Eline Vere (4 page)

Eline, meanwhile, had passed the year in glum solitude at Aunt Vere's house with its plate-glass windows and Japanese storks and peonies, only occasionally swept up in Betsy's social whirl. She had done a lot of reading, and was especially taken with Ouida's rich phantasmagoria of imagined lives in vibrant hues under the golden sunshine of Italian skies, much as in a scintillating kaleidoscope. She read her treasured Tauchnitz editions until the pages, dog-eared and crumpled, came loose and hung by a single thread. When her aunt was ill she spent long hours at her bedside, and even during these vigils, which gave her a sense of romantic fulfilment, she read and re-read her novels. In the airless sick-room with its medicinal odours, Eline was enraptured by the virtues and prowess of noble heroes and the astonishing beauty of infernally wicked or divinely righteous heroines; indeed she was frequently seized with a passionate longing to reside in one of those old English castles herself, the kind of place where earls and duchesses observed such refined etiquette in their courtships, and where exquisitely romantic trysts were held in ancient parklands, with stage-like settings shimmering in the moonlight against a backdrop of blue-green boughs.

When Aunt Vere died, Henk and Betsy invited Eline to come and live with them. At first she declined, overcome by a singular dejection at the thought of the bond between her sister and brother-in-law. Eventually she succeeded in rousing herself from this dismal frame of mind, but only by an immense exertion of willpower, like a fierce beating of wings. She had always wondered at the mysterious attraction she had felt for Henk, but now that he was married to her sister the situation was different. An invisible but impenetrable barrier of restraint had risen between them, by laws of decorum and custom, so that henceforth she need surely have no qualms about showing her sympathy for him as his sister-in-law. She said to herself that it would be very childish to allow the recollection of past, undifferentiated emotions to stop her from accepting their offer. Besides, her legal guardian, Uncle Daniel Vere, who lived in Brussels, was unmarried and too young to accommodate his young niece in his home.

So Eline waived her objections and agreed to take up residence in her brother-in-law's house, jokingly insisting that she be allowed to make a modest monthly contribution towards household expenses. Henk refused outright, although Betsy shrugged her shoulders, saying that she in Eline's shoes would have wanted the same, for the sake of feeling free and independent. From the inheritance her parents left her Eline derived an annual income of two thousand guilders. With this sum fully at her disposal and by putting into practise the lessons of economy taught her by Aunt Vere, she managed to dress every bit as elegantly as Betsy did on her unlimited purse.

Three years went by, which were uneventful but for the same rounds of seasonal diversions.

When Eline came down to breakfast the morning after her tearful outburst Henk had already left, bound for the stables where his horses were kept along with the two Ulmer hounds that Betsy would not tolerate in the house. There was no one but young Ben, humming tonelessly as he poked a slice of bread-and-butter with his stubby little fingers. Betsy could be heard bustling about and issuing instructions to Grete, the ill-tempered kitchen maid. There would be four guests for dinner that evening – Frans and Jeanne Ferelijn and the Honourable Miss de Woude van Bergh and her brother.

Eline looked fresh and bright in a simple morning gown of dark-grey wool with a triple-flounced skirt and a close-fitting, plain bodice tied at the waist with a grey silk ribbon, and at her throat a small gold brooch in the shape of an arrow. She wore no rings or bracelets, which contributed to her air of studied simplicity and ladylike reserve. About her forehead and neck curled some delicate tendrils of hair, soft as frayed silk.

Nodding affectionately at Ben as she came in, she went to stand behind him. She placed her hands on the sides of his chubby head and, taking care to avoid his buttery fingers and lips, pressed a fond kiss on his crown.

She sat down, rather pleased with the way she looked today, and in her state of restored equanimity she felt agreeably lulled by the warmth of the stove while the snow fell outside in downy silence. Unconsciously smiling, she rubbed her slender white hands and inspected her rosy, white-tipped fingernails, and then, casting a
contented glance outside, saw a fruit vendor, thin as a reed and bent double under a dingy grey shawl, pushing a barrow laden with snow-covered oranges. She took up a breakfast roll, and as she did so felt another stirring of contentment, a shade egotistically, upon overhearing the heated exchange between Betsy and the kitchen maid – shrill commands and terse, insolent ripostes ringing out above the clanging of metal pans and the porcelain rattle of a stack of plates being violently set down.

Betsy came in, eyes flashing with indignation beneath the thick brows, her small, plump lips pursed up. She carried a set of cut-glass dessert plates, which she had decided to wash herself, as Grete had broken one of them. Carefully, despite her annoyance, she placed the dishes on the table, filled a basin with tepid water, and cast around for a brush.

‘That dratted girl! Fancy washing my best cut-glass in boiling hot water. It's always the same; you can't trust those duffers to do anything.'

Her voice sounded harsh and strident, and she pushed Ben out of her way without ceremony.

Eline, solicitous in her pleasant frame of mind, promptly offered to help, and Betsy was glad to accept. She had a great many things to do, she said, but plumped herself down on the sofa instead to watch as Eline cleaned the dishes one by one with the brush and then patted them dry in the folds of a tea towel with light, graceful movements, taking care not to get her fingers wet or spill a single drop. And Betsy sensed the contrast between her own energetic briskness, arising from her robust health, and her sister's languishing elegance, which implied a certain reluctance to exert herself or defile her hands.

‘By the way, the Verstraetens said they wouldn't be going to the opera this evening, as they need some rest after yesterday's tableaux, so Aunt offered me their box. Would you care to go?'

‘To the opera? What about your dinner guests?'

‘Jeanne Ferelijn said she wanted to leave early as one of her children has come down with a cold again, so I thought of asking Emilie and her brother if they'd like to come along. Henk can stay at home.

It's a box for four, you know.'

‘Good idea. Very good idea.'

With a satisfied air, Eline dried the last sparkling cut-glass dish of the set, and just as she was putting away the basin another violent altercation broke out in the kitchen, accompanied by the silvery crash of cutlery. The quarrel this time was between Grete and Mina, the maid-of-all-work. Betsy ran out of the room, and there ensued another volley of irate commands and disgruntled replies.

In the meantime Ben stood where his mother had pushed him, his mouth agape in dumb consternation at the clamour in the kitchen.

‘Well now, Ben, shall we go up to Auntie's room together?' asked Eline, offering him her hand with a smile. He sidled up to her, and they climbed the stairs together.

Eline occupied two rooms on the first floor: a bedroom and a spacious adjoining boudoir. With modest means yet refined taste she had succeeded in creating an impression of luxury with artistic overtones, particularly in the contrived disarray here and there, which evoked still-life compositions. Her piano stood at an angle at one end. The lush foliage of a giant aralia cast a softening shade over a low couch covered in a Persian fabric. A small writing-table was littered with precious bibelots, while sculptures, paintings, feathers and palms filled every nook. A Venetian pier glass decorated with red cords and tassels hung above the pink marble mantelpiece, upon which stood the figurines of Amor and Psyche, in biscuit porcelain after Canova, with the maiden removing her veil in surrender to the lovesick, winged god.

As Eline entered with Ben, she felt the welcoming glow from the hearth on her cheeks. She gave the child some tattered picture books to keep him busy, whereupon he settled himself on the couch beneath the aralia. Eline slipped into her bedroom, where the windows displayed a few lingering frost patterns, like delicate blooms etched into crystal.

To the side stood her dressing table, abundantly flounced with tulle and lace, which she had touched up here and there with satin bows left over from ball bouquets; the top was laden with an assortment of flacons and coasters of Sèvres porcelain and cut glass. In the midst of all this pink-and-white exuberance glittered the
looking glass, like a sheet of burnished metal. The bedstead was concealed behind red hangings, and in an angle of the walls stood a wide cheval glass reflecting a flood of liquid light.

Eline looked about her a moment, to see if the maid had arranged everything to her satisfaction; then, shivering from the cold in the just-aired bedroom, she returned to her sitting room and shut the door. With its muted Oriental appeal it was a most pleasant retreat, while outside all was bright with frost and snow.

. . .

Eline felt her throat filled with melody. Hunting among her music books for a composition attuned to her emotion, she came upon the waltz from
Mireille
. She sang it with variations of her own devising, with sustained points d'orgue, finely spun like swelling threads of glass, and joyous trills as clear as a lark's. She forgot the cold and snow outside. Feeling a sting of conscience for not having practised for the past three days, she began singing scales, by turns brightening her high notes and practising difficult portamentos. Her voice rang out with plangent tones, the hint of coldness in it at once pearly and crystalline.

Although Ben was accustomed to her melodious voice echoing through the house, he stopped turning the pages of his picture book to listen open-mouthed, giving a little start now and then at a singularly piercing ti or do in the top range.

Eline was at a loss to account for her low spirits of yesterday. Where had that fit of gloom come from? She could think of no particular cause for it. How odd that it should have dissipated of itself, for she could think of no joyful occurrence to justify her change of heart. She now felt bright, gay, and in good form; she regretted not having seen the tableaux, and would have liked to have heard all about them from Betsy. She hoped the Verstraetens did not think her indisposition had been an excuse. Such a kind gentleman, Mr Verstraeten, so amusing and fun-loving, and his wife was such a dear! She was quite the nicest person she knew! And as Eline sat at her piano, now practising a roulade, then a series of shakes, her thoughts floated to all the other nice
people she knew. All her acquaintances were nice in one way or another: the Ferelijns, Emilie de Woude, old Madame van Raat, Madame van Erlevoort, even Madame van der Stoor. As for young Cateau – she was adorable. And she caught herself thinking how amusing it would be to join in their theatricals herself: she heartily approved of the way Frédérique, Marie, Lili, Paul and Etienne were always happily banding together, always planning diversions and japes. What fun it would be to wear beautiful draperies and be admired by all! And Paul had an attractive voice, too; she did so love singing duets with him, and she quite forgot that only a few days before, during a conversation with her singing master, she had remarked that Paul had no voice to speak of.

So she was in mellow mood, and sang a second waltz – that of Juliette in Gounod's opera. How she adored Gounod!

It was half-past ten when there was a knock at the door.

‘Come in!' she cried, resting her slender fingers on the keys as she glanced over her shoulder.

Paul van Raat stepped into the room.

‘Hello Eline. Hello there, little scamp.'

‘Ah, Paul!'

She rose, somewhat surprised to see him. Ben went over to his uncle and tried to climb up his legs.

‘You're early! I thought you weren't coming to sing until this afternoon. But you're most welcome, naturally. Do take a seat, and tell me all about the tableaux!' Eline said warmly. Then, recalling her recent indisposition, she dropped her voice to a suitably depressed pitch:

‘I was awfully sorry I couldn't go; I wasn't at all well, you know . . . such an appalling headache.'

‘I'd never have guessed from the look of you.'

‘But it's true, Paul! Why else do you think I'd miss the opportunity to admire your talent? Go on, do tell me all about it, I want to know every detail!' She swept the picture books off the couch and invited him to sit down.

Paul finally managed to disentangle himself from Ben, who had been clutching him tightly, teetering on his little heels.

‘Now then, roly-poly, you must let me go! Well, Eline, has the headache cleared up now?'

‘Oh yes, completely. I shall go and congratulate Mr Verstraeten on his birthday, and apologize for not being at the party. But in the meantime, Paul, do tell me what it was like.'

‘Actually, what I came to tell you is that I shan't be coming to sing this afternoon, as I have no voice left. I did so much shouting yesterday that I'm quite hoarse. But it was a great success, all things considered.'

And he launched into an elaborate description of the tableaux. They had been his idea, and he had done much of the work himself, including painting the backdrops, but the girls too had been very busy for the past month, getting up the costumes and attending to a thousand details. That afternoon Losch would be coming to take photographs of the final tableau, so even if he had been in good voice he wouldn't have been able to come by to sing with her. Besides, he was as stiff as a board, for he had slaved away like a carpenter. As for the girls, they must be quite exhausted too. He had not taken part in the performance himself, as he had been far too busy making all the arrangements.

He leant back against the Persian cushions beneath the overhanging aralia, and brushed his hand over his hair. Eline was struck by how much he resembled Henk despite being his junior by ten years: of slimmer build, of course, and much more lively, with finer features and an altogether brighter look. But the occasional gesture, such as the raising of an eyebrow, brought out the resemblance to a startling degree, and while his lips were thinner beneath his light moustache than Henk's beneath his bushy whiskers, his laugh was much like his brother's: deep, and warm and hearty.