Eline Vere

by Louis Couperus

  ‘Well, I shall see. There’s plenty of time yet. Sometimes you remind me of water dripping on a stone, drip, drip, drip – the way you go on and on about this doctor business!’ he snapped. He was annoyed with himself, and with a brusque movement opened his writing-case, as if to say he had matters to attend to.

  She withdrew, restraining a sigh, and quietly closed the door behind her. Upstairs in the nursery she came upon their only servant, a girl of sixteen in a grimy apron with her hair cut straight across her forehead. Mietje was making the beds while Dora and the two boys, Wim and Fritsje, were in the next room playing with a handsome set of building blocks, a gift from their grandpa, Mr van Tholen.

  ‘I’ll shut the door, then you can air the bedroom, Mietje,’ said Jeanne, and she drew the sliding doors together. Smiling at her children, she sat down by the window at a table heaped with small garments waiting to be sorted: socks and stockings, shifts and pinnies, freshly purchased yet already in need of repair. Oh, how quickly her children wore out their clothes! She gave a sigh, stirring the heap with her small, thin hand while her eyes filled with tears. If only she had a more robust constitution, how well she would have been able to manage her little household! It was so difficult at times to raise herself above the gloom into which she felt herself sinking as into an abyss, to shake off the listlessness that held her fast with velvet arms, and yet – there was so much to be done. She must not give in to idle daydreaming, nor must she rake up her old scattered memories like so many burnt-out cinders and lose herself in nostalgia for bygone illusions: reality was staring her in the face, in the shape of Dora’s badly torn new woollen skirt and the dirty laundry that needed counting before being sent off.

  Even now, fingering the small socks and shirts, she felt herself being drawn deeper and deeper into the muffled depths of weariness. Unable to summon her strength and set to work, she was oblivious to Dora and Fritsje squabbling over the building blocks. How she would have loved to fill her little abode with sunshine and harmony, but she was no fairy godmother, she felt so weak and ineffectual, so daunted by the small vexations of her daily life that she did not even dare hope for a rosier future. Indeed, whenever she thought of what the future might hold, her timorous nature was overcome with a vague sense of darkness and doom, which she found impossible to put into words.

  She propped up her head with her other hand, and a few teardrops fell on the laundry. Oh, if only she could have gone to sleep, gently caressed by someone who loved her and whose tenderness would make her feel calm and carefree and safe! And she thought of her Frans, and of the day he had proposed to her beneath the blossoming lilac in the garden, and of what had become of her: water dripping on a stone, drip, drip, drip …

  Oh, she knew she hadn’t made him happy; she was a bitter disappointment to him, but it wasn’t her fault that he had refused from the start to see her for what she was: a simple, weak creature, someone in need of much, very much love, and much tenderness and intimacy, someone with a touch of sentimental poetry in her soul …

  She took a deep breath and drew herself up, telling the children not to make so much noise, for Papa was downstairs, and Papa had a headache. She looked about her for her sewing basket, but she had left it in the sitting room, so she told Dora to be a big girl and take charge of her brothers for a moment. She was in the habit of addressing the child in a tone as if she were a grownup daughter, and Dora, flattered by her mother’s trust, was glad to oblige. Casting off her lethargy, Jeanne went downstairs to her sitting-cum-dining room, and was hunting for her sewing basket when her husband came in.

  Frans had heard her tread on the stairs and felt an urge to make amends for his harshness earlier. He crept up behind her in his slippers as she searched beside the chimneypiece, and gently caught her by the arms.

  She looked up, startled, and in his eyes she saw the old warmth she so often longed for as he murmured with a pleading, almost anxious smile:

  ‘I say, are you angry with me?’

  She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. Then she put her arm around him and leant her head on his shoulder.

  ‘Really not?’

  She shook her head again, smiling between her tears, and closed her eyes as she felt his bristly moustache on her lips when he kissed her. How quick he was to repent when he had been harsh to her, and how good it made her feel to forgive him!

  ‘There, there, don’t cry, it’s all right …’

  She heaved a sigh of relief and clung to him.

  ‘As long as you’re kind and gentle with me, oh, then I feel so … so strong, strong enough to tackle anything!’

  ‘My dearest little wife …’

  Again he kissed her, and in the warm tenderness of his lips she forgot the cold in the unheated room, which was making her shiver in his arms.

  VIII

  It was December 4th, the Eve of St Nicholas, and since early morning the Erlevoort residence had been in a state of heightened excitement – all whispers and knowing smiles and objects being whipped out of sight the moment one entered the room.

  The Verstraetens arrived a little after seven, bringing the boys, Jan and Karel, who had taken part in the tableaux. Then came the Van Raats and Eline, followed by old Madame van Raat and Paul. Henk, however, did not enter the salon but slipped unseen with Jan Verstraeten into a side room, where Marie and Lili had laid out their costumes.

  In the spacious salon stood Madame van Erlevoort, wreathed in smiles as she received her guests, when suddenly a deafening chorus of welcome was raised by the Van Rijssel foursome and Hector, which even the combined efforts of Mathilda and fat Nurse Frantzen were barely able to quell.

  ‘Oh, Betsy, why didn’t you bring Ben?’ demanded a peeved Madame van Erlevoort.

  ‘Ben’s not old enough for parties; he’s only three, after all, and it would be well past his bedtime by the time we finish.’

  ‘We could have sent him home with Martha, when it’s the children’s bedtime. I’ve got him such a dear little present, too,’ said Madame van Erlevoort regretfully.

  There was a stir in the drawing room, where the girls stood about chatting with Otto, Paul and Etienne; the Van Rijssel youngsters looked up, breathless with anticipation, as Martha, the upstairs maid, came in. Grinning, she passed a whispered message to Frédérique.

  ‘Quiet please! I have an announcement to make!’ cried Frédérique, looking solemn. ‘St Nicholas has arrived, and he wants to know if he may make his entrance. Shall we invite him in, Mama?’

  Everyone kept a straight face, stealing looks at the wide-eyed children.

  St Nicholas appeared in the doorway, wearing a white tabard and a long red cloak piped with gold at the hem; he had long grey hair and a long white beard, and on his head he wore a golden mitre. He made his entrance with due ceremony, leaning on his staff, and was attended by a black page, whose fancy costume was bound to look familiar to all who had seen the tableaux. After them came Willem and the three maids, all of whom slipped into the drawing room to watch the proceedings from there.

  The grown ups, smiling selfconsciously, bowed before the bishop from Spain.

  St Nicholas intoned a greeting and, almost tripping over his too-long tabard, advanced across the room towards the assembled company. Occupying the sofa were old Madame van Raat and Madame Verstraeten, and around them sat Madame van Erlevoort, Mr Verstraeten, Mathilda, Betsy and Otto. No one bothered to stand up, and Madame van Erlevoort welcomed the venerable guest in a tone of cordial familiarity.

  ‘Why did Granny stay sitting down?’ whispered Ernestine, lifting her wise little face to Marie. ‘She always gets up when someone she doesn’t know very well comes to call.’

  ‘Hark at her, how observant she is!’ whispered Marie to Eline, who was standing beside her.

  Eline, however, did not hear; she was laughing with Paul and Etienne at St Nicholas, whose tabard had come loose and was now trailing over his shoes, while a telltale streak of fair hair peeped out between the mitre and the
sagging grey locks.

  …

  St Nicholas hitched up his tabard with a flourish. Raising his full, deep voice, he summoned the Van Rijssel foursome to come forward. They were suspicious at first, but when St Nicholas took one of the sacks from his page and they both began to scatter the contents, the youngsters forgot their fear and shrieked with delight, tumbling over Hector and rolling over the floor to gather up all the goodies: russet apples, dried figs in little baskets, hazelnuts, tangerines and chocolates.

  ‘Pick them all up, help yourselves!’ urged St Nicholas. ‘We’ve got plenty more, look! And what of the big boys, wouldn’t you like some too?’

  The Verstraeten boys did not need to be asked twice, and happily joined the scramble.

  ‘Will you keep this for me, Granny?’ cried Nico, pouring his booty into his grandmother’s lap. ‘Then I can go and get some more!’

  ‘Now, now, Nico!’ cautioned Mathilda.

  ‘Never mind,’ soothed Madame van Erlevoort.

  St Nicholas and the page shook out the last of their sacks with much ado, after which they turned them inside out to prove they were truly empty.

  ‘Ooh, and now we’ll be going to the dining room!’ cried Ernestine, jumping up and clapping her hands.

  ‘Yes, yes! To the presents!’ Johan chimed in.

  Everyone stood up and followed the bishop and the children into the drawing room, the girls giggling again about his wig sliding askew. But St Nicholas took no notice, and beckoned Willem and the maids.

  ‘Now! Open the doors please, quick!’ he ordered.

  The sliding doors parted, and the children stormed into the brightly lit dining room, where the dining table had been replaced by four trestle tables, each with a name spelt out in chocolate letters, and each bearing a tower of toys.

  The Verstraetens and the Van Raats motioned for their own gifts to be brought in by the servants: a hoop, a whip, toy gun racks, rubber balls, tin soldiers and a toy cow that gave milk.

  In the meantime St Nicholas had slipped away with his page, and as it was close upon half-past eight Mathilda considered it time to return home. It took her a long while to restore order, however, even with fat Nurse Frantzen’s assistance. The youngsters got muddled about what belonged to whom; hazelnuts rained from Ernestine’s pockets across the floor; Johan’s tin soldiers, which had been unwrapped in the blink of an eye, were impossible to get back into their corkwood box; and Madeleine ran her hoop around the room with Nico blowing his new trumpet and Hector bounding at their heels, without troubling themselves about the rest of their presents.

  ‘Come, children!’ cried Mathilda. ‘Hurry up now, it’s time for bed.’

  But her four youngsters failed to hear. Mad with excitement, they ran up and down, scattering about in wildest disorder the toys painstakingly assembled by the others; then Frédérique joined the fray, giving Nico a piggy back ride while he whipped her to go faster.

  The Verstraeten lads, too, joined in, chasing Ernestine and Johan down the long marble hall and making a furious stampede with their boots.

  Mathilda wrung her hands in despair. No one took any notice of her, as Nurse Frantzen was helping the maids tidy up the toys and the girls were chattering to Paul and Etienne again. To her relief she caught sight of Otto talking with Betsy and Madame Verstraeten; she went up to him and clasped his hands.

  ‘Oh, Otto, please help me! It’s past the children’s bed time, and they simply won’t listen to me! And you know what Mama’s like, she’s not any help either.’

  And indeed, Madame van Erlevoort was occupied in the next room filling Madeleine’s toy tea set with water, milk and sugar, while old Madame van Raat and Mr Verstraeten looked on with much amusement.

  ‘Dear me, Otto is to act the bogey-man again, is he?’ he said, good-humouredly.

  ‘No, not a bogey-man, but I’m at my wits’ end! I really need your help. Have you ever seen such unruly children, Betsy? Please, Otto, will you come?’

  Betsy laughed.

  ‘I think you had better assert your authority as their uncle, Mr Van Erlevoort,’ said Madame Verstraeten.

  Otto went with Mathilda, first to Freddie.

  ‘Now, now, Freddie, Nico must be off to bed. Down, Hector, down I say! Auntie will let you have another piggyback ride tomorrow, Nico.’

  ‘Ah, but my back has nothing to do with you!’ said Freddie ‘It’s not your affair, do you hear? Come on, Nico, we must leave off.’

  Nico obeyed reluctantly, still clamouring for his trumpet as his mother took him by the hand. Then Otto went into the hall, where the two eldest were galloping up and down, and spread his arms to bring them to a halt.

  ‘Now then, Ernestine and Jo, your mother wants you to go to bed! Do as you’re told, now, or you’ll make her sad.’

  ‘What a lot of presents we got this year, Uncle!’ said Ernestine, quite out of breath.

  Mathilda came into the hall, too, leading Nico and Madeleine by the hand.

  ‘Would you believe it? There was Mama, calmly playing at tea parties with Ernestine!’ she said, and her look of despair made Otto smile. ‘I honestly think it would have been midnight before she even noticed the time.’

  ‘But Mummy, mustn’t we say goodnight to everyone first?’ protested Johan.

  ‘No, no! We can’t have that!’ wailed Mathilda, tightening her hold on all the small hands she could seize. ‘I’ll wish everyone goodnight on your behalf, I promise! Thank you so much for your help, Otto.’

  She gave him a grateful nod, which he answered with his frank, genial smile.

  Then Mathilda herded the children up the stairs.

  …

  ‘So you don’t mind all this noise and commotion, I take it?’ Madame van Raat asked Madame van Erlevoort with a smile, although there was a hint of disbelief in her sad, bleary eyes.

  With the children finally gone, a lull ensued. The grownups left the dining room, which was still littered with toys, and gradually reassembled in the reception suite, to which Otto had also repaired. Madame van Erlevoort poured the tea and Willem passed the cups round.

  ‘Do I mind the excitement, you ask? To tell you the truth, I find it invigorating; it makes me feel quite young again. I need the company of young folk, the more the merrier. I never spent a drearier time than after my son Theodore and my daughters got married, and yet I still had three children at home, including Freddie and Etienne, who are both very lively. It does me a world of good to be surrounded by a tribe of little ones, there’s nothing like it for keeping one young … Would you like some more tea?’

  Madame van Raat handed over her cup, and she felt a pang of envy for her grey-haired hostess’s joie de vivre. She drew a comparison with herself, seeing her own sense of loneliness and melancholy loom before her in cruel contrast to the cheerful bustle enjoyed by this grandmother amid her boisterous brood, with her good health and her apparent freedom from any kind of nervousness.

  ‘And oh, you can’t imagine how sorry I am to see so little of Theodore’s youngsters – there are six of them now – but my son is so enamoured of life in the country that he won’t hear of coming back to live in The Hague, whatever I say.’

  ‘Your daughter in England only has one child, if I’m not mistaken,’ remarked Madame Verstraeten. ‘And what about young Madame van Stralenburg?’

  Madame van Erlevoort inclined her head to Madame Verstraeten and whispered something in her ear, then gave a knowing wink in response to Mr Verstraeten’s raised eyebrows.

  Thereupon she began to tell them all about the Van Rijssel youngsters putting their shoes by the chimney the previous evening, but before she could finish the door opened and Henk, red-faced and grinning, came in, followed by Jan Verstraeten.

  Mathilda, joining the company again, was met with all manner of comments on how delightful her children were. Then the front doorbell rang out, hard and long, and the cheerful conversation subsided.

  All eyes were on the door, which swung open to reveal Willem and
the maids heaving a large crate. They advanced towards Madame van Erlevoort.

  ‘Ah!’ cried Frédérique. ‘The box from London!’

  Madame van Erlevoort explained to Madame van Raat that every year, on the feast of St Nicholas, her son-in-law Howard sent them a box containing something for every member of the family. Willem set to work removing screws and nails, with Etienne hovering at his elbow to offer assistance and everyone watching with bated breath. The shower of gifts and surprises could commence.

  …

  Eline beamed. She had already arranged her presents into a pretty display, exclaiming how dreadfully spoilt she had been by everyone, when Martha passed her yet another parcel. She untied the string with deliberation, inspecting the object from all angles for some sign, a seal or an initial, that might indicate who the giver was. But there were no clues, all it said on the label was her name: Mlle E Vere. The wrapping paper parted to reveal a long, slim case bound in grey leather, which she opened, thinking hard as to whom it might be from. On a grey-velvet pillow lay a fan of exquisitely carved mother-of-pearl. She lifted it out and unfolded it lingeringly, then stared at it, wide-eyed with admiration.

  ‘Bucchi,’ she murmured, peering at the signature along the edge. ‘Bucchi …’

  It was indeed a fan painted by the famous Italian artist: a fantasy of roses and fairies on ivory satin.

  ‘Who could this be from?’ she said. ‘It’s so beautiful!’

  Everyone rose from their seats to crowd round Eline, who carefully held out the precious, open fan for all to admire. She was very surprised. The bottle of scent had been a gift from Madame van Raat, of that she was certain, but surely Henk and Betsy couldn’t have …’

  ‘Betsy, darling, is it you I must thank for this?’ she asked, standing up.

  Betsy shook her head.

  ‘Parole d’honneur, Eline, it wasn’t me!’

  No, of course it couldn’t have been Betsy, since she and Henk had already given her a bracelet … so who could possibly have sent her this fan?