Eline Vere

by Louis Couperus

  The old lady joined in with the merriment, and Henk had just finished his steaming cup of tea when the front doorbell rang. Paul made his entrance, announcing that he had just been to see Hovel in his office on Prinsengracht. He had meant to call at the lawyer’s residence the previous evening, but having run into Vincent Vere in Hoogstraat he had postponed his visit in order to join some friends for a glass of wine in Vincent’s rooms. He had found Hovel most kind on closer acquaintance, an altogether decent fellow, very amiable, and they had come to an agreement: Paul was to start work at the office the following Monday.

  Madame van Raat was unable to suppress a sigh of relief, now that the long-discussed visit had finally taken place. The last time she had seen her brother-in-law she thought she there had been a hint of annoyance in his voice at the mention of Paul, and for matters concerning her youngest son she relied heavily on the aid of Verstraeten, who had been Paul’s co-guardian until he came of age.

  Hearing Paul’s account of his visit, Betsy bit her lip; why did her Henk waste all his time on that dratted horse of his, and those dratted hounds? But what could she do? She had told him often enough, and she could hardly raise the subject yet again in the presence of her motherin-law.

  ‘Well, Paul?’ Eline cried. ‘How about a song then?’

  Paul said he was willing, and got to his feet; Eline sat down at the piano. They met every Thursday to practise singing together, and already boasted a modest repertoire. Paul had never had singing lessons and could barely play the piano, but took to heart all Eline’s suggestions for improvement. She for her part maintained that he owed his singing ability to her alone. By now he had learnt to open his mouth wide and to keep his tongue down, but she still thought he ought to take some lessons from Roberts. No one could be expected to sing without proper study.

  ‘What shall we have? Une Nuit à Venise?’

  ‘Right you are: Une Nuit à Venise it shall be!’

  She opened a songbook bound in red leather, with ‘Eline Vere’ in gilt lettering on the cover.

  ‘Remember to sing out here, will you? But don’t hold your high sol too long there,’ she instructed. ‘Better sing it in your middle register, and not from the chest; it’ll sound much more melodious. And begin very softly, then you can swell there, and there. And mind you keep in good time with me towards the end, there’s that flourish of notes, remember? Careful now, Paul.’

  She played the prelude to Lucantoni’s duet, and when Paul had given a little cough to clear his voice, they broke into song together, starting softly with:

  Ah, viens, la nuit est belle!

  Viens, le ciel est d’azur!

  His light tenor sounded a little shaky at first, but its innate charm went very well with the plangent ring of her soprano. She found great pleasure in singing together like this, provided Paul was in voice and followed her recommendations. It seemed to her that she sang with more emotion when accompanied by another voice, and particularly so in the repetition of lines such as:

  Laisse moi dans tes yeux,

  Voir le reflet des cieux!

  which she now infused with the languishing passion of an Italian paramour.

  She fancied that in this way the duet gained in dramatic intensity, and she pictured herself with Paul as the tenor, both of them reclining in a gondola, against a painted backdrop of a Venetian canal ablaze with the magnesium glow of artificial moonlight. She saw herself richly attired as a patrician lady, him in the garb of a poor young fisherman; they loved one another, and they lay dreaming and singing in his craft as they drifted towards the lagoon before an enchanted audience.

  Devant Dieu même

  Dire: Je t’aime

  Dans un dernier soupir …

  They were nearing the final run of notes, and she began to worry that Paul would drag, so she slowed down a fraction, but no, Paul kept perfect time with her, and she exulted in the harmony of their voices as they faded away:

  Dans un dernier soupir …

  …

  ‘Exquisite, Eline, that was exquisite!’ enthused Madame van Raat, who had been listening with rapt attention.

  ‘You’re in good voice, Paul,’ said Betsy, for want of anything better to say.

  ‘Well, Eline, it’s time you sang us a solo now!’ said Paul, pleased with his success.

  In the meantime Mina had brought the newspapers, Het Vaderland and Het Dagblad, and Henk was immersed in them, taking care to make as little noise as possible turning the crisp pages.

  ‘But Paul, what about you?’ said Eline. ‘Don’t you want to sing any more, or are you too tired?’

  ‘I’d rather you sang on your own, Eline.’

  ‘Nonsense, if you’re not too tired I would prefer another duet. Honestly, I love singing with you. How about the grand duo with Romeo? Come on then, I dare you!’

  ‘I mean it, Eline. I don’t know the part very well yet, and it’s very difficult.’

  ‘Well, you knew it perfectly well the other day. If you just keep it light and sweet, and don’t force your voice, you’ll be fine. Look – you can sing this entire passage in the middle register. Just don’t shout.’

  With a look of disquiet he asked her advice about a phrase here and a note there, and she was glad to oblige.

  ‘Come now, be bold! No shouting, though, it never works. Besides, if we do get stuck, what of it?’

  ‘Oh, all right then, if you insist.’

  Eline glowed with contentment, and she played the tender prelude to the grand duo in the fourth act:

  Va! Je t’ai pardonné, Tybalt voulait ta mort!

  she began, in splendid form, to which Paul responded with his recitative, and together they sang:

  Nuit d’hyménée, o, douce nuit d’amour!

  Once more the stage version rose up before her: Juliet’s chamber, with Romeo in his splendid costume reclining on the cushions at her feet. And Romeo ceased to be Paul; Romeo became Fabrice, the new baritone, on whose shoulder she leant her head as she sang:

  Sous tes baisers de flamme

  Le ciel rayonne en moi!

  Paul’s voice began to waver, but Eline was hardly aware it was him singing. In her mind it was still the rich timbre of Fabrice’s voice she was hearing, and hers grew in volume and resonance until she, unbeknownst to herself, entirely eclipsed her partner.

  There, the lark was announcing the dawn, and she fancied herself lying in Fabrice’s arms as she asked:

  Qu’as tu donc … Romeo?

  Paul, having recovered during the bar of rest, responded in steadier tones:

  Ecoute, o Juliette!

  whereupon Juliette’s voice rang out in protest: no, it was no lark Romeo had heard, it was a nightingale, and the gathering light no dawn but a moonbeam, and Eline was still with Fabrice, falling into his arms as the orchestra swelled in the chords she struck on the piano. In the brief pauses between the vocal parts Eline came to earth; then the vision of the stage and Fabrice evaporated, and she saw herself in Betsy’s drawing room with Paul at her side, turning the pages of the score. But the next moment she was Juliette again, Juliette admitting that it was unsafe for Romeo to stay any longer, even urging him to leave, and he answered:

  Ah! reste encore, reste dans mes bras enlacés!

  Un jour il sera doux, à notre amour fidèle,

  De se ressouvenir de ces douleurs passées!

  This was a passage in which Paul’s lyrical sensibility came into its own, and Eline, waking from her reverie, smiled and thought how melancholy and dulcet his delivery was. She felt a pang of conscience, realising that it had been unfair of her to sing so loudly during the duet just now, and she vowed to be more careful in the future.

  She launched into the finale, favouring a beseeching tone over impassioned despair, so that Paul’s high chest notes would sound to better effect. But the vision had passed: the stage, the audience, and Fabrice – all gone.

  Adieu, ma Juliette!

  sang Paul, and she gave a faint cry, to which he resp
onded with his pledge:

  Toujours à toi!

  …

  ‘Oh, how I love singing like this!’ cried Eline ecstatically, and she ran to give Madame van Raat a joyful hug. ‘Didn’t Paul sound lovely, and isn’t it a shame he won’t take proper lessons? You ought to make him, you know.’

  Paul rejoined that Eline gave him enough lessons, and that she would be the death of him with her difficult duets. Eline, however, assured him that he had sung to perfection.

  Betsy gave a quiet sigh of relief, for she thought the Veronese lovers’ farewell had sounded rather too overwhelming in her salon with its delicately painted ceiling and plush hangings; it had been more of a shouting match as far as she was concerned. Why couldn’t Eline sing something lighthearted and pretty, a song from some opéra bouffe, for instance?

  Eline and Paul sat down, and the conversation drifted to other topics, day-to-day affairs and the busy stir in the streets now that the feast of St Nicholas was upon them. Then the clock struck half-past nine and Mina came to say the carriage was at the door.

  ‘Yes, it is time I took my leave,’ said Madame van Raat, rising slowly to her feet, and Eline trotted off, humming to herself as she went to fetch her wraps from the anteroom: a furlined cloak, a woollen shawl, a hood.

  The old lady placed her spectacles and crochet-work in her reticule and allowed herself to be muffled up by her dear young friend, after which she kissed everyone goodbye. Henk and Paul escorted her to the front door and helped her into her coupé.

  Leaning back against the plump satin cushions as the carriage rolled off, her ears still ringing with the duets sung by Eline and Paul, she smiled wistfully as she wiped the condensation off the window to look outside, where the snow lay dirty and bespattered in the light of the street lanterns, and she thought of the good old days when she used to visit the opera with her beloved husband.

  Paul remained for another hour and then departed, having celebrated the success of his duets with a good glass of wine. When he had gone Eline went upstairs – to freshen up, as she told Betsy. It was chilly in her sitting room, but the cool air felt fresh on her cheeks and hands after the overheated salon. She sank onto her couch with the Persian cushions and raised her hand to caress the leaves of the aralia, striking one of her favourite poses. And she smiled, her eyes widening dreamily as her thoughts flew back to Fabrice, with his handsome beard and splendid voice. What a shame Betsy was not more partial to the opera! They went so very rarely, while she, Eline, adored it. She would let Madame Verstraeten know in some polite, discreet fashion that she would appreciate being invited to accompany her once in a while. Mr Verstraeten never went anyway, and his wife usually asked some acquaintance to share her box. She had asked Freddie before, and Paul as well, so why not her?

  She sprang to her feet, seized by an idea. Fabrice had made his third debut last night: the first had been in Hamlet, the second in Le Tribut de Zamora, in which she had seen him, and yesterday in William Tell …

  She ran out of the room and leant over the banisters.

  ‘Mina, Mina!’ she called.

  ‘Yes, Miss!’ answered Mina, who was just crossing the hall with a tray of wine glasses.

  ‘Bring me the newspapers, please, if they’ve finished with them downstairs.’

  ‘Yes, Miss, certainly.’

  Eline returned to her room and settled herself back on the couch. It made her laugh when she felt her heart beating with curiosity. Whatever was she thinking? In what way could it possibly be of any concern of hers?

  There was Mina, climbing the stairs. She brought both papers: Het Vaderland and Het Dagblad.

  ‘If you please, Miss.’

  ‘Thank you, Mina,’ said Eline, taking the newspapers with a careless gesture.

  But no sooner had the maid left, shutting the door behind her, than Eline sprang into action. She quickly spread out the crackling sheets of Het Vaderland, scanning them excitedly for the Arts and Literature section. Ah, there it was:

  The French Opera.

  After successful performances in Hamlet and Le Tribut de Zamora, there could have been no doubt that Mr Théo Fabrice would find favour with this season’s ticket-holders for the French Opera, and so it comes as a surprise to learn of the three votes cast against this brilliant baritone. Once again, in William Tell, Mr Fabrice has offered proof of his fitness to fulfil the role of baritone in the Grand Opera, and we sincerely congratulate him on his appointment. This commendable artist combines a strong vocal technique with impassioned yet tasteful acting, which testifies to much dedicated study. In the duo with Arnold (Act 1), and the grand trio in the scene with Jemmy, Fabrice displayed a standard of excellence rarely encountered on our stages today.

  Eline nodded approvingly. Yes, it was all true, every word of it, and she read the article to the end, exulting in his success. Then she turned to Het Dagblad to see what it had to say about him.

  VII

  The Ferelijns occupied a cramped apartment over a grocer’s shop in Hugo de Grootstraat, comprising on the first floor two adjoining rooms, a kitchen and a small room to the side, and on the second two bedrooms with small side rooms. Over their living quarters hung a pall of straitened means: Frans had been left only a small inheritance by his parents, and consequently had to manage with wife and children on the small salary he received while on furlough. They had decided to take up temporary residence in The Hague, the city where they had both lived from an early age, where they had first met, and where they still expected to find their friends and acquaintances, although Frans maintained that they would have done better to have gone to live in a smaller town. But also in The Hague was Jeanne’s father, Mr van Tholen, a retired colonial official leading a solitary existence, rarely sought out by old friends and relations owing to his intractable temperament, and infrequently visited by his offspring once they had married or taken up appointments elsewhere, which was why Jeanne had prevailed upon her husband to stay in The Hague notwithstanding their meagre income. She promised to maintain a firm hold on the purse strings, and she kept her word, for all that she was not thrifty by nature.

  So they remained in The Hague, despite numerous disappointments. Jeanne found her father much aged in the four years that they had been abroad: grimmer and more irritable than she had known him. The good old days were truly gone, she thought; her happy childhood in her sunny home with her mother and her brothers and sisters, her innocent pranks with schoolmates, her girlish dreams under the lilac and jasmine in the garden, those early days of her engagement to Frans, filled with idealistic fantasies. The memories she thought to revisit in Holland were scattered far and wide, like fallen leaves. She had yearned for the damp and mist of home when she was in the Indies, but now that she was back, with everything being so disappointing and the unrelenting struggle to make ends meet, she yearned for the uncomplicated, easygoing life she had enjoyed overseas in rural Kadoe with her cow and her chickens. But she put on a brave face and struggled valiantly to deal with the troublesome minutiae of her present existence. Dr Reijer came to visit little Dora every other day, but she thought she detected in the popular young physician a nervous haste, which made him count every second spent at the child’s bedside. He would listen briefly to Dora’s chest, assure Jeanne that the cough was getting better, remind her to keep the child indoors and then, after running the tip of his gold pencil down the interminable list of names in his notebook, he would jump into his coupé and vanish. It was he who had advised Frans to seek help for his migraines and fevers from a certain professor in Utrecht, with whom he had corresponded at length regarding the case. Frans duly went to Utrecht, but returned dissatisfied, for he objected to the vague, prevaricating manner in which the professor had given his opinion. So now when Dr Reijer visited Dora, Frans kept out of his way, resenting the fact that neither he nor the Utrecht professor had been able to cure him. He tried to ignore the headaches hammering at the back of his head and the fevers making him shiver as from a trickle of icy water
down his spine, and took to closeting himself in the side room on the first floor, which did duty as his private little office. He remained there in sullen isolation, and although he felt a twinge of conscience when he heard Jeanne talking to the doctor upstairs and Dora loudly objecting to having her chest examined, he did not rise from his desk. All doctors were quacks as far as he was concerned, all talk, and unable to cure one when one was ill.

  …

  Jeanne accompanied the doctor down the stairs, conversing as they went, and Frans overheard Reijer enquiring after him and his wife replying, after which she called for the maid to show the doctor out. Then, as the carriage rattled off, she came into her husband’s office.

  ‘Am I disturbing you?’ she said in her soft, subdued voice.

  ‘No not at all; what is it?’

  ‘Why didn’t you come upstairs for a moment, Frans? Reijer asked after you twice.’

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘There wouldn’t be any point,’ he huffed. ‘All he does is send one off to some celebrity in Leiden or Utrecht who charges ten guilders for a chat lasting no more than a few minutes!’

  ‘Be reasonable, Frans. You can’t expect to be cured from one day to the next of something that has been troubling you for the past two years. I think you’re being quite irresponsible, doing so little about your health – and it’s already three months since we arrived here. Yet that was the reason we came to Europe in the first place, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but first I must find someone who inspires more confidence than Reijer. Reijer is a doctor à la mode, warmly recommended to you by the Van Raats, which is all to the good, but he’s too superficial to my taste, altogether too hasty. He’s always gone before you know it.’

  ‘You should try being a little more forthright with him. I ask him all sorts of questions about Dora, so he’s obliged to stay a while longer, and really, now that he has come to know us a little better, he seems to be taking more interest in us, too. And everybody says he’s very clever; it’s not just the Van Raats who think the world of him.’