Eline Vere (55 page)

She lay awake for hours, staring at the faded nymphs and cupids on the ceiling with Marianne beside her, fast asleep, breathing softly and regularly like a child. Countless times she asked herself the unanswerable question: why did she keep thinking of Paul?

. . .

The following morning saw the arrival of Otto, who was to spend a week at De Horze before taking up his new position of steward to the royal estates. His appointment was in the environs of Elzen, and he would therefore be living fairly close by, a consoling thought to Madame van Erlevoort, who felt that the proximity of the happy household of De Horze might assist him in casting off his sorrows.

Theodore was out for the day, taking Arnold van Stralenburg on a tour of the grounds, and Truus was busy in the house while the children played in the park and the gym room under the supervision of the nursemaids. Otto joined the ladies – Madame van Erlevoort, Mathilda, Suzanne, Frédérique and Marianne – on one of the spacious, creepered verandas.

‘How is Etienne getting on?' he asked.

Madame van Erlevoort beamed.

‘He got up early,' said Freddie. ‘He made a tremendous to-do rearranging the furniture in his room when he arrived, to make himself a proper study, and he's putting it to good use, as you see.'

Marianne stood up.

‘Where are you off to, Marianne?' Suzanne wanted to know.

‘I am going to my favourite little spot at the back of the park!' she said. ‘Oh, Freddie, it's so lovely there, full of lilies of the valley. Why don't you come with me? Then I can tell you all about the book I'm reading:
Ein Gebet
, by Carmen Sylva – oh, it's just wonderful!'

Marianne left with Frédérique in tow, after which Otto and Suzanne set out for a stroll together. They had not seen each other for a long time, as Otto had gone to stay with his relatives in London the previous summer instead of coming to De Horze. Suzanne found him altered: he look older, and his face resembled a mask of quiet mourning, in which she detected a trace of bitterness.

She took his arm, and wordlessly they wandered down the broad oak-lined avenue, shaded from the baking July sunshine by the lush foliage. Giant ferns spread their fans along the ditches all ashimmer with metallic hues, delicate spider webs festooned the bushes like filaments of silvery glass, and now and then, through a break in the trees, they glimpsed a weather-beaten statue on a pedestal, a Flora or Pomona velvety with moss. The sweet-smelling wild honeysuckle ran riot along the verges, flinging its tangled shoots in every direction, while the blossoming cow parsley raised its flat heads of white froth. Otto and Suzanne proceeded at a leisurely pace. Ahead of them, in the distance, they saw two small figures in light-coloured clothes plunging into the greenery: Frédérique and Marianne, bound for the lilies of the valley. At their back they heard peals of laughter from the children frolicking on a heap of sand in the shade of the big house.

‘How beautiful it is here!' Suzanne said at length. ‘I am so glad Theodore is letting nature have its way in the park, even if it's only for the sake of economy. It looks like a jungle! I can remember when I was little Papa had a whole regiment of groundsmen, and the park always looked as tidy as a garden, with gazebos and vases and statues. And now it's all tumbling down – some of the statues are broken, too. Oh, do you remember that time when you climbed on top of that nymph over there? You broke her arm, remember?'

‘So I did,' said Otto.

‘Papa was furious! You were sent to your room and put on bread and water for three whole days, remember?'

‘Yes I do,' said Otto, smiling.

‘And you refused to beg Papa's pardon for answering back when he told you off, and then Mama insisted you should anyway. Remember?'

He squeezed her arm gently in response, moved almost to tears. The remembrance of that summer in his boyhood evoked a whole train of associations with another summer, during which he had strolled in this very park not with Suzanne, but with . . .

‘I say, Otto!' Suzanne said abruptly. ‘Won't you be homesick for The Hague, living all by yourself in Elzen?'

‘Oh no!' he exclaimed with feeling. ‘Not at all! I have no desire to be in The Hague.'

She glanced at him, startled by his emotion.

‘Life in the country appeals to me, and I look forward to my new office,' he added.

‘Is there any particular reason you want to leave The Hague?' she asked softly.

‘A particular reason? No, none at all.'

He seated himself on a park bench, but she remained standing, absently plucking sprays of blossom from the overhanging honeysuckle while she tried to find the words to continue.

‘Oh, Otto, it's not on account of – on account of–?' she faltered.

He looked straight ahead a moment, then replied in a slow, dull voice.

‘My dear Suzanne, what are you thinking? That I want to leave The Hague because of Eline?'

‘Yes,' she said timidly. She sat down beside him and began to arrange the flowers into a posy.

‘My dear Sis,' he resumed, sounding as if he were reciting a rehearsed response, ‘whatever gave you that idea? Did you really think a fellow would spend the rest of his life mourning a girl who goes back on her word? Of course I was sorry at first, and I was sad, too. But it's all over now, I assure you. Over and done with . . . one stops seeing the other person, gradually one stops thinking about them, and in due course one forgets. A broken heart never killed
anyone in real life, and besides, a man's heart does not break as easily as you might think: men have work to do, business to attend to, and life simply goes on, leaving them little time to ponder their losses, even if they wished to. It is different with women, I believe; they give in to their feelings more readily, don't they?'

He stood up, as in a dream, and she followed him.

‘Yes, I suppose they do,' she said, with little conviction.

‘One forgets,' he continued in the same dull tone, ‘and so it can easily happen, after a time, that one meets someone else, someone one can love and who will make one happy. It happens all the time. That's life.'

‘Yes, I suppose it is,' she said, and he was reminded of something Eline had said in her letter: ‘then you will find a girl who is worthy of you, and who will make you happy.'

‘So don't you go thinking I am pining with romantic love!' he concluded, with a strained smile. ‘I'm not that far gone, you know.'

She fell silent, saddened by his response. He was like Mathilda, too proud to share his grief with anyone, preferring to maintain a certain stoic, outward composure. She did not let him notice that she was undeceived by his pose, and they walked on for a while, saying little. All at once they caught the sound of animated chatter some way off. It was Marianne, ensconced among the lilies of the valley, relating the story of
Ein Gebet
to Frédérique.

‘It's a bit melodramatic, but so lovely, so moving! You see, Raoul is doing penance for his mother, who was a tremendous sinner, apparently, although I cannot imagine she could have done anything really wicked. He enters the priesthood and chastises himself. I didn't sleep a wink after I'd read the bit about him blessing the marriage of Rassillo and Editha. Editha is ever so soft-hearted and sweet, and Raoul has always loved her. Berthalda, though, is incredibly passionate, oh, exaggeratedly so! Anyway, as I was telling you, Berthalda put poison on the wafer, and so, when Raoul gives Editha the wafer she collapses, and instead of repeating the marriage vows, she cries out “Raoul!” and dies. Sad, isn't it? I couldn't stop crying! Berthalda does penance too; she enters a convent, a subterranean one where the sun never shines, and Raoul's hair turns white overnight.'

Otto and Suzanne, who had been hiding behind some trees to eavesdrop, went on their way again.

‘Look at my hair, Suzanne!' said Otto with the same strained smile: ‘It didn't turn white overnight! I am not a bit like Raoul, you see!'

She said nothing, trying to smile as she clung to his arm, swinging her honeysuckle posy with her free hand, and to end the silence she hummed a tune.

. . .

At De Horze life continued at a steady, unhurried pace. Otto had left for Elzen, and Etienne was extraordinarily diligent, taking off straight after breakfast to study in his room upstairs and disappearing again after lunch for more work. In the evening he joined the rest of the company for a little entertainment, such as leapfrogging over Van Stralenburg and throwing mock punches at him, but when everybody retired he went back to his desk to put in a few more hours of study. He had a veritable craze for his books, in Madame van Erlevoort's opinion, and seemed not to be deterred by any anxious looks or complaints about his pallor from her or anyone else.

One day Etienne received a letter from Paul, telling him of his plan to visit De Horze in the near future, after which he would travel on to Germany or Italy for an extended tour. Theodore responded somewhat scoffingly to this news, fearing that Paul would lure Etienne away from his books and even try to persuade him to accompany him on his travels. Madame van Erlevoort, however, was very pleased, for she thought Paul's presence would do Etienne a world of good – the boy was working far too hard, all that zealous studying was bound to make him ill.

Frédérique had given a radiant smile when she heard of Paul's intended visit, but had said nothing. She wore the same radiant smile when she studied her rosy reflection in the glass on the morning of his arrival. With her brown eyes sparkling like dark gems, her thick, chestnut hair curling silkily about her milk-white neck, she could not help thinking how pretty she looked in her simple dress
of pink cotton, lithe and strong, smiling in that regal, munificent, way. Yes indeed, she was quite exhilarated!

Was it because of the sun lighting up her eyes and the peachy glow on her cheeks? Or was it because the person she could not get out of her mind was about to arrive? As she surveyed her appearance, lost in conjecture, she forgot her sense of pride, she forgot all about wanting Paul to be different in certain ways; she found herself being swept away on a wave of emotion that she was powerless to resist, and she was thrilled by her own weakness before the sublime effervescence invading her soul.

He arrived, and when she shook his hand she had the sensation that she had never seen him before. How tall he was, and how handsome, with his cheerful blue-grey eyes, his bushy moustache and his white teeth! How infectious his laughter, hearty and full, and so disarming! She returned his laugh with her own, uttered some pleasantries, and was struck by his manner towards her: it was not a bit like the way he laughed and joked with Françoise, Ange, or Léonie, or with any of the other girls for that matter. There was a gentle intimacy in his gaze, as there was in his tone of voice, from which every trace of cynicism or forwardness had vanished.

Was it the country air that made him look so attractive, so fresh-faced and sincere? Theodore at any rate was pleased to see Paul in such good form, and promptly pressed him to stay with them for a few days, on condition that he should not distract Etienne too much from his books. Paul gave his solemn promise and accepted the invitation with gratitude. When they were all gathered together on the veranda to enjoy a light May wine, Frédérique could not help noticing how he held everyone's attention. No, he wasn't half as vain and frivolous as she had thought, and she – well, she found him very engaging, to say the least.

It was a clear, starry evening, and the boat on the lake beckoned. Paul and Arnold van Stralenburg took the oars, Marianne and Etienne teased one another, and Freddie, holding the tiller, hummed a song which carried softly over the water in the violet dusk. Suddenly Paul broke in with a snatch of the duet he used to sing with Eline.

Ah! Viens, la nuit est belle!
Viens, le ciel est d'azur!

Freddie was delighted to hear him sing. The scene was so simple and so delightfully familiar: Paul's song, the lake they were drifting on, the illuminated veranda with Mama, Mathilda, Suzanne and Theodore sitting together, the looming dark-green mass of the trees and the twinkling stars above. How extraordinary that she had never realised how poetic it all was! Paul concluded his barcarole with a soft, drawn-out high C in falsetto, and she fancied she heard nightingales in the jasmine-scented air, like a silvery vibration in her heart.

. . .

How would he comport himself with Marianne, she wondered. Marianne had a pretty face with soulful eyes, and a pert, slightly coquettish demeanour. But he showed no inclination to flirt with her, by which Frédérique was both surprised and gratified.

Since that first day, however, she had recovered herself. She had been too forgiving, she believed; she had seen him the way she wished to see him – which might even have been the way he temporarily happened to be by some extraordinary coincidence. But had she then forgotten what he had been like in The Hague, dancing attendance on all those girls, inconsiderate to his mother, hanging around with those so-called friends of his who were nothing but spongers? By what stroke of magic could he have ceased to be frivolous and vain, egotistic and weak?

Whatever the case, now that he was away from all the girls, away from his mother and from his friends, he made a decidedly better impression. She vowed not to voice any criticism she might have, in case he took a permanent dislike to her. Nor would it be hard to keep her vow, for Paul was making things remarkably easy: for the moment he gave no cause for criticism of any kind.

It had rained for several days, and the morning was clear, with a well-rinsed brightness to the sky. Klaas had saddled the two riding horses, one of which was a sorrel; the other, fitted with a side saddle,
had a blaze down its forehead. Paul was checking the horses' tackles when Freddie emerged from the veranda with the train of her riding costume over her arm and a small top hat with a white veil on her head. She buttoned her gloves and smiled.