Eline Vere (49 page)

‘My dear boy, I have not seen you since dinner yesterday evening. And yes, this morning I received a very sweet letter. She is very pleased that I asked her to come and live with me. Poor child, she tells me she feels very lonely amongst all those strangers, however kind they are to her. She says she's relieved to be able to settle down at last.'

‘So she's coming to live here, with us?' said Paul. ‘Such a shame I'm just moving out!'

‘You were always very fond of Eline, weren't you, Aunt?' said Marie. ‘What an excellent idea to invite her to stay with you.'

‘Yes, dear, I agree. I think it will be for the best,' sighed Madame van Raat. ‘Besides, the idea of engaging some lady's companion does not appeal to me at all, and having a sweet, considerate girl like Eline, who is part of the family after all, to keep me company is a different proposition entirely. I am so glad you approve, because I confess I did have some concerns at first.'

‘Betsy seems to take a positive view of it too, at least so I have heard,' said Madame Verstraeten.

‘That does not surprise me. Eline wouldn't dream of going back to live in their house, and with her coming to live here Betsy needn't worry about any talk of a rift between her and her sister.'

‘A solution satisfactory to all parties,' said Paul, rubbing his hands. ‘All is well with the world, then, which is just how I like it.'

Madame van Raat, shocked by her son's playful tone, looked at him sharply. Just then there was a knock at the door and old Leentje came in to announce that the carriage was waiting.

Paul rose.

‘Much obliged, beauteous Helen! My dear Aunt, would you care to join me for a drive? It's such a fine day.'

His aunt declined his offer, as she had some calls to make.

‘You could drop me off at Atjehstraat, if you wouldn't mind,' suggested Marie. ‘There's something I need to do there anyway.'

He declared himself willing to conduct his beloved cousin to the North Pole if need be, and they departed together.

Madame van Raat shook her head.

‘That Paul! I don't know what's got into him lately!' she said, sighing.

But Madame Verstraeten came to his defence.

‘Never mind, Dora, he's not a bad boy at heart. He's simply a young man with money to spend . . . what can you expect?'

‘Henk was never like that. It's a shocking way to live one's life! To start with, he never gets up before eleven, and then he goes for a ride on horseback or in his buggy, after which he's off to his club. He usually dines at home, thank Heavens! As for the evenings – well, goodness knows what he gets up to.'

‘He looks well enough, though.'

‘His constitution is robust, fortunately, and until now his health does not seem to have suffered from the ridiculous hours he keeps. But as I said before, it's a shocking way to live. He was less wayward as a student than he is nowadays. No indeed, Henk wasn't in the least like that when he was Paul's age!'

She continued in the same vein for some time, drawing comparisons between her eldest son, her favourite whom she thought sensible and solid, and Paul, whom she accused of being irresponsible and egotistical. For that was what he was, egotistical, there was no other word for it, taking no heed whatsoever of his mother's wishes, offering her no companionship to speak of, and treating her house much like a hotel! He had no thought for his old mother, he lived only for himself, for his own enjoyment.

Madame Verstraeten could think of nothing to say except that Paul was a good boy at heart and that this was just a stage he was going through. Although unable to express her feelings in words, she had a sharp sense of regret at the cruelty of Nature's laws, by which the generations inevitably became estranged once the children grew up and embarked on their own lives, entering new realms of mental and material consciousness from which their elders were excluded. The gulf of incomprehension dividing parents from their adult offspring did not signify a lack of love on either part, it was simply the outcome of that single, fateful law dictating ultimate alienation. It was not so much that all the ties of kindred love were suddenly severed, they were successively
unwound, unravelled, frayed, until such time as they were slack and inconsequential. She had become painfully aware of this when Lili took against her on account of her love for Georges, and she was reminded of it again now, for it had not escaped her that Marie's behaviour had changed of late, which was bound to portend yet another estrangement, another parting. And then there was Jan, whose turn would come a few years from now. No one was to blame, either; not the parents, who were merely victims of their own parental love, nor the children, who, once they were parents themselves, would have to bear the same martyrdom in their turn.

. . .

The weather was cool and Marie felt the wind on her face as she perched on the high box beside Paul, who was holding the reins.

‘What do you keep going to that house for?' asked Paul. ‘You just can't get enough of it, can you?'

She had to laugh, because he had guessed the truth. The cosy little nest was all ready and waiting to receive the two lovebirds, and yet she couldn't wait to spend time there, as if it were a brand new toy.

They rolled along Bankaplein towards Atjehstraat, with Marie giving directions to Paul.

‘Do you always carry their house key in your pocket? Whatever will you do when you've given it back?' he teased, drawing the buggy to a halt. The groom jumped down from the back to help Marie alight.

‘I shall ring the bell and hope to be let in!' she replied, laughing. ‘But why don't you come in for a moment, Paul? Then you can see your wedding present in its proper surroundings.'

‘No thanks, I can quite imagine what it looks like!' he responded. ‘Have fun!'

‘Thank you for the ride . . .'

She slipped her key in the lock, pausing to watch as Paul's elegant, frail-looking vehicle rolled away with the smart little groom at the back.

Stepping inside, she heard someone singing upstairs. ‘Dear Emilie,' she thought, smiling to herself. But she did not climb the stairs at once; instead, she slipped into the salon for a quick glance at the pretty suite of furniture, blue and shiny with newness in the soft light entering through the cream-coloured lace curtains. The silver tea service glowed under its tulle dust cover on a side table. The mantelpiece, too, was prettily adorned with vases on either side of an artistic jester's head in terracotta, which was reflected in the glass. Only the walls were still a little bare, as were the walls of the dining room, which was very simply furnished with a round dining table and chairs, a modest nut-wood dresser and a brown-leather settee.

‘It all looks so new,' thought Marie. ‘Not very cosy yet – but that will come, all in good time.'

Everything was indeed very shiny. The kitchen was the shiniest area of all, from brand-new pots and pans to a gleaming range that had yet to be lit for the first time. True, there was no life in the place yet, but all in all the ground floor was very fetching. Marie went upstairs. Emilie was still singing, and not at all surprised to see Marie, who was busy in Georges' study arranging countless souvenirs from his boyhood room in his parental home.

‘Oh, how cosy it's beginning to look here!' said Marie. ‘Those knick-knacks make all the difference. It's still a bit bare downstairs, I think.'

She opened the door to a side room which had been made into a small, frilly boudoir for Lili.

‘Now isn't this just too lovely?' gushed Marie.

‘Yes, isn't it?' rejoined Emilie. ‘Just think: young Georges at his desk over there while milady sits in her boudoir, daydreaming.'

‘Daydreaming? Milady will be far too busy running her household!' said Marie. ‘Oh, I can just see Lili getting all flustered giving instructions to her new housemaid! How will she ever manage?'

They both pealed with laughter, and in high good humour set about removing Georges' books from their boxes and ranging them on the shelves of the tall, antique bookcase, another relic of his study at Noordeinde. Marie was in such high spirits that she kept dissolving into helpless hilarity, which severely impeded their progress.

‘There, there, Marie,' chuckled Emilie. ‘Pull yourself together! We'll never get anything done at this rate. You can't stop laughing, can you? You seem very happy – any particular reason?'

Marie gave a start and blushed.

‘Happy? How do you mean? No, no particular reason. But every time I come here I have a fit of the giggles, I can't imagine why,' she said, and a fresh peal of laughter ensued. ‘Just look at us, feathering the lovebirds' nest for them! Would they do the same for us, do you think?'

Still laughing, the pair of them made a quick survey of the bedroom, which they still found to be lacking in cosiness. There was the same untouched, formal sheen of newness whichever way they looked, and when they opened one of the closets the sight of immaculate shelves bearing stiff little piles of starched household linen tied with pink and blue ribbons caused yet more merriment. Marie plumped herself down on the unmade bed.

‘Oh please, Marie, do tell me why you're in such a jolly mood! Are you keeping something from me?' said Emilie.

‘What makes you think I have a secret? But seriously, Emilie, I wish you would tell me why you never married. I mean, you must have been courted at some time?'

‘Yes, I was, by a cavalry officer. He was big and strong, and he had soulful eyes, and then, one day – oh, you naughty girl, stop laughing at me, do you hear?' she protested, whereupon Marie sprang up, pulled Emilie to her feet and waltzed her around the highly polished floor.

Eline sat alone in the ladies' compartment, her head tilted back against the red-velvet padding. She listened attentively to the wheels pounding the rails, thinking she could distinguish a nervous three-quarter time in the harsh, metallic monotone. Now and then she rubbed the steamed-up window with her pocket handkerchief to look outside, where the gray shadows of twilight were deepening. She saw swirls of mist rising over the meadows and the faint yellow glow of scattered farms in the distance as the train chugged onwards to The Hague. The Hague! She had been away for so long that the city seemed dear to her now, a place where she might yet find something of a home.

For the past eighteen months she had been abroad, either travelling and living in hotels surrounded by strangers or staying at her uncle's house in Brussels, never having a place she could call her own. Her varied existence had made the time pass very quickly, her mind having been constantly occupied by touring new cities and meeting new people, but lately she had begun to tire of that endless diversity. She now yearned for peace and tranquillity, for a long, dull period of complete repose, untroubled by dreams or sadness of any kind.

Something of a home! Would she find such a home with dear old Madame van Raat, that mournful, grey-haired lady who loved her but who did not know her as she was now: a sad, subdued creature, weary of her young life. Because from now on that was what she would be, sad, subdued, and weary; no longer would she
work herself up to be vivacious and gay at all times, the way she had been obliged to do among strangers, the way Georges and Lili had seen her only a few days ago. A proper Parisienne, Lili had called her – fancy Lili being taken in by her veneer of sophistication! Ah well, she felt too weak for any kind of performance now. Something had broken in her spirit, and now everything else was slowly but surely breaking down all around her. What a mess it all was . . .

The train whistled shrilly and the lights glimmering through the mist multiplied. In a few minutes she would be in The Hague. Slowly she drew herself up in her seat, adjusted her hat and veil, placed her book and scent bottle in her leather travelling bag and waited, tense and ramrod-straight. She appeared rather slight and wan in her grey travelling coat, gazing ahead with hollow eyes as the train rolled into the station and ground noisily to a halt.

Her heart beat faster and she could feel the tears welling up in her eyes. The train conductor shouted ‘Hague! Hague!', and through the steamed-up glass she saw the jostling crowd on the platform, bathed in the dismal glow of gas lanterns.

The carriage door was wrenched open from the outside; she stood up, gripping her bag in one hand and several parasols rolled up in her travelling rug in the other. She scanned the stream of disembarking passengers for any sign of Paul, whom she had been told to expect, and was astonished to see another familiar figure coming in her direction.

‘Why, Henk!' she cried.

As he helped her down to the platform she almost tumbled into his arms, while Paul, who arrived a moment later, relieved her of her hand luggage.

‘Elly, dear child! My dearest Elly!' Henk said with a catch in his voice, and he kissed her softly as she leant against him, weeping. She barely heard Paul's greeting, merely handed him her luggage ticket so that he would see to her trunks. A sob escaped her, but Henk chatted on regardless, taking her arm and steering her to the station exit where his carriage was waiting. She responded meekly, her mind awhirl with undefined thoughts and nostalgic sentiments, and she was glad of his strong hand helping her up to her seat. She
recognised the landau in which she had ridden so often, but she noted that the groom was different; in the old days it would have been Herman.

‘Paul will be here soon, and then we'll be off,' said Henk, seating himself beside her.

She did not answer, but leant back, covering her face with her hands to hide her emotion.

‘I had not expected to see you, Henk! How very kind of you!' she said after a pause. ‘So very kind!'

He pressed her hand and put his head round the open door to look for Paul, who was just arriving with the luggage.

‘All set!' cried Paul, jumping in. ‘Well, Elly, what a pleasure to see you again! A great pleasure, I must say.'