials yet again. She studied the relative merits of fine tablecloths and table napkins, and was much taken with a set of smartly monogrammed pillow cases that were very reasonably priced at the Louvre shop, and she reminded Betsy that from now on she had to be careful not to spend too much, but oh, how attractive those tea towels looked in the other catalogue!

  While she kept up her bright patter there was, deep within her, a patch of gloom, like a slag of black mud on the bed of an apparently limpid blue lake. But she did her best to ignore it, and throughout their discussion Betsy noticed nothing unusual in her demeanour. Then Eline went upstairs, taking a large envelope that had been delivered for Vincent.

  He was in his Turkish dressing gown as usual, lying on the couch. His condition, however, was improving: Dr Reijer had even said he might try taking a short stroll, but his repose had become dear to him, and he had replied that he did not yet feel up to it. When Eline entered he nodded affably; he relished having her waiting on him hand and foot, and his gratitude brought to his lustreless eyes an amicable glimmer, which Eline mistook for love.

  She handed him the letter and asked him how he was feeling.

  ‘Not bad; getting better, I suppose,’ he said tonelessly, then sat bolt upright and tore open the envelope. Eline was about to sit down at the piano.

  ‘Ah, at last!’ she heard Vincent exclaim, almost joyfully.

  She gave him a questioning look. A portrait photograph slipped from the envelope onto the floor, and she bent down to retrieve it.

  ‘It’s from new York, a letter from Lawrence St Clare!’ said Vincent, running his eye over the contents. ‘He’s found something for me, apparently. There seems to be a vacancy at the trading company he’s affiliated with.’

  Eline was startled; she studied the portrait, which had suffered some damage in the post.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘What do you think you’ll do?’

  ‘I’ll go as soon as I’m better,’ he said. ‘But that won’t be for quite a while,’ he added mournfully.

  ‘Go to America, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Will you be glad to go, once you’re better?’

  ‘Naturally. Not much point in hanging around here, is there, now that I can get a situation.’

  With scarcely a thought for what he had said, he lay back on the Persian cushions, and a profusion of brightly coloured visions floated into his mind. He recalled his former life of endless variation, of ever-changing perspectives and horizons. Variety was life itself, variety would make him better, it would make him young again. He recalled his friend, a fine fellow in body and spirit, and the only man who gave him the feeling that there was more to life than world-weariness.

  Eline, however, was filled with pity for Vincent.

  It was only natural that he should wish to leave the country, to be well away by the time her wedding came around, so that he would be spared the agony of witnessing it. No wonder he jumped at the opportunity, really … he was obviously in love with her, and it was making him suffer!

  She was still holding the portrait in her hands.

  ‘Is this St Clare?’ she asked, close to tears for the pain she thought he was going through.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, taking it from her. ‘It’s a fine likeness! It shows him the way he is: open, upstanding, full of life and good humour.’

  ‘Is he dark or fair?’

  ‘His hair is tawny; so is his beard. Dashing, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he’s handsome. But Vincent …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Vincent, are you sure? Why don’t you think it over? You’re still very frail, you could have a relapse. You’d better ask Reijer’s opinion first.’

  ‘My dear Elly, I’m the same as I ever was; my health has never been robust, and besides, who’ll support me if I do stay here – not you, surely?’ he asked, smiling.

  To her that smile seemed wistful, and she reproached herself for trying to dissuade him. No, he was quite right to go, but on the other hand, something might happen, something that would turn everything upside down, so that there would be no need for him to leave, or at least not like this. Her head spun, she no longer knew what she wanted him to do, and she shrank from pursuing the thought that now entered her mind. It would be too awful. Too awful for Otto, and too awful for herself as well.

  Vincent remained in remarkably good spirits all afternoon, and when Reijer called he advised the patient not to excite himself too much. As for America – later, perhaps, but for the time being travel was out of the question. In the interim Mr Vere would do well to take a short stroll or a brief ride in the carriage to start with, what with the weather being so mild.

  Betsy promptly ordered the landau for half-past two, and off they went: Vincent, herself and Eline. In the bright light outside Eline was shocked to see how grey Vincent’s complexion was above the white-silk foulard draped about his neck, how dulled and frail he looked in his smart liver-coloured demi-season and shiny top hat. He leant stiffly against the cushions, keeping very still, his gloved hands resting on the silver knob of his cane. He felt light in the head, even a little groggy, and had he not been seated would have keeled over from the effect of the oxygen filling his lungs. His eyes smarted, so he closed them a moment, while his ears throbbed and the carriage wheels spun round in his brain. But gradually he became accustomed
to the cool, fresh air and the wide vistas unfolding before his eyes at each bend in the road, and his breathing became deep and regular. He felt mildly invigorated, and his nerves regaining a little strength.

  Eline did her best to converse brightly, addressing him and Betsy by turns. Upon their return an after an hour or so, she helped Vincent alight from the carriage and took his arm to lead him upstairs to her sitting room. She helped him out of his coat, after which he dropped on to the couch, quite exhausted from the outing. He asked her to leave him alone for a while, as he wished to take a nap.

  Betsy instructed the servants that she was receiving, and in due course several callers arrived: Madame Eekhof accompanied by Ange and Léonie, Madame Hovel and the Hijdrecht boy. Henk had gone to his club, but Eline joined the company in the tempered light of the salon, and presently Otto was shown in, too. When he entered the room Eline did not feel the thrill of warmth and contentment his appearance normally inspired in her, but icecold indifference. Oh God, how could that be? How could all that warmth have suddenly turned to ice? She did not know, but it was so, and she was powerless to change it. She nodded sweetly at him and extended her hand, feeling a pang of conscience as she did so, and held on to it while she continued telling Hijdrecht about the new chanteuse légère at the opera. She could not bear to look at Otto, all she could do was hold his hand and prattle on. What Hijdrecht said in response she scarcely heard, for her heart brimmed with pity for Otto … There he stood, by her side, his hand in hers, and she could feel his soft, kindly gaze resting on her, and his breath almost ruffling her hair as he leant over the back of her chair; there he was, radiating love, while she … she felt as cold as ice! No, no, this could not be, she would not allow it, she would compel herself … she pitied him too much … he loved her too much …

  ‘Nily, dear child, what is the matter?’ he murmured while Hijdrecht and the ladies rose to their feet. He could feel the nervous pressure of her fingers on his hand.