Eline Vere (2 page)

‘Did you like it, Mama?' demanded Lili.

‘Did you like it, Madame Verstraeten?' Frédérique chimed in.

‘It was splendid! They would all have loved to see it again.'

‘Not again! I'm half dead already!' cried Lili, sweeping a pile of garments to the floor before collapsing into an armchair, her eyes heavy with fatigue. Dien was dismayed; she would never get done at this rate.

‘Lili, you must rest!' cried Paul from the top of his ladder in the other room ‘Your next pose will be very tiring. Aunt Verstraeten, please tell Lili she must rest!' He dragged the colourful oriental rugs off the clothesline they had been suspended from, and Dien set about folding them up.

‘Dien, we need sheets and white tulle – over here!' called Marie. Dien misheard her, and brought the wrong items.

Everyone spoke at once, instructing one thing and clamouring for another in mounting disorder. Paul protested vehemently from the top of the ladder, but no one was listening.

‘I'm at my wits' end!' he raged, going down on his haunches. ‘It's always me doing all the work!'

Paul reiterated his admonition to Lili, and Madame Verstraeten went off to remind the servants that the young artistes required refreshments. When the trays were brought in laden with glasses of wine and lemonade, cake and sandwiches, the commotion reached
a frenzied pitch. The three boys insisted on being served on their mattress, upon which one of the boys called Jan spilt a stream of orangeade. Marie bore down on them, scolding at the top of her voice, and with Dien's help swiftly pulled the mattress out from under them and dragged it away.

‘Frédérique, I wish you'd give me a hand with the background!' said Paul in an aggrieved tone. He had given up trying to discipline the three boys, who were now being shooed out of the room by the old biddy. Some measure of calm was restored; everyone was busy, except Lili who remained in her armchair.

‘What a to-do!' she muttered under her breath as she brushed her wavy, ash-blonde hair, and then, taking a large powder puff, dusted her arms to a snowy sheen.

Dien returned, quite out of breath, shaking her head and smiling benignly.

‘Quick, Dien! White sheets and tulle!' chorused Freddie, Marie and Paul. Paul had come down from his ladder to erect the unwieldy white cross on the stage, and was arranging the mattress, heaped with cushions, at the base.

‘Dien, white sheets and tulle, all the tulle and gauze you can find!'

And Dien complied, along with the other maids, coming up with armfuls of more white fabrics.

. . .

Madame Verstraeten had taken a seat beside her niece, Betsy van Raat, who was married to Paul's elder brother.

‘Such a shame Eline is not here; I was counting on her to entertain us during the long intervals with a little music. She has such a pretty voice.'

‘She is not feeling very well, Aunt. She is very sorry, you may be sure, to miss Uncle's birthday party.'

‘What is wrong with her?'

‘Oh, I don't know . . . nerves, I believe.'

‘She shouldn't give in so easily to those moods of hers. I dare say expending a little energy would take care of her nerves.'

‘Ah, it is the affliction of the younger generation, Aunt, as I am sure you have heard!' said Betsy, with a smile of mock sympathy.

Madame Verstraeten sighed indulgently, shaking her head, then remarked:

‘By the way; I expect the girls will be too tired to go to the opera tomorrow. So you can have our box, if you like.'

Betsy reflected a moment.

‘I am having a small dinner party tomorrow, Aunt, but I should love to make use of the box anyway. Only the Ferelijns and Emilie and Georges are invited, but the Ferelijns said they would be leaving early as their little Dora is poorly again, so I could easily go with Emilie and Georges and catch the second half.'

‘Well, that's settled then. I shall send someone round with the tickets,' said Madame Verstraeten, rising.

Betsy rose too. Georges de Woude van Bergh was just about to speak to her, but she pretended not to notice. She found him exceedingly irritating tonight – both times he had spoken to her he had made exactly the same comment, some platitude about the tableaux. No, there was no conversation in him at all. And tomorrow evening she would have to put up with him yet again, so her aunt's offer of the box at the opera was a blessing. She caught sight of her husband in the conservatory with several other gentlemen – Messrs Verstraeten and Hovel, Otto van Erlevoort, and his brother Etienne. A lively discussion was going on, in which Henk had no part; he just stood there smiling sheepishly, with his bulky form pressing against the fronds of a potted palm. He irritated her, too. He bored her to tears, and he didn't cut a good figure in evening dress, either – not at all chic! He looked better in his greatcoat!

She found an opportunity to have a word with him, and said:

‘I do wish you would talk to someone, Henk. You have been lurking in this corner for ages. Why don't you circulate among the guests? You look so very dull. And your necktie's askew.'

He stammered a reply and raised his hand to his collar. She turned away, and soon found herself in an animated little gathering centred on the Honourable Miss Emilie de Woude. Even the sad-eyed Madame van Rijssel, Freddie's sister, was in attendance. Emilie
de Woude was unmarried, and wore her thirty-eight years with enviable vitality. Her pleasant, cheerful countenance endeared her to all, and while she resembled her much younger brother Georges in appearance, she had about her a certain spiritedness that was in marked contrast to his mannered reserve.

All were irresistibly drawn to the ebullient Emilie to hear her comical anecdotes, and she was now regaling her audience with an account of a recent fall she had had on a patch of frozen snow – she had landed at the feet of a gentleman, who had stood stock still instead of helping her up.

‘Can you imagine? My muff to the left, my hat to the right, me in the middle, and him standing there, staring at me open-mouthed!'

. . .

A bell tinkled, at which Emilie broke off her story to hurry to the front, where the sliding doors were opening before the assembled audience.

‘I can't see a thing!' said Emilie, rising up on her toes.

‘You can stand on my chair, Miss Emilie!' called a young girl in a cream-coloured frock who was taller than the rest.

‘You're a darling, Cateau, that's very kind. I'm coming! May I pass, Madame van der Stoor? Your daughter has just saved my day.'

Madame van der Stoor, a lady who wrote poems under a pseudonym, stepped aside with a steely smile. She was a little put out by Emilie's lack of decorum, and herself made no attempt to gain a better view.

Emilie and Cateau van der Stoor both got up on the same chair and stood with their arms around each other's waists.

‘Oh, isn't it splendid!' cried Emilie, in rapt attention. From the waves of a foaming sea of gauze rose a white cross of what appeared to be rough-hewn marble, to which clung the slender, pallid form of a maiden apparently in mortal danger, her fingers gripping the Rock of Ages, her feet lapped by wavelets of tulle.

There were murmurs of: ‘It's Lili!'

‘How graceful she is,' Emilie whispered to Cateau. ‘But how does she do it? How can she hold that pose for so long?'

‘She's bolstered up with cushions, but it's a tiring pose anyway. You can't see the cushions, of course,' said Cateau.

‘Of course you can't! It's very lovely; I have never seen anything more poetic. But aren't you supposed to be taking part yourself, Cateau?'

‘Yes I am, but only in the final scene, together with Etienne van Erlevoort. I should be off now, to change into my costume.'

She hopped down from her chair. The light flickered, the sliding doors closed. There was a clatter of applause, after which the white vision of foaming gauze reappeared; an angel now leant over the cross, extending an arm to raise the hapless maiden swooning at the base.

There was more applause, louder this time.

‘Of course Marie won't be able to keep a straight face,' said Emilie with a toss of her head. ‘She'll burst out laughing any moment now.'

And sure enough, a tremor of unseemly mirth was seen to be hovering about the lips of the angel, whose soulful expression acquired a somewhat comical cast beneath a pair of nervously raised eyebrows.

. . .

Although everyone could see that the artistes were tired, since none of them were able to keep perfectly still, the final tableau was received with great jubilation. Four or five encores were demanded. It was an allegory of the five senses, enacted by the four girls, all of whom were richly draped in heavy fabrics – cloth of gold and silver, brocade and ermine – and by Etienne, the youngest of Frédérique's brothers, who was garbed as a minstrel in personification of Hearing.

Then it was all over.

Due to the long intervals between the tableaux it was now two o'clock, and the guests gravitated towards the host and hostess to take their leave.

‘Will you stay to supper with Cateau?' Madame Verstraeten murmured to Madame van der Stoor. ‘Nothing formal, you know.'

But Madame van der Stoor deemed the hour too late; she would go as soon as her daughter was ready.

The artistes, having changed as quickly as they could, repaired to the salon, where they received congratulations on their acting skills and good taste from the last departing guests. In the meantime a triumphal march could be heard being played on the piano by Emilie, who, being a close friend of the family, would stay to supper along with Henk and Betsy.

‘But you'll be coming tomorrow afternoon, won't you, Cateau? The photographer will be here at two!' called Marie.

The following day was Thursday; Cateau would not be going to school in order that she might rest, and she promised to be there at two o'clock.

The fatigued artistes sat sprawled in the easy chairs of the spacious conservatory, where a light repast was laid out – turkey, salad, cake and champagne.

‘Which one was the best? Which did you like most?' they clamoured.

Opinions were compared and contrasted, booed and cheered, amid the general clatter of plates, forks and spoons and the clinking of glasses filled to the brim and rapidly emptied.

At half-past two the Van Raats made their way homeward to Nassauplein. All was quiet at the house, the servants having gone to bed. As Henk slipped his key back into his pocket and drew the bolt across the front door, Betsy was reminded of her rosy little boy upstairs in his white crib, asleep with bunched fists. She took the candle from the newel post and started up the stairs, while her husband stepped into the dining room with the newspapers. The gas light was on, tempered to a wan glow from a small, fan-shaped flame.

Betsy's dressing room was likewise illuminated. She turned the knob, causing the light to flare up brightly, and drew her fur wrap off her shoulders. In the small grate a flame leapt upwards like the fiery tongue of a heraldic lion. There was something soothing about the room, something reminiscent of a warm bath and the sweet perfume of Parma violets. For a moment she stood over the white crib in the darkened adjoining nursery, then returned and with a sigh began to undress, letting the lace gown slide down her hips like a black cloud. The door opened and Eline came in, looking rather pale in a white flannel peignoir, with her hair loose and flowing.

‘Why Elly, not in bed yet?'

‘No, I . . . I've been reading. Did you enjoy your evening?'

‘Yes indeed, it was very nice. I only wish Henk weren't so insufferably dull. He never said a word, just stood there fidgeting with his watch chain and looking awkward, except when they played whist during the intervals.'

Somewhat tetchily, Betsy wedged the toe of one foot against the heel of the other and kicked off a dainty shoe of gilded leather and beadwork

Eline stretched herself languidly.

‘Did you tell Madame Verstraeten I was indisposed?'

‘Yes I did. But you know me, Sis, after a late night like this I can't wait to get to bed. We'll talk tomorrow, all right?'

Eline was used to her sister being mildly out of sorts after an evening out, regardless of whether she had enjoyed herself, desiring only to shed her clothes as soon as possible.

Nevertheless, she was tempted to make some sharp reply, but in the next instant felt too lethargic and feeble to do so. She touched her lips to Betsy's cheek and, without thinking, leant her head against her sister's shoulder in a sudden craving for tenderness.

‘You're not really ill, are you?'

‘No. Just feeling a bit lazy, that's all. Goodnight then.'

‘Sleep well.'

Eline, languorous and graceful in her white peignoir, retired. Betsy picked up her lace gown from the floor and continued undressing.

. . .

In the corridor Eline felt a vague sense of banishment, which caused her momentary displeasure. She had been quite alone all evening, having giving in to a whim of indolence and ennui not to go out, and any length of solitude tended to bring on melancholy, making her long for some company and light-hearted banter. She paused in the dark, undecided, then groped her way down the stairs and entered the dining room.

Henk had flung his tailcoat on the sofa, and now stood in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves preparing his nightly hot toddy. Swirls of steam rose from the glass as he replaced the kettle on the hot plate.

‘Hello, my dear!' he said heartily, an affable smile spreading beneath the bushy blond moustache as he regarded her with his
sleepy, blue-grey eyes. ‘Weren't you very bored this evening, all by yourself?'

‘A little, yes. Not as bored as you, maybe,' she responded with a coy smile.

‘Me? Quite the contrary; the tableaux were really rather good.'

He stood straddle-legged, sipping his hot drink with audible relish.