Eline Vere

by Louis Couperus

  Willem came in.

  ‘Mr van Raat has arrived, and would like to speak to you. What shall I tell him, Ma’am?’

  ‘Master Paul?’ said Frédérique.

  ‘Beg pardon, Miss, it is Mr van Raat from Nassauplein.’

  ‘Show him in!’

  Madame van Erlevoort, generally so serene, was concerned. Like her daughters, she had noted how dejected and retiring Otto had become lately, and how Eline seemed to avoid visiting their house.

  Henk entered. His dull greeting and uncharacteristically worried expression spoke volumes. Madame waved Henk to a chair, eying him with anxious expectation.

  ‘Why Van Raat! What is it? What brought you here?’ she asked hurriedly.

  ‘I thought it right to call on you, dear lady. Eline has written to Otto.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Ah. And has he read the letter?’

  ‘The letter? No, not yet. Willem brought it in a moment ago. Good heavens, Van Raat, you don’t mean to say that Eline has …?’

  Henk looked away, groping for words. He had composed a whole speech in his mind on the way there, but found he could not recall a single word under the apprehensive gaze of Frédérique and her mother. When they begged him to speak he gave a helpless gesture and blurted:

  ‘Well, yes, I’m afraid she has. She wants to break off the engagement. She has written him a long letter. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’

  Madame van Erlevoort sat with hunched shoulders, speechless and trembling; Frédérique had turned deathly pale.

  ‘And Eline herself is very upset, quite heartbroken in fact. She didn’t get any sleep last night, either. We heard her cry for hours.’

  In broken, laboured sentences, he related the events of the previous night. He had not come to try and intercept the letter before Otto had a chance to read it, since Eline had been adamant that it would not change anything, he had come because he felt impelled to do something, to express his sympathy at least, to share in their grief. That he should be the one to break the news to them compounded his misery, and he could barely put his thoughts into words.

  Madame van Erlevoort was shattered. She no longer heard Henk’s strained discourse, for all she could think of now was how devastated Otto would be. She tried to imagine her son’s reaction, and found herself unable to picture him, as if everything might yet change, as if she had misheard. Frédérique’s eyes were brimming with tears, her mind was in turmoil, and the hatred smouldering in her heart burst into flame.

  Oh, she could have murdered Eline, murdered her! With a grim expression on her features she turned to her mother, who was hiding her face in her hands, sobbing quietly, while Henk stared mournfully into the distance.

  Children’s voices sounded in the vestibule. The door opened, and Tina, Johan, Madeleine and Nico burst in, with Mathilda at their heels. Henk stood up, flustered. Seeing her mother in tears and Frédérique glowering with impotent fury, Mathilda knew at once that something was seriously wrong.

  ‘Not now! Take the children away!’ sobbed Madame van Erlevoort, unceremoniously pushing Nico aside.

  Mathilda summoned them to the door. ‘Off you go upstairs, now, to Nurse Frantzen, and keep your voices down!’ she whispered, and they left, somewhat crestfallen, with little Nico in tears.

  Mathilda closed the door and looked at Henk with fearful expectation. But it was Frédérique who, with flashing eyes and a note of pride in her voice, explained to her what had happened.

  ‘Good heavens!’ gasped Mathilda, shaking.

  ‘How are we going to tell him? Oh, what can we say?’ wept Madame. ‘How could Eline do this? How could she hurt him so? And all this time I thought … Oh, dear Lord!’

  She drew Mathilda close and hid her weeping face in her daughter’s bosom. Mathilda was used to this: everyone appealed to her for consolation of their woes, and she wrapped her arm about her mother’s neck and kissed her.

  ‘Otto’s strong, Mama, he’ll get over it.’

  ‘How can you say that? It’s all so unexpected, oh, it will destroy him, my poor, poor boy. Oh, how could she? How could she?’

  Someone came thumping down the stairs, two or three treads at a time, whistling in the shrill, jaunty tones of a street urchin. Etienne bowled into the room.

  ‘Good morning, all! Morning, Mama! Well hello there, old chap, what brings you here? How are you?’

  His customary, cheerful grin faded at the sight of the consternation written on all their faces, and he stared round-eyed at his mother when she cried out, in a choked voice:

  ‘And you, my pet, can you understand? Can you understand why Eline has done this? How could she have stopped loving Otto?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked blankly.

  It took a moment for the meaning to sink in, then he ran to his dear, grey-haired Mama, whose normally sunny disposition was now so rudely overturned, and flung his arms about her, showering her with childish, tender endearments. And it crossed Mathilda’s mind that although her mother had turned to her for consolation, she had gained it from her darling boy, her Etienne.

  …

  While they waited for Otto to return in time for coffee, his mother and sisters agreed among themselves to greet him as calmly as possible, so as to spare his feelings. Madame van Erlevoort wondered at her son’s apparent composure when Mathilda, with an air of grave intent, caught his hands and drew him to a seat. She had been expecting a different reaction from him, some outburst of horrified, violent passion, and she thanked the Lord for giving her son the strength to bear his suffering as she watched his expression change from frank and genial to an inscrutable mask, in which the only sign of emotion was a tremor of the lips.

  ‘That letter – where is it?’ he said at last.

  ‘Otto–’

  ‘Give me the letter, please.’

  Mathilda stood up and handed him the envelope. He made to leave the room, but Mathilda stepped in his path; she gave him a quick hug, whispering in his ear: ‘Be a man, Otto! Be a man!’ Then she kissed him and let him go.

  Madame van Erlevoort, who had hardly said a word to Otto, leant tearfully against Etienne’s shoulder. He patted her on the back and kissed her several times, while Mathilda stared wordlessly out of the window with tears in her eyes. Frédérique sat quite still and aloof; they had no need of her, that much was clear, because what did she know about suffering? They didn’t even think she knew the meaning of the word!

  Tina came down, demanding attention. Mathilda wanted to send her away, but Madame van Erlevoort said, haltingly:

  ‘Let her stay, Tilly. And call the others, too, they’re bound to be hungry. But I shall not eat, I’m afraid, I have no appetite at all.’

  She withdrew from Etienne’s embrace and was soon busying herself about the meal, slicing the top off a boiled egg for Tina and buttering the child’s bread.

  ‘Why are you crying, Grandma? Are you ill?’ demanded Tina. Madame van Erlevoort shook her head, smiling dismally through her tears. Sorrow made her nervous, and her quivering hands, seeking occupation, set about helping the three other children, who had since joined them at the table. Frédérique fought back her tears as she surveyed the youngsters settling down to eat, only slightly subdued by the gloom of their elders. Such was life: no matter how much suffering there was in the world, everyone just carried on with what they were doing, eating, sleeping, laughing, all wrapped up in their egotistic materialism, and no one cared!

  Otto had meant to read the letter in the privacy of his room, but passing through the salon on his way there he dropped onto a sofa and ripped the envelope open. He began to read Eline’s outpouring of grief and remorse. There was no need for her to assure him that she had suffered unbearably in the writing of it, for he could read her anguish in every word even as it lacerated his soul. The letter told him, although not in so many words, that any future effort on his part to find happiness in her love – supposing he was able to rekindle it – would be in vain; it told
him that the rupture was final, that they would be separated for ever, because she had lacked the strength to sustain her love. He was overcome with despair. If only she had been stronger, if only she had given herself more time, it would surely have been in his power to make her happy, for the simple reason that the constancy of his love would have offered her nerves a chance to settle down, and ultimately she would have blossomed. That was how he had seen their future unfold, but now it had all proved a grievous delusion.

  He read the letter again from start to finish, as if his eyes might have deceived him, but it was true: he had lost her, she was gone for ever! Sitting in the cold gleam of the large salon with its imposing pier glasses and faded velvet hangings, he felt like a lost soul in a desolate wilderness. He looked about him, moisteyed, and shivered. Then he slumped back against the sofa and covered his face with his hands, emitting a rasping sob. He felt as if everything inside him were breaking and snapping like a bundle of dry reeds, as if that single sob had torn through his body like a hurricane, leaving utter ruin in its wake, and in that moment he wished he were dead.

  He sobbed soundlessly behind his hands, and a sombre bitterness welled up in him. What had he done to deserve this? He, who had once discovered such richness within himself; he, whose sole ambition had been to share these riches, to bestow the gift of peaceful contentment on the woman he loved? He had been spurned, his gift refused, and he found himself poorer now than the poorest man on earth, defeated and bereft of all but black despair.

  The door opened softly. It was Mathilda, who, not finding him in his room, had come looking for him. She entered the salon with a look of deep compassion and seated herself on the sofa beside him. When she tried to pull his hands from his face he gave a violent start and stared at her, wild-eyed.

  ‘Why have you come to me?’ he asked disconsolately. For there was nothing left to say; he felt as if he had died.

  ‘Why do you think? Why did you come to me that time, oh, it must be five years ago already, when I was so upset and you held me tight? And that other time, soon afterwards, that night when my husband and I … when my husband left me? Go on, tell me: why did you seek me out? Did I ask you the question you just asked me?’

  Seeing his chest heave with stifled emotion, she put her arm about his neck and drew his head to her shoulder. In the depths of his own suffering he suddenly thought of his sister’s grief, of which she never spoke, and he felt warmed by her wish to comfort him.

  ‘Why bring that up?’ he said, knowing her reluctance to mention her former husband.

  ‘To show you that I understand how you feel. And to remind you that I survived, and that I must continue to do so for some time yet. But especially to remind you that you’re not alone in your sorrow. Perhaps that could comfort you a little.’

  ‘Oh!’ he sobbed, clinging to her; then he held out the letter, his hand shaking.

  ‘There! Read it!’ he said hoarsely.

  She began to read, stroking his head all the while as though comforting one of her children, so that he could weep copious tears without shame for his unmanly conduct. And while she read, she mulled over Eline’s motives.

  ‘Does she have any idea of what she’s doing?’ she asked herself. ‘What would she do if she saw the state he is in? Is it wickedness on her part to treat him so cruelly? Is she even worthy of my beloved brother? Or is she simply an unhappy creature, like the rest of us?’

  Madame van Erlevoort came in with Frédérique.

  Mathilda lifted Otto’s chin.

  ‘Look, here’s Mama,’ she said simply, as if she did not wish to detain him now that his mother was there to offer consolation. But when he saw the look of pitiful anguish on her dear face, he felt it was he who should console her.

  ‘Mama, Mama, please don’t cry! It’s not the end of the world, you know!’ he exclaimed.

  Frédérique stood leaning against the door frame, her forearms crossed before her face. No one paid any attention to her. It was all right for Mathilda and Mama to try and comfort him, he obviously did not need her, she was only a child as far as he was concerned, and would have nothing of any consequence to say to him. She thought back on the conversation they had had about Eline all those months ago, before the engagement, but now there was nothing more to say, nothing. Her words carried no weight, she had never suffered, she had no feeling, she was made of stone.

  ‘Stone! They think I’m made of stone!’ she repeated under her breath, and continued to weep into her crossed arms, inconsolable for her inability to console Otto.

  Feeling a hand on her shoulder she turned round with a look of defiance at being so sorely misjudged. But when she saw Otto’s pained expression, his eyes filled with tears, his brow deeply furrowed, his lips quivering beneath the blond moustache, she flung her arms about him in a great rush of pity and smothered his face with kisses, for she had never seen him cry before.

  XXIV

  Betsy’s compassion for Eline initially manifested itself in sisterly concern for the state of her health, but before long her old irritation returned with redoubled force. How very tiresome of Eline to go back on her word! And why, for Heaven’s sake? Why had she done it? She, Betsy, could not for the life of her understand why Eline had changed her mind. Who could she possibly rather marry than Otto, even though he was perhaps not rolling in riches? Now her own plans for the future were ruined! If Eline didn’t get married, she’d go on living with them for ever, and as for Vincent, he was a hanger-on if there ever was one! She was sick and tired of the pair of them, the way they were always spoiling the atmosphere with their selfish behaviour.

  Another source of annoyance for Betsy was all the talk about Otto and Eline calling off their engagement. She would not have minded so much about the gossip, which she knew would die down soon enough, if Eline had given her the impression, now that she had got her way, that things would soon return to normal, that she would finally shake off this absurd act of grieving over Otto and gradually become her old self again, the younger sister whose pretty face and charming manners had been rather an asset when she entertained guests of an evening. Oh, if only Eline would be obliging and come to her senses, then Betsy’s dearest wish would be for her to stay with them as long as she liked. But the fact of the matter was that Eline was permanently in a dark mood – either sullen and dazed-looking or enraged, complete with shrill vociferations. Eline never went out nowadays, and only the other evening, when Betsy had invited a few guests for dinner – just Madame Eekhof with Ange and Léonie, Marguerite van Laren and her fiancé, and young Hijdrecht – she had actually stayed up in her room under the pretext of a severe headache. Betsy’s patience was running out. Why did Eline have to look so wan and weary-eyed, why didn’t she bother to put her hair up properly nowadays? And those endless tête-à-têtes with Vincent! True, Vincent was their cousin and a semi-invalid at that, but there something unseemly about the way she kept sneaking off with him to the violet anteroom, or to her boudoir, or to the conservatory. She was determined to say something next time she came upon them sharing secrets; it simply wouldn’t do.

  In her irritable frame of mind Betsy’s anger was quickly provoked, and besides delivering pinpricks of disapproval to Eline and Vincent at every opportunity, she would vent her spleen on the servants, on Ben and on her husband. Impossible to please, she bustled about the house in a pretence of housewifely fastidiousness, flying into a rage at a dust cloth left lying about or a particle of fluff on the carpet, grumbling at her young son when he was sitting quietly with his toys, or berating her husband for some misdemeanour, such as having something urgent to do elsewhere the moment she opened her mouth! Most of all she was dissatisfied with herself, for having become so ill-tempered. And yet none of it was her fault. It was all her sister’s fault, and Vincent’s.

  One day, just before dinner, things came to a head. All that happened to ignite her rage was that she had come upon Vincent raising a glass to his lips in the dining room. The dinner bell had not yet
sounded, and he had helped himself to some wine from the decanter. Forgetting all her previous caution with regard to Vincent, she lashed out at him for his abominable behaviour. Where were his manners? Didn’t he know she ran a respectable house? Indeed, she had been meaning to ask him for some time whether he possessed any manners at all! Thus they stood, face to face, Vincent eyeing her with cool self-restraint while Betsy let fly, when Henk and Eline entered. Eline made no comment, not wishing to take sides, while Henk tried to pacify his wife. His efforts had the opposite effect, and she turned her fury on him, accusing him of being ineffectual and disloyal as usual. It was not the wine that she objected to – Vincent could drink as much as he liked for all she cared – what stung her was that he seemed to think he was living in a hotel, free of charge, where he could stay just as long as it suited him, helping himself to whatever took his fancy. He had no business coming down to the dining room before anyone else, before the dinner bell sounded, it was downright rude, and she wasn’t having it!

  Vincent kept his counsel, conceding temporary defeat, but in retreating from the room gave Betsy a look of such scorn and loathing as to strike fear into her heart. Her triumph at having put him in his place evaporated as she quickly composed herself, announcing that it was time dinner was served and motioning Henk and Eline to take their seats at the table. Henk took a deep breath and did as he was bidden; Eline too sat down, and proceeded to unfold her napkin with deliberation. Neither Betsy nor Henk said very much after that, and Eline maintained a stoic silence for the duration of the meal.

  That evening Vincent packed his suitcase in preparation for his departure to London. Henk made only half-hearted attempts to dissuade him, because he knew that with Vincent out of the way there was more chance of restoring some kind of harmony in the home. He felt sorry for Vincent, to be sure, but he couldn’t wait for Betsy to be relieved of this importunate cousin, whom she had first ingratiated herself with and then come to loathe from the bottom of her heart.