Eline Vere

by Louis Couperus

  He plunged into a sea of remembrance, revisiting the various countries and cities of his past, ruminating on his experiences.

  ‘And yet, all that wasted effort!’ he muttered under his breath, and his eyelids drooped as he felt the fog descending on his memory again. Beads of perspiration formed on his brow, his ears rang, and in his mind’s eye he saw a fearful space, inconceivably vast, stretching away before him.

  But this debility, bordering on a swoon, lasted only a second or two. A deep sigh rose from his chest, and he came to himself.

  …

  Rapid steps sounded on the stairs, and a cheery voice could be heard exchanging a word of greeting with the girl in the haberdashers shop downstairs. He was expecting a few acquaintances to call.

  The door opened …

  ‘Good grief! It looks like a scene from hell in here, with that fire blazing in the dark. Where are you, Vere?’ cried Paul van Raat from the doorway.

  Vincent rose from the couch and stepped forward; he put his hands on Paul’s shoulders.

  ‘Here I am, old chap, have no fear … Wait, I’ll light the lamp.’

  He cast around for matches, lit two old-fashioned paraffin lamps on the mantelpiece, and for an instant was blinded by the abrupt yellow glare. The Dantesque illusion was dispelled, leaving a dingy room in which the only note of cheer was the brightly burning stove; the antique sideboard bearing the silver jug and a few oriental objects looked sorely out of place beside the shabby armchairs upholstered in Utrecht velveteen, just as the antique prints on the wall struck a jarringly aristocratic note among the cheap engravings and common chromolithographs.

  It was Paul’s first visit to Vincent’s rooms, and his attention was caught by the silver jug and the porcelain plates, which he pronounced to be admirable.

  ‘Yes, they’re quite good in their own way. Actually, the jug leaks, but the workmanship is very fine, as you can see. I went to an antique dealer today, an old Jew, to see if I could sell them. They’re just dead weight, really. He said he’d come by tomorrow. Or would you be interested? They’re yours for the taking.’

  ‘No, my room, or my studio if you will, is too full already.’

  ‘Come on, a few more plates won’t do any harm.’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘All right; I’d rather sell them to the Jew anyway. I’ll get the better of him if I can, you know, and with you I’d naturally be too honest to do anything like that.’

  ‘Much obliged. And suppose he’s sharper than you are?’

  ‘Well, then he’ll get the better of me, that’s all. All in a day’s work, eh? You have had tea, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes. No need to put yourself out,’ said Paul as they both sat down. ‘But tell me, how long are you planning to stay in The Hague?’

  Vincent raised his shoulders and his eyebrows. He really could not say; he had not yet made enquiries about the position with the quinine farm on Java, but he had heard that they would give preference to a chemist, which he was not. So he would most likely give up on that idea, and besides, he wasn’t so sure the East Indian climate would agree with him. On the other hand, staying in The Hague, finding something here, was out of the question. He was already getting bored, The Hague was such a backwater, everyone knew everyone else, at least by sight, and one ran into the same people all the time – too dull for words! He had not yet made up his mind what he would do, but first he had to wait for some letters and cheques from Brussels. And he concluded by asking Paul whether he could lend him a hundred guilders for a few days. Paul thought that would be all right, but could not yet say for certain.

  ‘You would be doing me a great service. Could you let me know by tomorrow then? Or do you think me indiscreet?’

  ‘Not at all, not at all. Yes, all right, I’ll see tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, thank you very much in advance. You know the two Van Erlevoorts and De Woude are coming this evening? I invited them over for a glass of wine,’ Vincent said, in an altered tone.

  ‘Yes, I know; I saw them this afternoon at the Witte club,’ responded Paul.

  Vincent lolled against the back of the old red couch, and the lamp light gave a greyish cast to his sallow complexion, sharpening the lines of fatigue about his lips. Paul was struck by how much Vincent resembled a portrait of his uncle Vere, Eline’s father, especially the way he held his hand to his head as he leant back, with a gesture such as he had frequently remarked in Eline.

  …

  It was past nine o’clock when Georges de Woude van Bergh and Etienne van Erlevoort arrived in short succession, the latter apologising for his brother’s absence. Otto was not much taken with Vincent, although there had never been any disagreeableness between them; his own character was so practical and steadfast, and of such impassive reserve, that he found it impossible to feel sympathy for someone who, in his opinion, allowed himself to be governed entirely by a condition of morbid nervousness, without making the slightest mental effort to take himself in hand. Otto was one of the few people whom Victor did not succeed in winning over. Nearly everyone he met felt on their guard with him at first, and then became intrigued, his attraction being rather like that of some sweet poison for which it is possible to acquire a taste, such as opium. Through his far-flung travels he had gained a good deal of knowledge of human nature, or rather, of how to deal tactfully with people from all walks of life, and he was able to assume any role he chose with the effortless ease of a sidewinding snake or a skilled actor. But Otto, with unselfconscious confidence in his own health and strength, looked down on Vincent for the poisonous charm he emanated to gullible associates.

  Before long the room was filled with a bluish haze, Vincent having passed round a box of cigars, although he did not himself smoke. He took some bottles of Saint-Emilion from a cupboard, uncorked them, and set four wine glasses on the table. Etienne, boisterous as ever, regaled them with a stream of jokes and anecdotes told in colourful student patois, with an amount of mimicry and gesture that gave him the appearance of a gentleman-comedian in a café chantant. Paul and Georges laughed, but Vincent shrugged and gave a patronising little smile as he poured the wine.

  ‘My dear Etienne, you’re such a baby,’ he drawled.

  Etienne ignored the comment and rattled on, throwing all sense of propriety to the winds, while the others listened as they savoured the bouquet of their wine. Vincent, however, continued to make fun of Etienne.

  ‘Such a bad boy, young Van Erlevoort, to say such things! Naughty, naughty,’ he jeered, but there was something so engaging about his smile as he said this that Etienne was undeterred.

  Vincent refilled their glasses, and Georges praised the wine. He was usually rather quiet when in the company of his peers, happy to listen, for he preferred to save his efforts at sparkling conversation for the ladies. Vincent asked him about his work at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, while Etienne and Paul exchanged meaningful looks.

  ‘I suppose you’ll be attached to some legation or other eventually?’ asked Vincent.

  ‘That’s quite likely,’ replied Georges.

  ‘Well, at least it’s a job in which you get to see the world. How anyone can spend their entire life in an office I cannot imagine. It would be the death of me. Take Van Erlevoort – no, not you, Etienne, I mean your brother.’

  ‘Well, you can leave Otto out of this,’ said Paul. ‘He’ll have a brilliant career, you’ll see.’

  ‘Otto’s cut out to be a cabinet minister or a governor general, we all know that – at least, that’s what the old woman always says. And I’m the runt of the litter!’ cried Etienne.

  ‘Yes, quite the spoilt pet, aren’t you?’ laughed Vincent. ‘How far have you got with your studies, by the way?’

  ‘Oh, I still have some exams to sit, but I’m not attending any lectures at the moment. I’m studying here in The Hague.’

  ‘Are you so taken with life in The Hague, then?’ asked Vincent, pronouncing the name in a tone of disparagement.

  �
��It’s not too bad.’

  ‘How the deuce can you say that? You fellows must be very easily satisfied, or rather, you have no idea of what the rest of the world has to offer. The Hague makes me dull and drowsy, there’s something soporific in the air, it seems to me.’

  ‘You’re just prejudiced, that’s all!’ laughed Paul.

  ‘I dare say I am, I dare say that’s why the kind of life most of you lead strikes me as quite soul-destroying. How do you people pass the time, may I ask? Going round in circles like the horses on a merry-go-round. And once you’re settled in some position you find yourself doing the same old jobs day in day out, and going to the same old soirées ad infinitum. Hardly exciting, is it?’

  ‘Well, what do you recommend we do, then?’ asked Georges.

  ‘Good heavens, you’re welcome to go on vegetating like this, it’s entirely up to you, but what I can’t understand is that none of you seem to have any desire to go out into the world, take a look around.’

  ‘What about you, then?’ exclaimed Paul, a trifle piqued by Vincent’s scorn. ‘You’ve seen the world, haven’t you? And where does that leave you? Jack of all trades and master of none. So you can’t say you’ve done terribly well out of it, can you?’

  A spark of annoyance lit up Vincent’s pale-blue eyes while his thin lips curved into a tight smile.

  ‘All this philosophical talk is making you forsake your duties as a host!’ cried Etienne, tapping his empty glass.

  ‘Ah well, I suppose it’s a matter of temperament – mine being just a little more restive than yours, that’s all,’ drawled Vincent. He stood up to replenish the glasses, then sank down on the couch beside Georges once more, and his eyes roamed wearily across the room.

  …

  It had grown very hot in the room, and the cigar smoke seemed to hang from the ceiling in tangible swathes. Vincent opened the door for some air. Etienne, who could not take much wine, was red-eyed and greatly excited; he had also broken his glass. Georges and Paul were highly amused by his buffoonery, but Vincent, smiling faintly, remained aloof.

  He felt a sense of wonderment: how strange it was that the human character should be so fixed, that a man should always remain himself, retaining his own individual personality without ever having the possibility of changing places with someone else. Often, without the slightest cause, and even when in animated company, he would find himself wondering about this, and he chafed at the realisation of his own inescapable fate: ever to remain the same Vincent Vere, powerless to transform himself into an entirely different being, someone who would breathe and move in entirely different circumstances and societies. He would love to have experienced divergent emotions, to have lived in different ages, to have sought fulfilment in a range of metamorphoses. This desire struck him on the one hand as exceedingly puerile, being as it was a preposterous impossibility, yet on the other as quite noble, on account of the lofty aim it represented. He did not believe other people had this desire, and felt vastly superior to them for this reason. As he ruminated thus, his three visitors appeared very remote, separated from him by an impenetrable cloud of cigar smoke, and he had a sudden sensation of lightness in his brain; everything seemed to be more vividly coloured, the talk and laughter of the others sounded louder to his ears, like blows on a sheet of metal, the smell of tobacco and spilt wine became overpowering, and the veins in his temples and wrists throbbed as if they would burst.

  This nervous spasm lasted several seconds, at the end of which he noticed his guests grinning at him expectantly, and although he had not taken in a word of what they had been saying, he grinned, too, pretending to share their amusement.

  ‘I say, Vere, it’s getting exceedingly stuffy in here, my eyes are stinging from all the smoke!’ said Georges. ‘Couldn’t we open a window?’

  Vincent nodded and went to shut the door while Paul, who was seated by the window, raised the sash, letting a gust of cool air enter the room. Out in the street it was quiet; now and then low voices could be heard approaching and receding to the accompaniment of footfalls, or a raucous snatch from a street ditty echoing through the stillness.

  The cool air brought Vincent down to earth again, and his exalted imaginings faded from his mind. Indeed, he now felt the stirrings of envy for that very state he had condemned only a moment ago as being physically and morally vegetative. He envied Paul for his health and vigour, tempered only by occasional spells of artistic languor; he envied Georges for his calm equanimity and general air of contentment, Etienne for being so young … Why wasn’t he like them, in good health, youthful and debonair, why couldn’t he take life as it comes, why did he always have to go off in search of something he couldn’t even define himself?

  It was close upon one o’clock when the three young men rose. Paul declared that they would have to take Etienne home, as his exuberance had given way to deep dejection complete with suicidal sentiments.

  ‘I say, Etienne, have you got your door-key?’ he asked.

  ‘Key?’ croaked Etienne, glassy-eyed. ‘Key?’ he echoed dully. ‘Yes, in my pocket. Yes, a key, in my pocket … here …’

  ‘Come on then, let’s be off!’ urged Georges.

  Etienne went to Vincent and caught him by the arms, while the others listened with amusement.

  ‘Vere, au revoir, thank you for your ho-ho-hospitality. I’ve always thought well of you. Vere, you’re a fine fellow, do you hear? I feel a great, great deal of sympathy for you. Only this afternoon at the club I was saying … Paul was there, he’ll tell you … I was saying that you, Vere, had a heart of gold. They’re all wrong about you, Vere, but …’

  ‘Come on, time to go now!’ cried Paul and Georges, taking Etienne by the arm. ‘Cut it short, will you!’

  ‘No, no. Let me have my say. They’re wrong about you, Vere, but don’t you take any notice of them, old boy. It’s the same with me, they’re wrong about me, too. It’s not fair, not fair at all, but it can’t be helped. Goodbye, Vere, goodnight, sleep well.’

  Vincent saw them to the door with a lit candle and the threesome set off arm-in-arm with Etienne in the middle.

  ‘Vere, take care now. Mind you don’t catch cold standing at the door like that – and take no notice of what they say, they’re all wrong, but I’ll stick up for you!’

  Vincent nodded amiably as they turned to go, and shut the door of the unlit shop.

  ‘Deuced good chap, Vere!’ slurred Etienne.

  XI

  After four o’clock the Verstraetens were generally at home, and today was one of those days when, by sheer happenstance, there was a steady stream of visitors. When Betsy and Eline called, the Eekhofs and the Hijdrechts, Emilie de Woude and Frédérique were already there, and finally Madame van der Stoor arrived, too, accompanied by her young daughter Cateau.

  Eline rested her hand on Cateau’s shoulder as they admired a photograph together.

  She was aware of having impressed the girl with her elegance and friendly manner, and since she, being in need of affection herself, liked to rouse sympathy in others, she lavished attention on Cateau as on a favourite house plant. But today her need was edged with triumphant pride with regard to Frédérique, whom she had suspected ever since St Nicholas’ Eve of holding something against her, though she knew not why.

  While Cateau was chatting to her in her pretty little voice, Eline glanced up at Frédérique to see whether she had noticed the child’s adoring looks. But Frédérique was engrossed in a jocular exchange with the Eekhof girls.

  ‘Do you often sing with Mr van Raat? Does he have a nice voice?’ asked Cateau.

  ‘Not a very strong one, but very sweet.’

  ‘Oh, I should love to hear you sing together!’

  ‘And so you shall, one of these days.’

  ‘You have such a lovely voice, Miss Vere! Oh, I just love it when you sing, I think it’s just divine!’

  Eline gave a light laugh, flattered by Cateau’s candid ecstasy.

  ‘Really? But you should stop
calling me Miss Vere, you know, it sounds so formal. Just call me Eline, all right?’

  Blushing with pride, Cateau stroked the fur of Eline’s small muff. She was utterly entranced by her heroine’s melodious voice and her soft, languishing look of a gazelle.

  Eline was feeling more emotional than usual, and in need of love, much love, all around her. In the secret depths of her soul her admiration for Fabrice had flared up into a passion, which dominated all her thoughts, and for which she sought an outlet without giving herself away. She felt so suffused with hidden tenderness that she seemed intent on sharing it out among deserving members of her coterie, like flowers from an exquisite bouquet. She looked about her with shining eyes, and was thrilled when she saw others regarding her with affection, but all the more upset when she detected the slightest hint of coldness towards her. She felt hurt by Frédérique’s inexplicable gruffness the other evening, and although she had tried to ignore it at first out of pride, she had now made an effort to win Frédérique over, and had addressed her in her most pandering tones. But Frédérique’s replies had been short and non-committal, with averted eyes; Eline was bound to notice her coolness, of course, but she was never one for hiding her emotions, she was too openhearted to have any interest in diplomatic initiatives.

  The conversation turned to portraits, and Madame Verstraeten stepped past Eline and Cateau towards a side table, from which she took a photograph album that she wished to show to Madame van der Stoor and Madame Eekhof.

  Distracted, and only half-listening to Cateau, Eline’s thoughts flew to Fabrice as her eye fell on the album in Madame Verstraeten’s hands. An idea rose up before her, like an un-pruned shoot of her rampant imagination. Yes, she would buy an album for her own private use, in which to keep portraits of Fabrice; it would be a little shrine to her love, before which she could lose herself in the contemplation of her idol, and not a soul would know about it. Her face glowed with furtive excitement at the prospect, and the notion of having something so momentous to hide from the prying eyes of those around her gave her a new sense of importance, and she felt the emptiness in her soul filling up with the treasures of her passion. She was happy, and her happiness was enhanced by a mischievous, heady elation at her possession of a secret that everyone in her set would have pronounced exceedingly foolish and improper, had they only known. A girl like her, enamoured of an actor … what would Madame Verstraeten and Betsy and Emilie and Cateau and Frédérique have to say about that, not to mention Henk and Paul and Vincent, if they had so much as the vaguest suspicion?