Eline Vere

by Louis Couperus

  It was morning, and in the bay window sat Aunt Eliza, attired in a Chinese robe of grey silk with red tassels, painting at a table strewn with paints and brushes. Eline was seated by the large fire with a book on her lap, an unconscious smile playing on her pale lips as her gaze slid searchingly about the room.

  ‘I love the way you have decorated your apartment!’ she said in French to Eliza, who was humming softly as she rinsed out her brush. ‘You can sit here quietly by the fire and conjure up the most delightful fancies, because every single thing here sparks some idea that you can embroider on. If you look around the room, you feel as if you’re travelling.’

  Eliza licked the tip of her brush and laughed.

  ‘You have such curious ideas, Eline!’ she said, rising abruptly. She untied her mass of tightly-curled hair, which was ever dishevelled, shook it, and twisted it into a loose knot. ‘I’ve spent practically all my time in this room for the past three years, never have any of my things given me the feeling I was travelling! But all of you have such curious ideas! You and Daniel and Vincent, too. It’s very amusing; I keep being taken by surprise! So curious, and so original, you know. Is your sister Betsy like that, too?’

  Eline smiled at her in wonder.

  ‘Betsy?’ she echoed pensively. ‘No, I don’t believe so. Betsy has a very practical nature, very resolute. Betsy takes after our Mama, not after the Veres at all.’

  Eliza smiled gaily.

  ‘Shall I tell you what I think? You’re all a bit peculiar, I do declare, a bit peculiar, every one of you! Believe me, it’s true!’ She said this in such a joking, friendly fashion that Eline could not take offence. ‘But you know, I rather like a whiff of peculiarity. I can’t abide ordinariness. Ordinary people – ugh! So you see, that’s why I adore you: you aren’t a bit ordinary, you’re interesting and original!’

  ‘Really?’ said Eline forcing a laugh. ‘Well, I can assure you that I would give half my life for the privilege of not being original or interesting, but ordinary instead, as ordinary as it is possible to be.’

  ‘My dear girl! What an absurd privilege to aspire to! The way I see it, one shouldn’t aspire to anything, one ought to want to take life as it comes, and be satisfied with one’s lot. Voilà le secret du bonheur! You are original, Eline, so you might as well be satisfied with your interesting personality. But there you go, wanting to be different – wanting to be ordinary, no less! Shame on you!’

  She seated herself beside Eline and stretched out her hands to the fire.

  ‘I’ll tell you something else, Eline, something that has always puzzled me about you. You are a very pretty girl, you have enough money to do exactly as you please, and yet you don’t enjoy life. You’re always dreaming, dear girl, but dreaming is not the same as living, is it? Had I been in your shoes before I got married, I’d have made sure I enjoyed life to the full. But I didn’t have a penny to my name, and I was a plain-looking girl – as I still am. Daniel fell for me anyway, and I accepted him. Of course I did! If I’d been pretty like you and if I’d had a little money of my own I would have made sure I amused myself – but it would have been without Daniel, you see. With who else? Well, I couldn’t say at this stage, but I know I would have had lots of fun! As for you – o mais c’est une pitié! – you’re simply bored, bored to death if you ask me. It’s a crying shame! In a word, you’re a mystery to me. And that’s exactly what I like about you.’

  Eline gave a rueful smile, remaining silent.

  ‘Ah well, I don’t know your personal history, all I know is that you left your sister’s home in the middle of the night, during a storm. Not everyone would do that, you see, and that’s what appeals to me. It’s intriguing, to say the least. I dare say you have some dramatic story to tell, but then who hasn’t? A romantic story, perhaps? If so, I pity you, because you obviously made some foolish mistake.’

  She paused in anticipation of some response from Eline, but none was forthcoming.

  ‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ she prattled on, relishing the occasion to air her views. ‘I think love is a fine thing. It is most enjoyable. But I also think it ought to remain enjoyable. Once romantic love becomes a source of heartache it’s not worth pursuing, in my opinion. I don’t believe there is such a thing as all-consuming love, like a big flame that won’t tolerate any flamelets in its vicinity. It’s an impossibility, when you think about it. Take me. I have always lived here in Brussels. Daniel happened to be living here, too, and so we met. We fell in love, as they say, and we got married. All well and good, but what if I had been living in Lapland, and Daniel on the South Pole? Just think about it. We would never have set eyes on each other, and each of us would have met someone else – me an Eskimo, and Daniel someone from the South Pole. Stands to reason, no? Love simply happens, and people can fall in love hundreds of times. Why, Eline, you’ve gone all quiet. I’m not boring you am I?’

  ‘On the contrary!’ laughed Eline. ‘I love it when you’re in one of your talkative moods!’

  Eliza blinked happily.

  ‘Well, I am rather a chatterbox, aren’t I? But I meant what I said about you not enjoying life enough. You might bear that in mind, my dear; you’re still young enough to change your attitude.’

  Eline was certain that there was nothing she could do to change her attitude. She was simply not up to it – she had allowed herself to be driven down a steep slope, further and further until she could see the abyss gaping beneath her, and even then she had not mustered the strength to climb back up.

  ‘Do you know what I think your weakness is, Eline? You’re too sensitive. Altogether too emotional. What you need in life’s struggle is a good dose of indifference. You see, we have little choice: we happen to be among the living, and we must live our lives as best we can. So we might as well make things as agreeable as possible for ourselves. As for you, you have the means to do just that. You have no responsibilities, no dependents to provide for, you can do exactly as you please. The trouble is that you think too much, and thinking too much is depressing. Me? I don’t think. I only have impulses, little ideas that occur to me; but I never think. And thank goodness for that. I may be philosophising now, but I am not thinking.’

  This lighthearted chat amused Eline; she even caught herself thinking Eliza might be quite right to take such a heedless attitude. But Eline herself was different: there was no way she could cast off the melancholy that seemed to have infiltrated into the very marrow of her being, and she was sure that she would end her days without having enjoyed life – or at least not in the way Eliza meant. Nor did she desire such enjoyment, for she had experienced happiness of a higher order – the happiness of being with him, with Otto.

  …

  Eliza thought her indolent, but she herself took pleasure in doing nothing. She gave herself up wholeheartedly to her languorous inertia. Most days she stayed at home, pleading her cough, though in reality all she wanted to do was to nestle herself among the Turkish cushions in the big armchair by the fire and while away the hours daydreaming. She made an effort to be like Eliza and not think, and to a certain extent she succeeded in this endeavour. Only, she began to have a sense of waiting for something, waiting and waiting.

  Although she seldom went out, she saw plenty of people. Uncle Daniel was always bringing home friends, sometimes accompanied by their wives, and they often stayed for dinner. The social circle Eline found herself in was not entirely new to her, for she had met various of its members when she first stayed in Brussels. But she did not feel wholly at ease with them; they were unconventional in ways that both fascinated and shocked her. In The Hague she had always moved in circles limited to her own class, where everyone, despite variations in personal fortunes, held the same views when it came to morals and manners, and where everyone observed the same rules of etiquette and exchanged the same pleasantries when they visited each other’s homes. No such rules seemed to apply in Brussels. People vented the most outlandish opinions, on topics unheard of in Betsy’s salon o
r at the Eekhofs’. She found her new, free-spirited acquaintances somewhat unnerving, but at the same time interestingly exotic.

  It was indeed a motley assortment of friends that Uncle Daniel had gathered around him. One evening he had invited some count or other to dinner, who, much to Eline’s surprise, entered wearing evening dress with a diamond-studded dress shirt that looked decidedly the worse for wear, as well as rather oversized cameo rings on his fingers; he was handsome in a faded sort of way, with a lock of black hair tumbling over his brow, and wrote poetry; he offered Eline a volume of his poems and a booklet containing reprints of flattering reviews of his works. He was said to be rich, and Eliza thought him witty. Eline, however, felt a twinge of dislike on shaking his hand. Another evening it would be an actor, which made Eline worry about the possibility of Fabrice turning up one day. Or it would be a well-known jeweller accompanied by an enormously stout, blonde lady wearing a lot of rouge and a red-velvet gown. But from time to time the Moulangers and the Des Luynes came over from Bordeaux, and Eline would be greatly relieved to recognise in them a modicum of respectability and distinction.

  With the exception of these two families, though, visitors at avenue Louise behaved with a remarkable degree of informality. They either came to dinner unannounced or arrived at eleven o’clock at night, when Eline was feeling ready for bed, and stayed until the small hours drinking champagne and smoking. Eline would smoke along with them, and laugh very loudly. Uncle Daniel would lounge in a chair, smiling somewhat wearily, and Eline often had the impression that all these strange people were in some way useful to him. She had never quite understood how he obtained his money, since he did not seem to have had any employment. But she dismissed the thought, for she was determined not to think at all, like Eliza, and as time went on she found a certain measure of satisfaction in this society, so very different from what she had been used to in the salons of The Hague.

  …

  Above all, Eline liked conversing with Uncle Daniel’s physician, a man of indeterminate age who was remarkably polite in both manner and speech, and who always seemed to be watching her closely. His interest in her had initially put her on her guard, as if he might discover something within her that she herself was unaware of, some secret that would put her to shame. Yet she was drawn to his amicable, steady gaze as to a magnet, and before long she took to asking him, when she had one of her headaches, to hold his cool outstretched hand close to her forehead for a moment. The first time he had done so had been on his own initiative, and Eline had immediately felt as though a refreshing, invigorating current were passing through her brain. Since then she had become addicted, in a manner of speaking, to the emanations of that hand, which, without even touching, seemed capable of making a cool breeze blow through her overheated skull.

  Eline had told him of the difficulties she had sleeping at night, and he had said he would like to try and induce her to sleep by the sheer force of his will, but she had begged him not to: she had so little willpower of her own, and feared losing it altogether if he were capable of exerting such a strong influence on her from afar. Thereupon he had supplied her with a sleeping draught of morphine, which was extremely expensive and which he had mixed himself; he counted out the drops for her in a glass of water. That night she laid herself down to sleep in a haze of blissful contentment; she felt her body becoming weightless, rising up from her bed, her pillows and sheets, and for a moment she found herself floating on currents of softly swirling blue air.

  Then she sank into a profound slumber, from which she did not wake until late in the morning. And she was full of praise for Uncle Daniel’s physician for having succeeded where Reijer had always failed – at least he knew how to send her to sleep.

  …

  Life went on in much the same manner, with Eline accommodating herself to the humour of the moment. She still had a bad cough, but felt comparatively content nonetheless. Eliza, though a compulsive talker, seemed to like her well enough, and Uncle Daniel, ever gallant if a touch remote, was no less well-disposed towards her. Sometimes, however, she had the feeling that they were putting on an act, in the same way that everyone had put on an act in The Hague. But she had no desire to analyse this doubt, preferring to let her brain slumber in untrammelled lethargy.

  One day an envelope arrived from Vincent Vere in New York; it was addressed to Uncle Daniel, to whom it came as rather a surprise, as they were not in the habit of writing to one another. But Eline, who had not heard from her cousin for some time, was all aflutter at the unexpected mention of his name, and couldn’t wait to hear what her uncle would say about the letter. She would not be surprised if Vincent were asking for money.

  But in this Eline was mistaken. He had not asked for money, nor did he need a letter of introduction or some other favour. Vincent simply wanted to let them know that he and his friend Lawrence St Clare were planning a trip to Europe, and that they would be stopping in Brussels. They would be sailing to Liverpool, from where they would travel to London and Paris before arriving in Brussels. By the time Uncle Daniel received this news they were already halfway across the Atlantic.

  Vincent’s letter revived Eline to some degree from her psychic lethargy. She remembered how Vincent, pale and sickly, had lain on her couch in his Turkish chamber cloak, and how she had nursed him back to health. Her next thought was of Otto, and she fumbled agitatedly for the black enamelled locket on her watch-chain. Had she not fancied that Vincent was in love with her, and she with him? Were there any such feelings still lingering in her heart? No, those feelings were far, far away, like birds that had vanished out of sight.

  Uncle and Eliza discussed Vincent’s impending visit briefly, then said no more on the subject. But Eline, though she kept silent, thought a great deal about him and his American friend. She recalled having seen the photograph of St Clare when it fell out of his letter to Vincent; it was on the same day that she had lost her temper with Otto during dinner. She recalled having asked Vincent whether his friend’s hair was fair or dark, but not what he had replied. Nor could she recall what St Clare looked like. She was very curious to see them both.

  …

  After some weeks a second letter from Vincent arrived; this time posted from Paris. A few days later the two friends arrived; it was late afternoon, and they stayed to dinner. Uncle and Eliza offered to put them up, out of courtesy, but St Clare declined politely: they had already taken rooms at the Hotel des Flandres.

  Vincent had not changed a whit, either in appearance or demeanour. When he and Eline were standing side by side, talking, she caught their reflection in the pier glass, and suddenly noticed that she had aged. He was the same elegantly dressed young man as two years before, and beside her sallow skin and sunken cheeks he looked healthier than she had ever seen him. She, in black lace – she wore nothing else these days – stood there with her thin shoulders and lacklustre eyes gazing at the ruins of her former youthful radiance … ruined inside and out.

  Lawrence St Clare directly made a very favourable impression upon both ladies. Eline had rather imagined him, as an American, to be a little coarse and uncivilised – possibly even spitting, swearing, or demanding whisky – and she was pleasantly surprised by his engaging, easy manner. He was tall and rugged, with a full, dark-blond beard, and in his clear eyes there gleamed a certain pride, but it was a pride that, without a trace of arrogance, betokened character and strength of will. His masterful bearing and air of independence inspired confidence in Eline. Although Vincent had not told her very much about St Clare, she felt almost at once that she had known him for a long time. His frank smile and mild yet penetrating gaze pleased her, and when she glanced about the dinner table she was struck by the calm, wholesome uprightness he exuded, compared to which her uncle’s civility and Eliza’s frothy chitchat, as well as the vague melancholy shared by herself and Vincent, seemed to her false and jaded.

  After dinner they took coffee in the reception room. Eline felt at ease in St Clare’s company
, and hoped there would be no further callers to disturb them. She had little opportunity to converse with him, though, as Eliza bombarded him with questions about New York, Philadelphia and St Louis. He replied in French, speaking slowly, with a strange accent that Eline found rather charming.

  Vincent clasped her hands and stared at her intently; he was grateful for what she had done for him in The Hague, and now felt a pang of compassion for her.

  ‘I have missed you, Elly!’ he said as they settled themselves in the balcony. ‘But you really ought to put on some weight, you know!’

  She gave a light laugh and nervously poked the tip of her shoe into the fleecy white rug.

  ‘I am quite all right!’ she said. ‘Indeed, I have been feeling rather well lately. Better than before, anyway. And I am very glad to see you again, very glad. You know I have always been fond of you.’

  She put out her hand with a generous gesture; he pressed it and moved his chair a little closer.

  ‘And what do you think of Lawrence?’ he asked. ‘Do you like him?’

  ‘Yes, he seems very nice.’

  ‘He is the only man I have ever known who is as good as his word. I don’t trust anyone, not a soul, you see; not even you, not even myself, but I do trust him … Don’t you find his French accent rather amusing?’

  ‘He speaks French very well!’ responded Eline.

  ‘Oh, you can’t imagine how loyal he is to his friends!’ Vincent continued familiarly. ‘If I were to tell you all the things he has done for me, you wouldn’t believe me. To be honest, his generosity towards me has been enormous, almost embarrassingly so, as it happens. You see, I was taken very ill in New York, very ill indeed – my life was in danger. At that time I was employed by the same company St Clare has invested his money in. He took me into his home and looked after me with almost as much tender care as you showed me in The Hague. I don’t know what I have done to deserve his friendship, nor can I ever repay him. But I don’t think there is anything I would not do for him. If there is a grain of goodness in me at all, it is thanks to his influence. During my illness he arranged for a temporary replacement for my position – I was second in command in the accounts department – so that I would not be without an income once I had recovered. But then a while ago he conceived the idea of going on a tour; he knew little about Europe, and was concerned about my working too hard. In short, he invited me to accompany him on his travels. I declined at first, because I was already so beholden to him, but he insisted, and in the end I agreed. He wants to go as far as Petersburg and Moscow this winter, and to spend next summer touring southern Europe. Well, as you know, I have done a fair bit of travelling myself, and so I am glad to offer my services as a guide. But I have never travelled in such style before! We stay at the best hotels, no expense is spared. Nothing but the best, don’t you know!’