Eline Vere E-Book

Louis Couperus

• Herausgeber: Pushkin Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Eline Vere is a passionate and rebellious young socialite, living in The Hague in the late 19th century. Driven by a highly active imagination, she attempts to escape the narrow confines of her bourgeois existence, and to force reality to live up to her dreams - but the world has other plans. In Eline Vere, with its fascinating heroine and supporting cast of her female friends and relatives, Couperus minutely and vividly evokes the characters, conventions, manners and hypocrisies of Dutch society in 1889 - and yet engages with topics that are generally debated to this day.

Leseprobe

LOUIS COUPERUS

ELINE VERE

Translated from the Dutch by Ina Rilke

Contents

Title Page

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

XXXI

XXXII

XXXIII

XXXIV

XXXV

XXXVI

AFTERWORD

Also Available from Pushkin Press

About the Publisher

Copyright

ELINE VERE

I

THE DINING ROOM, doing service as a dressing room, was a hive of activity. Before a cheval glass stood Frédérique van Erlevoort, her hair loose and flowing, looking very pale under a light dusting of rice powder, her eyebrows darkened with a single brushstroke of black.

“Do hurry up, Paul! We shall never be ready in time!” she fretted, glancing at the clock.

Kneeling before her was Paul van Raat, his fingers flying as he draped a long, gauzy veil of gold and crimson about her waist, making the fabric billow over her pink underskirt; her bare shoulders and arms were snowy white with powder and all ashimmer with doubled and twisted necklaces and chains.

“Oh, there’s such a draught! Do keep that door shut, Dien,” grumbled Paul as the old housemaid departed with an armful of dresses. The open door offered a glimpse of the guests proceeding along the potted palms and aralias on their way from the hall to the large reception suite, the men in evening dress and the ladies in light-coloured apparel, all peering into the dining room as they passed by.

There was much merriment behind the scenes, with only Frédérique retaining some form of composure, as befitted the majesty of her role as a queen of antiquity.

“Please be quick, Paul,” she pleaded. “It’s gone half-past eight already!”

“Yes, yes, Freddie, don’t worry, you’re almost done!” he responded, deftly pinning some jewels among the gauzy folds of her drapery.

“Ready?” asked Marie and Lili Verstraeten as they emerged from the room where the stage had been set—a mysterious elevation that was barely distinguishable in the dim light.

“Ready!” answered Paul. “And now let’s all calm down!” he pursued, raising his voice commandingly.

He had good reason to admonish them, for the youngsters acting as wardrobe assistants—three boys and five girls—were cavorting about the cluttered room, laughing, shrieking and causing the uppermost disorder, while Lili struggled in vain to wrest a golden cardboard lyre from the hands of the twelve-year-old son of the house, and the two rowdy cousins set about climbing a large white cross, which was already teetering under their onslaught.

“Come down from that cross, Jan and Karel! Give me that lyre at once, other Jan!” roared Paul. “Do take them in hand, Marie. And now—Bet and Dien, come over here, will you? Bet, you hold the lamp, and you, Dien, stand beside the sliding door. Everybody else out of the way! There won’t be enough room, so some people will have to go out into the garden and watch through the window. They’ll have a splendid view from there. Come along Freddie, careful now, here’s your train.”

“You’ve forgotten my crown.”

“I’ll put it on your head when you’ve taken up your pose. Come on now.”

The three banished maids scurried away, the boys crouched down in a corner where they would be invisible to the audience, and Paul helped Freddie to ascend the stage.

Marie, who like Lili was not yet in costume, spoke through the closed window to the fireman outside, wrapped in his greatcoat, waiting to set off the Bengal lights in the snowy garden. A large reflector stood beside him like a pallid, lustreless sun.

“First white, then green, then red!” instructed Marie, and the fireman nodded.

The room was dark but for the lamp held aloft by Bet, while Dien stood by the door to the now deserted dressing room.

“Careful, Freddie, careful!” cautioned Paul.

Frédérique arranged herself carefully among the cushions on the couch whereupon Paul adjusted her draperies, necklaces, hair and diadem, tucking in a flower here and there.

“Is this all right?” she asked with a tremor in her voice, taking up her well-rehearsed pose.

“You look ravishing. Come along Marie and Lili, your turn now!”

Lili threw herself on the floor and Marie reclined against the couch with her head at Frédérique’s feet. Paul quickly draped both girls in brightly coloured shawls and veils, and wound strings of beads around their arms and in their hair.

“Now Marie and Lili, you must look distraught! A bit more writhing with the arms, Lili! More anguish, much more anguish! Freddie, we want more despair from you—keep your eyes on the ceiling and turn down your mouth a bit more.”

“Like this?”

Marie dissolved into giggles.

“Yes, that’s better! Do keep still, Marie, are you ready?”

“Ready,” said Marie.

Paul continued to add finishing touches, readjusting a fold here, a flower there, doubtful whether all was perfect.

“Come, let’s get started,” said Lili, who lay in a most awkward position.

“Bet, take the lamp away, and then you and Dien come over here and stand on either side of the sliding doors!”

Finally they all found themselves in total darkness, their hearts pounding. Paul rapped on the window, then ran to join the boys in the corner.

After a slow, sputtering start, the Bengal light flared up against the reflector; the sliding doors parted grandly, and a dazzling white blaze lit up the tableau.

A hush descended on the reception suite and conservatory as the smiling guests pressed forwards, blinded by the burst of colour and light. Gentlemen stepped aside to make room for a pair of laughing girls, and young people at the back stood up on chairs for a better view.

“La Mort de Cléopâtre,” Betsy van Raat read out to Madame van Erlevoort, who had passed her the programme.

Cries of “Wonderful! Magnifique!” sounded on all sides.

In the white glow of the Bengal light, ancient Egypt came to life. Beyond the sumptuous draperies there were glimpses of an oasis, blue sky, some pyramids and a grove of palm trees, while on a couch borne by sphinxes reclined a waning Cleopatra with cascading tresses, an adder coiled round her arm and two slave girls prostrate with grief at her feet. Thus, before the gaze of a modern soirée, the poetry of antiquity was evoked by a lavish vision of oriental splendour lasting only a few seconds.

“That’s Freddie! As pretty as a picture,” said Betsy, pointing out the dying queen to Madame van Erlevoort, who was so nonplussed by all this opulence that it took her a moment to recognise the lovely motionless maiden as her own daughter.

“And there is Marie, and the other one, oh, that’s Lili! You’d never know, would you? What splendid costumes; they went to so much trouble! You see that drapery of Lili’s, the violet with silver? I lent them that.”

“How do they do it?” murmured the old lady.

The light flickered and guttered down; the doors slid shut.

“Lovely, Aunt, just lovely!” Betsy exclaimed to the hostess, Madame Verstraeten, as she passed by.

Twice more the dream was reprised, first in a flood of sea-green, then in fiery red. Freddie, with her adder, lay perfectly immobile; only Lili could not help twitching in her contorted pose. Paul watched from the side, beaming—all was going well.

“How can Freddie keep so still? And it’s all so lavish and yet not overdone! Just like that painting by Makart!” said Betsy, opening her feather fan.

“Your honourable daughter must be exceedingly world-weary, dear lady!” drawled young de Woude van Bergh, bending towards Madame van Erlevoort, Freddie’s mama.

After the third enactment of the Egyptian dream Madame Verstraeten went to the dressing room, where she found Frédérique and Lili divesting themselves of their draperies, chattering away as they carefully picked all the pins out of the folds. Paul and Marie, perched on tall stepladders and lit by two of the maids, were busy dismantling Cleopatra’s boudoir. Dien bustled about collecting discarded draperies and necklaces. The three boys were turning somersaults on a mattress.

“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 Étienne. 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 openmouthed!”

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.

II

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 gaslight 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 gilt 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 given 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.

“Has the youngster been good?”

“Yes, sound asleep all evening. Are you staying up?”

“I just want to have a look at the papers. But why aren’t you in bed yet?”

“Oh, no reason …”

Turning to the pier glass, she stretched her arms again lingeringly, then twisted her loose hair into a sleek, dark chignon. She felt a need to confide in him, to have a heart-to-heart talk, but in her vacant, dreamy state she was at a loss for any particular topic to engage his sympathy. She wished she could break down and weep, overcome by some not-too-lacerating grief, for the sole purpose of hearing his gentle, bass voice consoling her. But she could think of nothing to say, and continued to stretch herself with languishing gestures.

“Is anything wrong? Tell me, my dear, is anything the matter?”

Widening her eyes, she shook her head from side to side. No, nothing was wrong.

“You can tell me, you know!”

“Well, I’m just a bit upset, that’s all.”

“What about?”

She gave a little moan, pouting her lips.

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just that I’ve been feeling rather nervous all day.”

He laughed his gentle, sonorous laugh.

“You and your nerves! Come now, little sister, it’s time you cheered up. You’re such good company when you’re not in one of your moods; you really shouldn’t give in to them.”

Feeling insufficiently eloquent to persuade her of this, he grinned and changed the subject:

“Care for a nightcap, Sis?”

“Thank you. Yes, I’ll just have a sip of yours.”

She turned to face him, and he, chuckling beneath his blond moustache, raised the steaming glass to her lips. Then he noted the glint of a tear in her hooded eyes, and with brusque determination set down the glass and caught her hands in his.

“There, there now, tell me what happened. Was it something between you and Betsy? Go on, you know you can tell me everything.”

He cast her a look of reproof with his uncomprehending, trusting eyes like those of a good-natured Newfoundland dog.

Only then, in a voice broken with sobs, did she let loose a torrent of misery, for no apparent reason other than the prompting of his voice and his eyes. The urge to pour her heart out was too strong to resist. What was she living for? What use could she be to anyone? She wandered about the room, wringing her hands and lamenting without pause. She didn’t care if she died within the hour, she didn’t care about anything at all, it was just that her existence was so futile, so useless, without anything she could wholeheartedly devote herself to, and it was all becoming too much to bear.

Henk sputtered in protest, discomfited by the scene, which was no more than a repetition of so many previous ones. He began to talk about Betsy and Ben, their little boy, and about himself, and he was on the point of mentioning that she too would be mistress of her own home one day, but then thought that might be indiscreet. She for her part shook her head like a stubborn child refusing to be distracted after not getting its way, and then, in desperation, hid her face against his shoulder and sobbed there, with her arm entwined around his sturdy neck. Her nerves were frayed from the lonely hours spent in an overheated room, and she resumed her halting tirade, bemoaning the pointlessness of her existence, the wretched burden life was to her, and in her tone he detected a hint of reproach directed at him, her brother-in-law, for being the cause of all her woes. He was much confused, and also touched by the warmth of her fragrant embrace, which he could hardly return with equal tenderness. All he could do to stem the flow of disjointed sentences was murmur trite words of consolation.

Slowly, slowly, to the soft tones of his sonorous voice, she cast off her melancholy mood, as though scattering rose petals on a stream.

She fell silent at last and took a deep breath, but continued to rest her head on his shoulder. Now that she had calmed down, he thought it incumbent on him to chide her for her foolishness. What nonsense it all was, to be sure! A lot of fiddlesticks! Because, dash it all, there was no call for such a fuss, now, was there?

“But Henk, truly—” she began, raising her moist eyes to his.

“My dear girl, all this talk about there being no sense to your life—whatever gave you that idea? You know we all love you dearly.”

And, recalling his earlier, unspoken consideration of her eventual marriage, he added:

“Fancy a young girl like you complaining of the futility of life! My dear sis, you must be quite mad!”

Tickled by this thought, and feeling there had been enough philosophy for now, he gave her arms a firm shake and tweaked her sad lips into a smile. She resisted, laughing, and it was as though the balance in her mind had been restored by her outburst. When a few moments later they started up the stairs together, she could barely suppress a shriek of laughter as he suddenly swept her off her feet and carried her the rest of the way while she, fearing a fall, half-ordered and half-begged him to desist.

“Now Henk, let me go! Don’t be silly! Put me down at once, Henk, do you hear?”

III

ELINE VERE was the younger of the two sisters, with darker hair and eyes and a slimmer, less rounded figure. The lambent darkness of her gaze, in combination with the translucent pallor of her skin and the languishing quality of certain of her gestures, gave her something of an odalisque lost in reverie. Her beauty was of great concern to her; she made it glow and sparkle like a treasured jewel, and this sustained attention rendered her almost infatuated with what she considered her best features. She would gaze at her reflection for minutes on end, smiling as she traced the line of eyebrows and lashes with the tip of a rosy fingernail, pulling the lids sideways a fraction to make almond eyes, or rumpling her mass of brown locks into the wild exuberance of a Gypsy girl. Her wardrobe, too, was the object of long and earnest meditation, involving the effects and harmonies of the cold sheen of satin, the warmer, changeable shades of silk plush, the froth of tulle and gauze, and the sheerness of mousseline and lace. From the quivering flashes of her diamond ring to the subtle emanations of her scented sachets, the assortment of fineries gave her a pleasant sensation of luxury and delicate femininity.

Being somewhat dreamy and romantic by nature, she would sometimes while away the hours in self-indulgent remembrance of her childhood. Her memories were like beloved relics to her, to be taken out and freshened up at regular intervals, and in the course of her contemplations she would quite deliberately replace the more faded images with new, idealised ones. Calling them to mind again later, she would lose sight of what was true and what invented, and would, with complete assurance, relate all manner of trivial episodes of the old days in this polished, poetic form. Betsy, with her more practical, matter-of-fact turn of mind, never missed an opportunity to tone down anything resembling glorification of the past, and for all her nostalgic leanings, Eline, when thus corrected, would usually succeed in distinguishing the bare facts from the fantastic blooms of her imagination.

She recalled her father, a painter, a man of refined, artistic temperament but wanting in the strength to create, married at a young age to a domineering wife several years his senior. He had felt oppressed by her, and his highly strung nerves, like those of a noble musical instrument, had quivered beneath the roughness of her touch, much as Eline’s now quivered beneath that of her sister. She recalled her father’s features of yellowed ivory, and his pallid, transparent fingers lying idle and listless while he cogitated on some painterly masterpiece that would be abandoned after the first few brushstrokes. She had been his little confidante, as it were, and in her mind his embattled genius matched that of the great Raphael, painter of sad-eyed Madonnas with flowing tresses. Her mother had always inspired a quiet fear in her, and as her memories of the disillusionments of childhood were primarily bound up with her, she was unable to idealise her mother as she did her father.

She recalled how, after the death of her father in the disaffection of an unfulfilled life and the subsequent demise of her mother due to heart failure, she and her sister had lived under the kindly guardianship of a widowed aunt. Old-fashioned, thin and upright, with a mournful cast to her regular features of erstwhile beauty, she loomed in Eline’s memory as a figure behind a plate-glass window, her time-worn hands working four shiny knitting needles in a measured, tremulous minuet. Aunt Vere spent her days in her spacious front room amid the gently stultifying trappings of her wealth, invariably clad in sweet-smelling, velvety garments, with a thick Deventer rug underfoot, a flaming log in the grate, and by the door a Japanese screen of yellow silk embellished with scarlet peonies and storks on the wing.

The two sisters, growing up together under the same tutelage and in the same surroundings, developed along parallel mental and moral lines, but as the years went by each followed the bent of her individual temperament. Eline’s languorous, lymphatic disposition entailed the need of tender reassurance and warm affection, and her nerves, delicate as the petals of a flower, often suffered, despite the plush comfort of her surroundings. She was overly sensitive to any opposition or impediment, and in self-defence took to bottling up her feelings, which led her to harbour a host of small, private grievances. Release from her long-pent-up emotion would come with the occasional outburst of temper. In Betsy’s more full-blooded nature there grew an inclination to take control, which was exacerbated by Eline’s want of self-reliance. At times her dominance was such that she could almost enter into the psyche of her sister, who, after the initial shock, would soon swallow her pride and even experience a measure of calm and satisfaction in being taken in hand. But neither Eline’s highly strung sensitivities nor Betsy’s overruling egotism had ever precipitated a tragic crisis, for within the cushioned confines of their aunt’s residence the contrasting hues of their personalities blended into a uniform shade of grey.

Later—after several balls at which Eline, resplendent in floaty, pastel-coloured dresses and dainty slippers of white satin, had glided and whirled to the intoxicating three-quarter time in the arms of a succession of eager cavaliers—later, she had received two offers of marriage, both of which she had declined. They lingered in her mind as easy conquests, bringing a calm smile of satisfaction to her lips when she thought of them, although her remembrance of the first often elicited a faint sigh as well. For it was at that time that she had met Henri van Raat, and since that first encounter she often wondered how it was possible that such a big bumbling fellow, as she thought of him, a man so unlike the hero of her dreams, should appeal so strongly to her sympathies that she often found herself, quite suddenly, longing for his company. In the hero of her dreams there were touches of the idealised image of her father, and likewise of the heroes in Ouida’s novels, but none at all of van Raat, with his mellow, lazy manner arising from the full-bloodedness of an overly sanguine humour, his uncomprehending, blue-grey eyes, his slow diction and unrefined laugh. And yet there was in his voice and in his glance, as in his candid bonhomie, something that attracted her, something protective, so that she sometimes felt vaguely inclined to rest her head on his shoulder. And he too sensed, with a certain pride, that he meant something to her.

That pride, however, vanished the moment Betsy drew near. He felt so intimidated by Eline’s sister that he found himself on more than one occasion responding to her lively banter with even slower speech and gruffer laughter than usual. She thought it an exquisite pleasure, cruel though it was, to goad him into paying her compliments, whereupon she would mischievously twist the meaning of his words and pretend to be offended. He would apologise, stumbling in search of the right phrases, often unaware of quite what impropriety he had committed, which flustered him so greatly that he could only stammer muddled assurances of his good intentions. Then she would peal with laughter, and the sound of that full, hearty laugh, mocking him with her sense of superiority, stirred greater emotion in him than the more ethereal, needful allure of her sister. Eline’s was that of a tearful, sweet-eyed siren rising from the blue of the ocean with sinuous, beckoning arms and a piteous cry, only to lapse helplessly into the deep once more, while Betsy’s was more like that of a thyrsus-wielding bacchante seeking to entwine him with vine tendrils, or threatening to dash her brimming glass in his face by way of merry provocation.

And so it had come about—he could not tell precisely how—that one evening, in the green coolness of a dimly lit conservatory, he had abruptly, in a rush of words, asked Betsy to be his wife. There had been something compelling, magnetic even, about Betsy’s conduct that evening that had moved him to propose. She had quite calmly accepted, without demurral, taking care to hide her delight at the prospect of being mistress of her own home beneath a veneer of serenity. She longed for a change from the dignified stuffiness of Aunt Vere’s front room with its large plate-glass windows, the thick Deventer rug, the fire in the grate and the storks and peonies on the Japanese screen.

But when Eline congratulated Henk quite simply and sweetly on his betrothal, he was somewhat taken aback, and a pang of disquiet over his impetuous deed left him tongue-tied in the face of her sisterly good wishes.

Eline herself, more disturbed than she knew by this unexpected turn of events, suddenly felt on her guard with Betsy, and withdrew into melancholy aloofness. Knowing herself to be the weaker of the two, she grew haughty and irritable, and henceforth took to opposing her sister’s dominating influence.

Henk and Betsy had been married a year when the girls’ aunt died. Betsy had given birth to a son. Henk, at the instigation of his wife, had cast around for some employment, for he annoyed her at times with his stolid, good-tempered lassitude, which reminded her of a faithful dog forever lying at one’s feet and inadvertently getting kicked as a result. He too entertained vague notions of the necessity for a young chap, regardless of the size of his personal fortune, to have some occupation. In the meantime, however, he had found nothing suitable, and had ceased his efforts. In any case, she had little to complain of. In the morning it was his habit to ride out with his two Ulmer hounds running along behind him; in the afternoon he accompanied Betsy on social calls at her behest, or, when relieved of this duty, visited his club. His evenings were frequently taken up with escorting his butterfly spouse to the theatre and soirées, where he did duty as a somewhat burdensome but indispensable accessory. He submitted to this social whirl, for he could not summon the courage to protest, and on the whole found it less daunting to get dressed and follow Betsy than to disturb the domestic peace by pitting his will against hers. But the quiet evenings spent alone together, although few, were gratifying to his innate predilection for home comforts, and his lazy contentment on those occasions did more to rouse his love than the sight of her at some social gathering, engaged in brilliant conversation. That only made him peevish, and he would retreat into sullen silence on the way home. To Betsy staying in was a dreadful bore; she would recline on the sofa with a book in the soporific glow of the gas lamp, stealing looks at her husband as he gazed upon the pages of an illustrated magazine or just sat there blowing on his tea for minutes on end, both of which habits she found exceedingly irritating. At times she became so irritated that she could not resist carping about his failure to find something to do, to which he, rudely awakened from his cosy reverie, could only give a slurred response. Nonetheless, at heart she was quite content; she loved being able to spend as much as she liked on clothes, without the need for any of the meticulous accounts her aunt had obliged her to keep, and frequently she could look back in smiling satisfaction on a week without a single evening spent at home.

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 reread her novels. In the airless sickroom 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 will-power, 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 practice 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.

IV

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. 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 apologise 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.

“Why don’t you take proper painting lessons, Paul?” asked Eline. “Surely, if you have talent—”

“But I haven’t!” he laughed. “So it wouldn’t be worth it. I just dabble, you know, whether it’s in painting or singing. None of it amounts to anything.”

And he sighed at his own lack of energy for making the most of what little talent he might possess.

“You remind me of Papa,” she said in a wistful tone, as she evoked the poeticised image of her father. “He had enormous talent, but his health was poor and in the end he was too weak to undertake anything on a big scale. He had just started work on a huge canvas, a scene from Dante’s Paradiso, as I recall, and then … then he died. Poor Papa! But you, you’re young and fit; I can’t imagine why you have no ambition to do something great, something out of the common.”

“You know I’m to be working at Hovel’s, don’t you? Uncle Verstraeten saw to that for me.”

Hovel was an established lawyer, and as Paul had indeed, after alternate bouts of studiousness and sloth, graduated at a relatively early age, Uncle Verstraeten thought he would be doing the young man a good turn by commending him to his friend. So it was settled that Paul would join Hovel’s office until such time as he set up a practice of his own.

“At Hovel’s? A very nice man! I like his wife very much, too. Oh, but that’ll be splendid, Paul.”

“Let’s hope so.”

“You know, if I were a man I’d make sure I became famous. Come along now, Ben, be a good boy, sit down on the floor and look at those pretty pictures. Wouldn’t you love to be famous? You see, if I weren’t Eline Vere, I’d want to be an actress!”

And she broke into a roulade, which poured from her lips like liquid diamonds.

“Famous!” he said with a dismissive shrug. “Oh no, such a childish idea, wanting to be famous! It’s the last thing I’m interested in. Still, I’d like to be good at painting, or at singing, for that matter.”

“So why don’t you take lessons, either in painting or in music? Shall I speak to my singing teacher?”

“No thanks, not grumpy old Roberts. And besides, Eline, honestly, it wouldn’t be worth it. I’d never stay the course, whatever it was. I have these sudden moods, you know, when I feel I can do anything, and off I go looking for some great subject for a painting …”

“Like Papa,” she smiled sadly.

“And then I get all excited about making the best of my voice, such as it is, but before I know it all my plans and resolutions have fizzled out like so many burnt matches.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“From now on I shall be hiding the aspirations of my genius in law cases, you’ll see,” he said with a chuckle as he rose to his feet. “But now I must go to Prinsessegracht—to the Verstraetens’, as a matter of fact. So don’t expect me this afternoon. We have a good deal to do before Losch arrives. Goodbye, Eline! Bye-bye little Ben!”

“Goodbye, then. I hope your throat will mend soon.”

Paul left and Eline returned to her piano. For a while she sat thinking what a pity it was that Paul had so little energy, and from him her thoughts drifted to Henk.

But she felt altogether too cheerful to do much philosophising, so she resumed her singing with gusto, and did not pause until the tinkle of the noon bell summoned her and Ben downstairs.

Paul had said he would not be lunching at home, as he was expected at the Verstraetens’. He lived in Laan van Meerdervoort with his mother, who was Madame Verstraeten’s elder sister and a respectable lady with pensive, pale-blue eyes, a slightly old-fashioned, silvery-grey coiffure, and a demeanour suffused with resignation and fatigue. As she was having increasing trouble walking, she was usually to be found sitting in her high-backed easy chair with her head bowed down and her blue-veined hands folded in her lap. She led a calm, monotonous life, the aftermath of a calm, contented and nigh cloudless existence at the side of her husband, whose portrait hung close by. She looked at it often: a handsome figure in general’s uniform, strong, open features set with a pair of faithful, sensible eyes and an engaging expression about the firm, closed mouth. Life had brought her few great sorrows, and for that, in the poetic simplicity of her faith, she thanked the Lord. Of late, however, she had been feeling increasingly tired, her spirit quite broken by the loss of the man for whom she had felt affection until the end, by which time her youthful, ebullient love for him had subsided into the unruffled serenity of a becalmed lake. Since his passing she had taken to fretting over a thousand trivialities, which gave rise to daily vexations with servants and tradesmen, and these sources of annoyance had come together in her mind as an intolerable burden. She was feeling her age; life had little more to offer her, and she withdrew into a quietly egotistic state of daydreaming about the lost poetry of her past.