Eline Vere

by Louis Couperus

  Eline’s lips began to tremble.

  ‘But Madame!’ she stammered. ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have! You shouldn’t have! Because I – I don’t sing any more, you see.’

  ‘What? Why ever not?’ cried Madame.

  Eline sighed deeply and sank down on a chair.

  ‘I am not allowed to!’ she almost wailed, for the new instrument was a cruel reminder of the lovely voice she had once had. ‘The doctors I consulted in Paris forbade it. The thing is, during the winter my cough is rather bad; it only goes away in the summer. The past two winters I was coughing all the time, and I always had a pain, here in my chest. But I’m perfectly all right in the summer!’

  ‘My dear child!’ said Madame anxiously. ‘I hope you took good care of yourself while you were abroad.’

  ‘Oh yes, the Des Luynes referred me to some lung specialists in Paris, and they tapped me and osculated me so thoroughly that I simply couldn’t stand it any more! Besides that I underwent regular treatment by two doctors, but after a while I’d had enough of them: they were not making me better, anyway, they just kept saying I ought to live in a warmer climate, but I could hardly go and live all by myself in Algiers or goodness knows where; in any case, Uncle Daniel had to return to Brussels. So you see,’ she concluded with a nervous titter, ‘I’m a complete wreck, both on the outside and on the inside!’

  The old lady’s eyes filled with tears, and she pressed Eline to her bosom.

  ‘Shame about the lovely instrument, though!’ said Eline, extricating herself. She seated herself at the piano. What a wonderful sound it had, so rich and full!

  Her fingers glided deftly over the keys, playing a succession of scales that seemed to lament the loss of her singing voice. Madame van Raat watched her sadly; she had cherished the illusion that Eline would sing with her Paul, and that Paul might succumb to the melodious, convivial atmosphere and take to staying in of an evening, but all she heard was loud, sobbing arpeggios, the weeping dewdrops of a chromatic tremolo, and the big, splashing tears of painful staccatos.

  ‘I shall have to practise my piano-playing. I never was a great pianist, but I shall do my best! Because you shall have music, dear lady, I promise you! What a lovely instrument this is!’

  And the lovely notes gushed forth in an outpouring of sorrow.

  …

  In Eline’s honour, Paul made sure he was at home for coffee at half-past midday. In the afternoon Marie and her parents called, followed by Emilie de Woude. Eline received them cordially, and showed herself pleased to see them again. She told them about her meeting with Georges and Lili and what a delightful impression the young couple had made on everyone, including the Des Luynes and the Moulangers and Aunt Eliza’s other relatives. And it had been sweet of Georges and Lili to call on her so soon after their arrival; she had greatly appreciated it.

  It gave Marie a strange feeling to see Eline again, almost as if she feared that Eline would find her changed, too. But Eline did not appear to notice anything, and chatted on about her travels, the cities she had visited, the people she had met, on and on in a rush of nervous expatiation. It was the same nervousness that came over her nowadays whenever she was in the company of others, no matter how small and intimate the gathering, and it kept her fingers in constant motion, now crumpling her handkerchief into a tight ball, then fidgeting with the fringe of a tablecloth or plucking the tassels on her chair to make them swing to and fro. Her elegant languor of old, her graceful poise, had vanished.

  It was close to four o’clock when the door of the salon opened and Betsy appeared, leading Ben by the hand. Eline sprang up and ran towards her in order to hide her own misgivings with a show of excitement. She embraced her sister with effusive tenderness, and fortunately Betsy was able to respond with like enthusiasm. Then Eline bent down to smother Ben with kisses. He was large for a five-year-old, and thick-set, and in his eyes there was the blank, drowsy look of a backward child. Yet he seemed to remember something pleasant, for his lips parted in a happy smile and he threw his chubby arms around Eline’s neck to kiss her in return.

  Neither sister seemed to have any inclination to exchange confidences, because Betsy left at the same time as the Verstraetens and Emilie, and Eline did not press her to stay. Each of them was conscious of the distance that had grown between them, and that their sisterhood was something they would henceforth honour for the sake of appearances rather than out of love. They had been parted for a year and a half, and now that they were reunited she felt as if they had become strangers to one another, exchanging polite words of interest while their hearts were cool and indifferent.

  Eline felt rather tired when the visitors had gone, and the two women settled themselves in the armchairs by the glass doors to the veranda. Between them stood a low velvet-covered tabouret bearing a basket of crochet-work and some books and illustrated magazines. She smiled wanly at the old lady, then leant back and closed her eyes, pleasantly lulled by the restful, cosy atmosphere.

  Madame van Raat took up her crochet and began to work her needle with unwonted verve, for she felt a new vigour stirring in her old, stiff limbs, and suddenly it came to her that she might yet have a goal in life. That goal would be to inspire the poor lamb with some vitality and hope, so that she might yet find the kind of happiness that she herself had known in her youth. Her heart swelled with munificent sympathy, and a gleam came into her old eyes as she regarded Eline, wasted and pale, slumped in the armchair beside her.

  ‘Eline,’ she began softly. ‘I must speak with you, seriously.’

  Eline opened her eyes with a questioning look.

  ‘This morning you mentioned that you underwent treatment in Paris. Would you mind if I sent Reijer a note asking him to call one of these days? Not that he is my doctor, but I know you used to see him occasionally.’

  Eline gave a start.

  ‘Oh no, no doctors for me!’ she cried with passion, almost commandingly. ‘They are such a bore, and none of them can cure me anyway. I suppose it’s my cough you are thinking of?’

  ‘Not just your cough. In my opinion you don’t look at all well, in fact I think you must be suffering from some illness, although I wouldn’t be able to say which one.’

  Eline laughed out loud.

  ‘My dear little Mama, how you exaggerate! Now that I’m not coughing so much any more I feel perfectly all right, honestly! It is very sweet of you to worry about me so, but truly–’

  ‘So I may not write to Reijer?’ said the old lady in a wheedling tone.

  Eline, fearing that she had gone too far by laughing so disparagingly, gave one of her most winsome smiles.

  ‘You may do whatever you wish!’ she murmured ingratiatingly. ‘And if it pleases you, I shall swallow whatever they give me and they can tap me and hammer me as much as they like. I don’t believe it will do any good, but if that is your wish, it will be my command. So send a note to Reijer, then; far be it from me do stop you from doing anything, anything at all.’

  Madame van Raat was grateful, and, for the moment, somewhat reassured.

  XXIX

  Fine, the sour-faced maid-of-all-work Madame Verstraeten had engaged for Lili, was busy in the dining room at Atjehstraat, spreading a brand-new cloth on the round dining table, Emilie was pattering about the salon lighting the lamps, and Marie hummed as she arranged flowers in various vases. The French doors stood open in the pearl-grey dusk.

  ‘Let there be light!’ Emilie exclaimed happily, turning up all three gas jets of the chandelier to full blaze. ‘They can start counting pennies tomorrow,’ she muttered softly so that Fine would not hear.

  ‘The china cupboard is locked, Ma’am!’ Fine burst out accusingly.

  ‘So it is, Fine. Here, take the key. What do you need from the cupboard?’

  ‘The tableware, Ma’am; the settings. I need plates and dishes and the soup tureen. And I don’t see any cutlery, either. But I must go and see to my chops, or they’ll burn to a crisp.’

  ‘Very well,
Fine. Off you go then, you can leave the table to us.’

  Fine returned to the kitchen and Emilie opened the china cupboard.

  ‘Marie, do stop fussing with those flowers and lend me a hand with this instead! We’ll never finish on time otherwise.’

  The two women bustled about in playful humour, laying the table for two. Emilie tucked the napkins into the wine glasses as a finishing touch.

  ‘Good heavens no! That won’t do at all! That’s what they do in restaurants!’ remonstrated Marie as she made to remove the napkins.

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ cried Emilie, clasping her wrists. ‘Don’t you dare touch my creation!’

  Several mock skirmishes later, when Emilie had uncorked the wine, Marie declared that it would be a shame not to use the new cut-glass decanters.

  ‘Excellent idea!’ responded Emilie. ‘They’re upstairs, in Georges’ room. Quick, go and fetch them.’

  Marie returned bearing a pair of elegant crystal carafes with silver-chained labels, into which the wine was decanted.

  ‘See how stylish they look!’ said Marie admiringly. ‘And now for the flowers – let’s have two vases on the table, one for the master and one for the mistress.’

  ‘A single vase of flowers is quite enough.’

  ‘No, no! Two looks much nicer!’

  When after much good-natured argument they were finally satisfied with their elaborate table setting, Emilie announced that she was going upstairs. Marie would join her later; first she wanted to put the finishing touches to her flower arrangements elsewhere in the house.

  Upstairs Emilie found all the doors wide open and the gas lamps blazing in every room. The bedroom, with the neatly made-up bed and assortment of toiletries ranged on the washstand and dressing table, was coming alive already, and tomorrow, tomorrow the whole place would be alive with young love! She dithered about the rooms for a final inspection, adjusting the position of a chair here, straightening a lace mat there. Everything was in perfect order, from the bedroom to the small study, where the antique bookcase was now neatly filled with leather-bound tomes, and the boudoir, where the chairs stood around the low table as if they had been vacated just two minutes previously. Marie came running up the stairs and burst into the room, crying: ‘Emilie, it’s nearly ten! We must be off!’

  ‘Our cab hasn’t arrived yet.’

  ‘For what time did you order it?’

  ‘For ten o’clock. Don’t fret, they won’t be here until ten-past – I know, because I checked the railway timetable. Oh, how I wish I could be a fly on the wall when they arrive!’

  ‘Shall we go and hide?’

  ‘No, of course not!’

  ‘Are you afraid you’ll see something you shouldn’t?’

  Their eyes met and they exchanged complicit smiles at the thought of Georges and Lili going into raptures upon entering their fairy-tale abode.

  ‘Wait! I have an idea!’ Emilie cried out. ‘Are there any flowers left?’

  ‘Yes, a few with short stems, which I couldn’t fit into my vases. Why do you ask?’

  ‘We could use them to make a sort of ring around the night light. Oh, that would look so sweet! Quick, run and get them, will you?’ By the time Marie returned with the leftover flowers Emilie had lit the night light, and they set about arranging and rearranging the blooms with mounting agitation, finding it difficult to coax them into a shape to both their satisfaction.

  ‘We must hurry,’ admonished Emilie. ‘It’s nearly ten o’clock.’

  A cab drew up outside and a moment later the bell rang.

  ‘That must be our cab! Come along now, Marie, hurry up! Let’s turn off the main light, then the night light will look all the more enchanting! Leave the flowers as they are! Do hurry!’

  Emilie turned off the gas light and forcibly drew Marie to the landing. Then, to their alarm, they heard the rattle of wheels on the cobbles outside as a second vehicle drew up, followed by a shouted exchange by the drivers.

  ‘Oh dear! Just as I feared – we’re too late!’ wailed Emilie.

  The doorbell rang, and they stared at each other in horror.

  ‘They’ll have seen our cab!’ cried Marie. ‘What are we to do?’

  ‘Tell Fine to wait before answering the door! No, it’s too late for that!’

  ‘Then we’ll have to hide,’ said Marie.

  ‘No, no, Marie, that’s absurd.’

  ‘Well, then I shall go and hide even if you won’t!’ cried Marie, running into Lili’s boudoir. Emilie couldn’t think what to do, so she ran after her. They closed the door behind them, turned off the gas and hid behind the curtains. There they cowered, stifling their giggles, like a pair of mischievous schoolgirls, while Emilie did her best not to cause a bulge in the curtain. They heard Fine open the front door. They heard the coachman bringing in the suitcases. And they heard Georges and Lili’s voices.

  ‘Hello, Fine! There’s a cab waiting outside – do you know who it is for?’

  They could not make out Fine’s reply, for she spoke in a low, genteel tone.

  ‘Emilie! Marie!’ called Georges and Lili from downstairs.

  ‘Shh! Not a word!’ hissed Emilie.

  ‘How like Fine to have given us away,’ Marie whispered plaintively. Their names were called again, and then, straining their ears, they heard Lili’s happy voice as she drifted from the salon to the dining room.

  ‘Oh! Georges, come over here! Look what a pretty table setting! And all those lovely flowers!’

  After a moment’s pause, during which Georges and Lili were presumably in raptures, they heard their names being called yet again.

  Emilie and Marie held their breath.

  ‘Wait! I know, let’s go and look for them!’ they heard Georges cry, followed by the sound of him and his young bride running up the stairs.

  ‘Oh, Marie! They’re coming!’ whispered Emilie.

  Georges and Lili burst into the bedroom, and after that nothing was heard but muffled whisperings, a soft laugh, the sound of a kiss. Marie could contain herself no longer and let out a giggle.

  ‘I heard someone laugh!’ exclaimed Lili, ‘They must be hiding somewhere. Where are you, Marie and Emilie, you can come out now!’

  But Emilie and Marie kept as quiet as mice, listening to Georges and Lili’s footsteps as they searched the study and the small dressing room before entering the boudoir. Georges lit the gas, and promptly saw the bulge behind the curtains.

  ‘Look! Lili, look over there!’

  ‘We’ve found them!’ rejoiced Lili. ‘Oh, what madcaps they are!’

  The curtains were thrust aside to reveal Emilie and Marie, red-faced and brimming with laughter. Boisterous greetings were exchanged, and everyone spoke at once.

  XXX

  Madame van Raat had written to Dr Reijer, and he had responded by paying Eline a visit. They had greeted each other warmly, and had made light conversation on various topics. Reijer had left it at that during that first visit, as it was clear to him from the outset that Eline was reluctant to engage with him in his capacity as physician. Madame van Raat, present at that encounter, was not favourably impressed by the smart young doctor who spoke with such facility about Spain and Paris instead of touching on the delicate matter at hand. When Reijer called again two days later, she gave him a somewhat chilly welcome. However, she soon noticed the penetrating looks he directed at Eline when he was not glancing distractedly about the room, and her opinion of him improved: he evidently wished to spare Eline’s feelings. Appreciating his tact and delicacy, she left them alone for a while. When Reijer had gone Eline reported that he had examined her thoroughly, and although the old lady was surprised to hear of the young doctor’s powers of persuasion, she was only too happy to place her trust in his expertise. On his third visit he had a word with her in private after seeing Eline. She found him plain-spoken and firm in his opinion; he said outright that he had no wish to mislead her, that he held it incumbent on him to tell her the truth. He had discovered the
germs of pulmonary consumption in Eline, the consequence of neglecting a severe cold from which she had mistakenly thought she had recovered. He for his part would naturally exert all his efforts to combat those germs. Beyond that, however, he perceived in Eline’s frame of mind the signs of what he termed ‘the fate of the Veres’. Her late father had been highly strung, too, and so was her cousin Vincent. In Eline’s case it was a soul-disturbing agitation of her nerves, which were tangled like the strings of a broken musical instrument. He would not presume to exaggerate the extent of his knowledge, and believed it would not be in his power to restore full harmony to her mind, no more than he was able to reverse the damage caused by rough handling of a delicate flower. Madame van Raat herself was far better equipped to lavish care on a flower, she was in a position to administer the very remedy Eline was most in need of in her present condition: a restful environment with plenty of warmth and tender care. Come winter, though, a milder climate than that of Holland might be desirable.

  He did not mention the quinine drops he had prescribed for Eline.

  Madame van Raat’s eyes filled with tears as she listened to the doctor’s verdict, and she pressed his hand with warm sympathy when he took his leave. But the task he had entrusted to her weighed heavily on her frail shoulders, for all that she dearly wished to devote herself entirely to Eline. She feared that Reijer overestimated the healing power of her love for the poor girl, and suspected that for her to recover her health completely another kind of love would need to enter her life.

  Eline, however, seemed assuaged, and began to look forward to Reijer’s visits.

  The days passed in soothing repose. Eline was reluctant to venture out of the house, despite Reijer’s recommendation that she go for a stroll, preferably late in the day in order to improve her chances of sleeping well at night. But she was more partial to sitting out on the veranda with Madame van Raat of an evening, comfortably installed in a wide wicker chair with a cup of tea, looking up at the darkening sky with the stars coming out one by one like daisies in a meadow. She spoke little, because the old lady always chided her ever so gently when she got carried away and couldn’t stop talking; she was grateful for such gentle correction, and kept silent for long moments, gazing at the stars. Now and then Paul joined them on the veranda for tea. He would perch on the balustrade and indicate a few constellations with a casual wave of the hand – Ursa Major, Cassiopeia, the Lyre – promising to point them out to her on his celestial globe some time. Then, when he was gone, she would tilt back her head and seek out the star patterns all over again, for it seemed to her that they shone softly into her soul.