Eline Vere (16 page)

. . .

It had grown very hot in the room, and the cigar smoke seemed to hang from the ceiling in tangible swathes. Vincent opened the door for some air. Etienne, who could not take much wine, was red-eyed and greatly excited; he had also broken his glass. Georges and Paul were highly amused by his buffoonery, but Vincent, smiling faintly, remained aloof.

He felt a sense of wonderment: how strange it was that the human character should be so fixed, that a man should always remain himself, retaining his own individual personality without ever having the possibility of changing places with someone else. Often, without the slightest cause, and even when in animated company, he would find himself wondering about this, and he chafed at the realisation of his own inescapable fate: ever to remain the same Vincent Vere, powerless to transform himself into an entirely different being, someone who would breathe and move in entirely different circumstances and societies. He would love to have experienced divergent emotions, to have lived in different ages, to have sought fulfilment in a range of metamorphoses. This desire struck him on the one hand as exceedingly puerile, being as it was a preposterous impossibility, yet on the other as quite noble, on account of the lofty aim it represented. He did not believe other people had this desire, and felt vastly superior to them for this reason. As he ruminated thus, his three visitors appeared very remote, separated from him by an impenetrable cloud of cigar smoke, and he had a sudden sensation of lightness in his brain; everything seemed to be more vividly coloured, the talk and laughter of the others sounded louder to his ears, like blows on a sheet of metal, the smell of tobacco and spilt wine became overpowering, and the veins in his temples and wrists throbbed as if they would burst.

This nervous spasm lasted several seconds, at the end of which he noticed his guests grinning at him expectantly, and although he had not taken in a word of what they had been saying, he grinned, too, pretending to share their amusement.

‘I say, Vere, it's getting exceedingly stuffy in here, my eyes are stinging from all the smoke!' said Georges. ‘Couldn't we open a window?'

Vincent nodded and went to shut the door while Paul, who was seated by the window, raised the sash, letting a gust of cool air enter the room. Out in the street it was quiet; now and then low voices could be heard approaching and receding to the accompaniment of footfalls, or a raucous snatch from a street ditty echoing through the stillness.

The cool air brought Vincent down to earth again, and his exalted imaginings faded from his mind. Indeed, he now felt the stirrings of envy for that very state he had condemned only a moment ago as being physically and morally vegetative. He envied Paul for his health and vigour, tempered only by occasional spells of artistic languor; he envied Georges for his calm equanimity and general air of contentment, Etienne for being so young . . . Why wasn't he like them, in good health, youthful and debonair, why couldn't he take life as it comes, why did he always have to go off in search of something he couldn't even define himself?

It was close upon one o'clock when the three young men rose. Paul declared that they would have to take Etienne home, as his exuberance had given way to deep dejection complete with suicidal sentiments.

‘I say, Etienne, have you got your door-key?' he asked.

‘Key?' croaked Etienne, glassy-eyed. ‘Key?' he echoed dully. ‘Yes, in my pocket. Yes, a key, in my pocket . . . here . . .'

‘Come on then, let's be off!' urged Georges.

Etienne went to Vincent and caught him by the arms, while the others listened with amusement.

‘Vere, au revoir, thank you for your ho-ho-hospitality. I've always thought well of you. Vere, you're a fine fellow, do you hear? I feel a great, great deal of sympathy for you. Only this afternoon at the club I was saying . . . Paul was there, he'll tell you . . . I was saying that you, Vere, had a heart of gold. They're all wrong about you, Vere, but . . .'

‘Come on, time to go now!' cried Paul and Georges, taking Etienne by the arm. ‘Cut it short, will you!'

‘No, no. Let me have my say. They're wrong about you, Vere, but don't you take any notice of them, old boy. It's the same with me,
they're wrong about me, too. It's not fair, not fair at all, but it can't be helped. Goodbye, Vere, goodnight, sleep well.'

Vincent saw them to the door with a lit candle and the threesome set off arm-in-arm with Etienne in the middle.

‘Vere, take care now. Mind you don't catch cold standing at the door like that – and take no notice of what they say, they're all wrong, but I'll stick up for you!'

Vincent nodded amiably as they turned to go, and shut the door of the unlit shop.

‘Deuced good chap, Vere!' slurred Etienne.

After four o'clock the Verstraetens were generally at home, and today was one of those days when, by sheer happenstance, there was a steady stream of visitors. When Betsy and Eline called, the Eekhofs and the Hijdrechts, Emilie de Woude and Frédérique were already there, and finally Madame van der Stoor arrived, too, accompanied by her young daughter Cateau.

Eline rested her hand on Cateau's shoulder as they admired a photograph together.

She was aware of having impressed the girl with her elegance and friendly manner, and since she, being in need of affection herself, liked to rouse sympathy in others, she lavished attention on Cateau as on a favourite house plant. But today her need was edged with triumphant pride with regard to Frédérique, whom she had suspected ever since St Nicholas' Eve of holding something against her, though she knew not why.

While Cateau was chatting to her in her pretty little voice, Eline glanced up at Frédérique to see whether she had noticed the child's adoring looks. But Frédérique was engrossed in a jocular exchange with the Eekhof girls.

‘Do you often sing with Mr van Raat? Does he have a nice voice?' asked Cateau.

‘Not a very strong one, but very sweet.'

‘Oh, I should love to hear you sing together!'

‘And so you shall, one of these days.'

‘You have such a lovely voice, Miss Vere! Oh, I just love it when you sing, I think it's just divine!'

Eline gave a light laugh, flattered by Cateau's candid ecstasy.

‘Really? But you should stop calling me Miss Vere, you know, it sounds so formal. Just call me Eline, all right?'

Blushing with pride, Cateau stroked the fur of Eline's small muff. She was utterly entranced by her heroine's melodious voice and her soft, languishing look of a gazelle.

Eline was feeling more emotional than usual, and in need of love, much love, all around her. In the secret depths of her soul her admiration for Fabrice had flared up into a passion, which dominated all her thoughts, and for which she sought an outlet without giving herself away. She felt so suffused with hidden tenderness that she seemed intent on sharing it out among deserving members of her coterie, like flowers from an exquisite bouquet. She looked about her with shining eyes, and was thrilled when she saw others regarding her with affection, but all the more upset when she detected the slightest hint of coldness towards her. She felt hurt by Frédérique's inexplicable gruffness the other evening, and although she had tried to ignore it at first out of pride, she had now made an effort to win Frédérique over, and had addressed her in her most pandering tones. But Frédérique's replies had been short and non-committal, with averted eyes; Eline was bound to notice her coolness, of course, but she was never one for hiding her emotions, she was too openhearted to have any interest in diplomatic initiatives.

The conversation turned to portraits, and Madame Verstraeten stepped past Eline and Cateau towards a side table, from which she took a photograph album that she wished to show to Madame van der Stoor and Madame Eekhof.

Distracted, and only half-listening to Cateau, Eline's thoughts flew to Fabrice as her eye fell on the album in Madame Verstraeten's hands. An idea rose up before her, like an un-pruned shoot of her rampant imagination. Yes, she would buy an album for her own private use, in which to keep portraits of Fabrice; it would be a little shrine to her love, before which she could lose herself in the contemplation of her idol, and not a soul would know about it. Her
face glowed with furtive excitement at the prospect, and the notion of having something so momentous to hide from the prying eyes of those around her gave her a new sense of importance, and she felt the emptiness in her soul filling up with the treasures of her passion. She was happy, and her happiness was enhanced by a mischievous, heady elation at her possession of a secret that everyone in her set would have pronounced exceedingly foolish and improper, had they only known. A girl like her, enamoured of an actor . . . what would Madame Verstraeten and Betsy and Emilie and Cateau and Frédérique have to say about that, not to mention Henk and Paul and Vincent, if they had so much as the vaguest suspicion?

She had a sense of triumph as she surveyed her relatives and acquaintances drifting about the salon; how brave she was to be defying their conventional sense of propriety, that she should dare to have a crush on Fabrice! She laughed more merrily than called for when Emilie said something comical, indeed she was laughing at them all, exulting in her covert, forbidden passion.

‘And so Mr van Raat – Mr Paul, I mean – is to be a lawyer, is he not?' asked Cateau.

Why did she keep mentioning Paul? thought Eline. It was Paul here, Paul there, his wonderful singing voice, and now his career.

‘You are rather taken with Paul, I do believe!' said Eline.

‘Oh yes, I like him very much!' Cateau burst out happily. ‘Only sometimes, you know, he can get quite cross. Fancy, the other day, during the tableaux–'

And Eline was obliged to listen to a lengthy account of how Paul had lost his temper over some detail regarding the tableaux, and also how clever he was at draping the costumes.

‘She doesn't mince matters,' thought Eline. ‘But then it doesn't necessarily mean that she's sweet on him, I suppose, even if she does talk about him all the time. Because if she were, she'd probably not breathe a word, like me.'

It was half-past five; the callers began to take their leave.

‘So you'll let me hear you and Paul sing?' pleaded Cateau.

‘You could come on a Thursday afternoon, that's when we usually sing together.'

‘Oh dear, I'm at school then.'

‘Well, in that case you could come during the evening some time.'

‘Oh, I'd love that, Eline.'

It was the first time Cateau had called Eline by her first name, and she beamed with gratification at her newly acquired status. Then she bade goodbye, urged to do so by her mother.

By the front door Eline, having said her farewells, found herself alone with Frédérique, quite by chance, while she waited for Betsy, who was still chatting with Mr Verstraeten. Eline was just about to say something to Freddie, but hesitated, thinking Freddie might address her first, and in the end both remained silent.

Young Cateau was ecstatic all the way home, singing the praises of Eline and Paul to her mother.

. . .

The new year arrived with freezing temperatures. Betsy had invited the Verstraetens and the Van Erlevoorts as well as Madame van Raat and Paul to an oyster supper on New Year's Eve, and a very pleasant evening was passed by all in the warm luxury of her salons. The wintry days of January succeeded one another in unbroken sameness, relieved in the evenings for Betsy and Eline by a constant string of dinners and soirées. The Van Raats led a busy social life, and Betsy was renowned for her elegant little dinner parties, with never fewer than ten guests and never more than a dozen, and always served with the most munificent refinement. They belonged to a coterie whose members were frequently in company with one another on terms of close familiarity, a state of affairs that caused them considerable satisfaction.

In between these light-hearted social engagements Eline fanned the flame of her secret love in mute contentment, and felt steeped in romance. One morning, as she was walking homeward along Prinsessegracht after an errand, she caught sight of Fabrice emerging from the Wood. She felt her heart beating and hardly dared to look again, but after a moment allowed her eyes to chance upon him with feigned indifference. He wore a short duffel coat with a woollen muffler thrown casually around his neck, and walked at a
leisurely pace with his hands in his pockets, his swarthy features and somewhat moody expression partially hidden by the wide brim of his soft felt hat. He made on her an impression of lofty reserve, which fired her imagination: he was bound to be from a good family, for there was a quality to the set of his broad shoulders that struck her as very distinguished; his parents had opposed his wish to devote himself to art, but his vocation had been impossible to resist; he had received his musical training at a conservatoire, and he had made a successful debut, but now he found himself in the throes of disillusionment and bitterness about the world of the theatre, which was too coarse and uncivilised for his artistic sensibilities; he had withdrawn into proud isolation; he thought back on his childhood, on his youth, and he could see his mother wringing her hands and imploring him to abandon his ambition and think no more of the stage . . .

From that day on Eline was seized with the caprice, as Betsy called it, of taking long walks in the morning. The Wood was so beautiful in winter, Eline declared; she adored the way the tall, straight trunks looked like marble pillars when it snowed; it was like being in a cathedral. Henk accompanied her a few times with Leo and Faust, the two Ulmer hounds, but he missed his habitual horse ride, and so she took to walking alone, after calling at the stable to collect the dogs, which bounded happily and protectively at her side like a pair of boisterous pageboys.

It was good for her constitution, she explained when eyebrows were raised at her new pursuit; she did not get enough exercise, and feared putting on weight like Betsy if she followed her example and never went anywhere on foot. Besides, Dr Reijer thought her morning promenades an excellent idea.