He paused, tiring of his prolonged whispering.
‘Has he so much sympathy for you?’ murmured Eline. ‘How remarkable! Of course I hardly know him, but it seems to me that his temperament is not a bit like yours, Vincent.’
‘No, it is not; you are quite right. Maybe that is why he likes me. At any rate, he’s always saying I’m a better person than everyone seems to think, myself included. Which is quite a consolation, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Perhaps he finds you as interesting as Eliza finds me!’ said Eline, laughing disparagingly in spite of herself. Seeing St Clare coming towards them, she felt a pang of conscience – how could she have compared the proud sincerity emanating from his person with the trivial coolness of Eliza!
Meanwhile Eliza busied herself with the liqueurs, asking Vincent whether he preferred kirsch or curaçao, or would he rather have a glass of cognac? Vincent went to sit with her and Uncle Daniel by the fire, while St Clare seated himself in the balcony beside Eline.
‘Ah, so you are the dear cousin Vincent told me so much about! The cousin who took such good care of him,’ he said, smiling as he put his hands in his pockets and fixed Eline with his frank stare.
Eline was about to say that he too had proved his merit in that department, but checked the impulse, thinking it might be inappropriate to let on how much Vincent had already told her about their friendship.
‘Yes, I am the cousin who cared for him!’ she replied, in French. Her English was good, but she found his French so charming that she had not offered to speak with him in his native language.
‘That was in The Hague, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes it was; he was staying at my brother-in-law’s house.’
‘And you were living there too at the time, weren’t you?’
This seemed a touch inquisitive on his part, but he spoke in a tone of such candid interest that she didn’t feel offended.
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Did Vincent tell you that?’
‘He did. Vincent often spoke of you.’
He sounded as if he knew quite a lot about her. She had written to Vincent after her flight from Betsy and Henk’s house, so he probably knew about that, too.
‘And you have done a good deal of travelling?’ he pursued.
‘Oh yes, with my uncle and aunt. A great deal. You intend to travel extensively yourself, I gather?’
‘As far as Russia this coming winter.’
Neither of them spoke for a moment. It seemed to Eline that they both had much to say to one another, but did not know where to begin. She already felt she had known him for a long while, and now it turned out that she was no stranger to him either.
‘Do you care very much for Vincent?’ she asked.
‘Very much. I feel very sorry for him. Had his health been more robust, he would certainly have made his mark on the world. He possesses energy and a hardworking spirit, as well as a broad view of life. But his physical weakness prevents him from giving his mind to one thing and bringing it to fruition. Most people have the wrong idea about Vincent. They think him lazy, capricious, egotistic, and refuse to see that he is simply ill. I can’t think of anybody else who would be capable, despite suffering from such ill health, of sharing so much of his talent and intelligence with the rest of mankind.’
She had always had great sympathy for Vincent, but had never seen him in this light.
‘Yes, I believe you are right!’ she said after a short pause. ‘But don’t you think the trip you have in mind will be too tiring for Vincent? All the way to Russia, in winter?’
‘Oh no. The cold climate will have an invigorating effect on him. And he won’t have to exert himself. I don’t even want him to accompany me on every expedition I have in mind. But travelling by train poses no problem – all it requires is for him to put on his fur coat and sit in a railway car.’
His words made her suspect, as she had suspected from her conversation with Vincent, that St Clare set inordinate store by his friend’s comfort and wellbeing.
‘I do believe you are very kind-hearted!’ she could not help exclaiming.
He gave her a puzzled look.
‘What makes you say that?’ he asked, laughing.
‘I don’t know!’ she said, smiling and colouring slightly. ‘It’s just an impression I have. But I may be mistaken, of course.’
He gestured vaguely with his hand. A hint of coquetry had crept into her voice at the last, which she regretted.
‘Just now you spoke of energy and a hardworking spirit,’ she resumed. ‘And you said that if someone is ill, that person deserves to be forgiven for not being energetic and hardworking.’
‘Naturally. What do you mean?’
There was an unhesitating singleness of purpose about his manner, which flustered her. During her tête-à-têtes with Vincent in the old days, their rambling, philosophical speculations had wavered this way and that without aim, rather like coils of smoke dissipating in the air, and the sheer directness of St Clare’s question caught her unprepared.
‘I mean,’ she replied hesitantly, ‘wouldn’t you be even more inclined to excuse the lack of energy and activity in someone who had suffered a great sadness, than in someone like Vincent, whose only trouble is poor health?’
He held her gaze.
‘Yes I would – provided he had tried to be energetic, and had succumbed in the attempt. Not otherwise, not if he had given himself up to the force of sheer circumstance without a struggle, as if it were his foreordained destiny. A fatalistic attitude; Vincent is no stranger to it either. And there is nothing more undermining than that kind of fatalism. Life would turn into moral death if we all just sat down with our hands in our laps and thought: What will be, will be.’
Eline was nonplussed.
Had she possessed energy? Had she given herself up to the force of circumstance? She had no answer. She felt small in his forceful presence, and could not concentrate her thoughts.
‘But what if that person’s suffering were caused by remorse over something he had done in the past?’ she whispered almost pleadingly, with moist eyes, nervously fingering the black locket and digging the point of her shoe into the sheepskin rug. His expression softened into pity.
‘In that case – oh yes, he would deserve to be forgiven!’ he whispered with indulgent reassurance.
But the indulgence of his tone discomfited her; suddenly she felt that she had given herself away, that she had been openhearted in a way that was not fitting, that she ought to have had the strength to maintain her reserve.
…
St Clare was uncertain how long he would stay in Brussels, as he wished to take short trips from there to Mechelen, Antwerp, Bruges and Ghent. Aunt Eliza found him very likeable indeed, but frowned on his intention to tour the northern countries during winter. She was in favour of travelling, but not of suffering from freezing temperatures. St Clare laughed, saying that neither he nor Vincent minded about the cold.
Vincent accompanied him on some of his excursions away from the city, though not all, and during their absences there was much talk of them among the eccentric friends visiting avenue Louise at eleven o’clock of an evening. The Count remarked that he had met St Clare some years since; he appeared to be some sort of chevalier d’industrie, and the Veres would do well to tread with caution. At this Uncle Daniel shrugged his shoulders, but Eline fixed the Count with a stare of withering contempt. Soon afterwards she retired to her bedroom, where she could still hear the high-pitched vociferations of the blonde lady in red velvet and Eliza’s shrieks of laughter.
The carousal in the reception room prevented her from sleeping, notwithstanding the drops she had taken. But despite her wakefulness and the aggravation of the noise, she felt surprisingly calm. The thought of St Clare was reassuring to her, more soothing even than the cool liquid prescribed by the physician. Maybe there was more to life than hypocrisy after all, maybe there was such a thing as true friendship and devotion, in a word: truth.
St Clare and Vincent stayed away for a week, during which they were sorely missed by Eline. They arrived on the day before New Year’s Eve, and Eliza invited them to the soirée she was holding the following evening, which promised to be very grand.
…
At about half-past nine the following evening the motley collection of guests began to arrive, and Uncle Daniel and Eliza welcomed them warmly. The Count, the actor, the jeweller and his blowsy consort were the first to make their appearance, after which Eline saw a strange review of guests parade past the host and hostess, the men with an air of the nouveau riche, or with bohemian flamboyance, the ladies with oversized diamonds and limp trains to their gowns.
She did not feel at home in this setting, and yet she was amused by all those remarkable people drifting about the reception room so extravagantly furnished with bibelots. The candlelight diffused by the Venetian chandelier glinted strangely over the arrays of antique bronze, antique porcelain and antique fabrics. The guests were all unusual in one way or another, in keeping with Eliza’s avowed dislike of the mundane.
Eline remained somewhat aloof, hovering at the elbows of her uncle and aunt, and was glad to catch sight of St Clare and Vincent as they entered the room. Both were in evening dress, and she found them a markedly distinguished-looking pair.
Once they had presented themselves to their hosts, however, they did not seem to notice Eline in the crush, and she felt rather lost. She was at the mercy of a diminutive, elderly lady with little red plumes in her hair and a face as brown and wrinkled as a walnut, who was talking incessantly of all the deserving painters and sculptors of her acquaintance, and of how she, as a patron of the arts, championed their cause.
‘It is to be an artistic soirée tonight, is it not?’ she asked, narrowing her eyes.
‘Yes I believe it is,’ replied Eline, with mounting discomfiture.
‘You sing, do you not?’
‘Oh no, not any more; my doctor has forbidden it.’
‘I suppose you would have gone on the stage otherwise?’
‘Oh no, I don’t think so …’
Several gentlemen came forward and bowed to the elderly lady, after which she introduced them all to Eline: composers, musicians, actors, painters, gifted yet misunderstood artists to a man, whose names would doubtless be on everyone’s lips before long.
Being thus encircled by misunderstood geniuses made Eline feel quite dizzy, and she was greatly relieved when she saw St Clare making his way towards her.
‘What a siege!’ he laughed softly. ‘I could hardly get through the crowd.’
Eline pouted.
‘Let’s move to the side a little, there is more room there!’ she lisped, deftly making her escape from the geniuses. With a sigh she subsided on to a pouffe, nervously patting the burnished gold beadwork along her low-cut bodice of black satin.
‘Oh dear, I was already getting quite bored,’ she said with light distaste. ‘But do tell me, how did you fare in Ghent and Bruges?’
He remained standing beside her and told her a little of his excursion, while the throng eddied all around them and footmen went round offering wine, sorbets and cakes.
‘By the way,’ said St Clare, breaking off his account, ‘do you know what the entertainments are to be this evening?’ All eyes were turned on Eliza, who was bobbing and weaving before the Count in apparent supplication.
The Count responded with a show of modest reluctance.
‘Oh, but you can’t let me down! I beseech you!’ wheedled Eliza.
‘I expect she asked him to declaim some poetry, and he’s too shy!’ laughed Eline.
She was right. Eliza darted a look of triumph at the ladies in her vicinity when the Count finally relented. He struck a declamatory pose and cleared his throat. He would recite an epic poem that told of Pizarro’s conquest of Mexico, of Montezuma and the Aztecs.
Voices sank to low whispers, and in the ensuing hush the Count launched into wave upon wave of thunderous Alexandrine verse, with plenty of burring rs. From the far side of the room Vincent sent Eline a mischievous nod. The Count’s voice rose to a shout.
‘Sublime, don’t you agree?’ ventured the elderly lady with the red plumes, who had reappeared at Eline’s side.
Eline gave a confirming nod.
The audience, however, was not unanimous in its appreciation; here and there despairing looks and sighs were exchanged, and the whispering grew louder.
‘Patience and resignation!’ murmured Eline, smiling at St Clare.
He returned her smile. With him standing so close to her, she thought, the long poem didn’t seem half as boring.
When the Count’s final stanza died away at last, the audience was galvanised into motion. There was laughing and jostling once more, and several ladies made a beeline for the Count to congratulate him on his performance.
‘Couldn’t we seek refuge before the next entertainment begins?’ asked St Clare with a light laugh.
‘We will be more at liberty in the conservatory,’ said Eline.
With some difficulty they threaded their way through the crowd to the small winter garden. It was empty save for a pair of elderly gentlemen seated at a table bearing an assortment of empty wine glasses, and a young man in active conversation with a young lady who kept tapping her knee with her fan. A sultry perfume like a breath of the tropics floated beneath the potted palms, vanilla bushes and orchids. Through the windows they saw a snowstorm of white down whirling in the night.
No sooner had they seated themselves than they heard chords being struck on the piano in the reception room. The actor, a frequent visitor, was in possession of a bass voice, and was to sing some duets with the jeweller’s blonde lady friend, who had garbed herself in blue plush for the occasion. St Clare and Eline could see them reflected in one of the mirrors adorning the winter garden; they were taking up their positions by the piano while their accompanist – one of the misunderstood composers – seated himself to play.
‘I had no idea that she sang!’ Eline burst out. ‘La bonne surprise! But do go on with what you were saying.’
A blush began to tingle on her cheeks, and she regained a shade of her former beauty and charm. She listened to him with keen interest, raising her glass of champagne to her lips from time to time to take a sip. From the reception room proceeded the high shrieks of the soprano vying with the low growl of the bass in a cacophony of song.
Gradually, the winter garden filled up with the bustle of guests, laughing and chatting with relief at escaping from the duets. Vincent, too, sauntered in, and catching sight of St Clare and Eline made his way towards them.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’ he asked in French.
‘By all means!’ said Eline.
They felt rather removed from the rest of the crowd, as though they were attending some kind of public fête; they knew hardly anyone, and watched the scene unfolding around them with quiet derision. The two elderly gentlemen’s collection of empty wine glasses had expanded considerably, and beneath an overhanging banana frond the young man could be seen slipping his arm about his companion’s waist. From another corner came the sound of broken glass, whereupon a rowdy guest, identified by Vincent as a self-proclaimed Russian prince, began to disport himself with two female circus riders. Vincent could not imagine how they had managed to be introduced to Uncle Daniel.
‘Oh, they must have slipped in through the back door! I’m sure Eliza doesn’t know they are here!’ laughed Eline.
…
The entertainments took their course in the reception suite with more songs, serious poetry and comic monologues. The audience’s attention to the performers, however, flagged as the evening wore on, and the hubbub grew louder. The Russian prince began to chase the circus-riders round the winter garden, trying to kiss them, and the two elderly gentlemen, rather the worse for drink, broke into a violent argument.
The young paramours had slipped away.
‘I believe I should advise you to remain a l
ittle closer to your uncle and aunt; the company here seems to be getting rather mixed,’ St Clare said to Eline. Vincent had left them. Eline stood up in some alarm; St Clare followed suit. But in the salon they found Eliza at the centre of a very noisy gathering; champagne was being spilt, and several ladies were smoking cigarettes.
St Clare led Eline to the balcony. A stern look came into his proud eyes and his lips quivered an instant as he observed Eliza and her friends.
‘How do you come to be here?’ he asked abruptly, in a tone of ill-concealed censure. ‘How is it possible that I should have met you here?’
She looked at him in surprise.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she replied coldly.
‘I’m asking you what brought you here in the first place. I wouldn’t have thought this sort of company to be congenial to you. Is it?’
She began to see his meaning, and was shocked by his forwardness.
‘Not congenial to me? This sort of company?’ she echoed slowly. ‘May I remind you that I am in the house of my uncle and aunt?’
‘I know that, but the company your uncle and aunt keep is hardly up to your standards, it seems to me. You are here with the consent of your other relatives, I take it?’
Eline Vere Page 47
