With a tremor of panic, she cast an eye about the audience. No one was paying attention to her, no one suspected her inner turmoil, for all ears and eyes were focused on Fabrice. No one knew, thank goodness, and no one ever would.
But she found no comfort in having escaped censure in the eyes of the world. At her feet lay the shattered remains of the glass palace she had conjured up in her lovesick imaginings, the airy, frangible edifice of her fantasy that she had erected column by column, towering ever higher in sparkling crystal splendour to an apotheosis in the clouds.
And now everything was ruined, all her visions and daydreams pulverised, blown away by a single gust of wind that did not even wreak havoc, for all that was left to her was a huge, aching void – and the spectacle of that tradesman type with the red face above the white shirtfront, the too-tight frock coat and the plastered-down hair.
She could not recall ever having felt so humiliated.
For three whole months the phantom of love and romance had made her heart beat faster each time she heard mention of him or happened to see his name on a poster, and yet now it had taken just one look at that unsightly, fat fellow – Vincent’s words echoed mockingly in her ears – to rip every shred of romantic feeling from her being. It was gone, all gone.
Afterwards, in the foyer, she said very little. When Betsy remarked on her pallor and asked if she was all right, Eline replied coolly that she was indeed feeling a little under the weather. The Oudendijks and the Van Larens were present, too; pleasantries were exchanged and Fabrice’s name was mentioned, but Eline remained seated on a banquette like a wounded dove, almost swooning with grief, yet forcing herself to smile as she mimed attentiveness to the Hijdrecht boy.
After the intermission Fabrice came on again, to the same enthusiastic applause as the first time, and Eline felt crazed in her mind, as though the audience, mad with adulation, were about to dance a satanic jig around the baritone, who stood there looking as sullen, red-faced and ungainly as before. Her forehead was beaded with perspiration, her hands were icecold and clammy in the tight-fitting suede gloves, and her bosom heaved from the exertion of breathing with a lump in her throat. Thank goodness, the concert was over.
…
Alone at last, she allowed herself to surrender to the storm of emotion raging in her heart, and with an anguished cry fell to her knees beside the Persian sofa. She pressed her throbbing forehead to the soft cushions embroidered with gold, trying to stifle her racking sobs with her hands, and in so doing her hair came loose and tumbled about her slight, shaking frame in a mass of glossy waves.
The initial pain of disillusionment had ceded to a feeling of bitterness, as if she, even if only in her own eyes, had brought ridicule upon herself and disgrace, the stain of which would cling to her for ever, haunting her like a spectre of mockery.
For a long while she remained thus, immersed in her sorrow. She heard Henk and Betsy retire to their rooms, then Gerard bolting the street door for the night, the sound of which echoed hollowly in the silent house.
After that nothing stirred, and Eline felt very alone, drowning in an ocean of wretchedness.
All at once, a thought made her start. She scrambled to her feet, tossed back her tousled locks, and with a look of wounded pride on her tear-stained features strode to her writing table, her hand shaking as she slipped the key into the lock of the once so beloved compartment. She took out the album, whose red-velvet cover seemed to scorch her fingers like fire. She drew up a chair by the fire, where the log was still glowing amid the ashes, and opened the book. This, then, had been the shrine of her love, the temple of her passion, the secret place where she had worshipped her idol … And as she turned the pages the portraits filed past in procession: Ben-Saïd, Hamlet, Tell, Luna, Nélusco, Alphonse, De Nevers … This would be the last time … Grappling with the gilt-edged album sheets, she pulled out the photographs one by one, and without the least hesitation tore each one in half and then in half again, crumpling the stiff cardboard with vengeful fingers. She threw the pieces in the grate one by one, waiting for each successive snippet to catch fire before throwing in the next, on and on, until she finally took the poker to stir up the embers in a final act of destruction … That was that; over and done with.
She drew herself up, in some relief.
But she was still holding the ravaged album, its velvet cover scorching her fingers, and with a stifled cry of revulsion she hurled the offending object as far away as possible, breaking a fingernail in the process. The album struck the piano, eliciting a dull groan from the vibrating cords.
She stooped to retrieve her cape and lace fichu from the floor, smoothed the rumpled silk of her dress and stepped into her bedroom, where a small night light with a milky shade diffused a pallid, cheerless glow.
She felt herself sinking once more into that ocean of misery, that abyss of disillusionment from whose depths loomed only the black spectre of her melancholy, and suddenly her latest clash with Betsy darted into her mind. It had happened a few days before, when she made a remark about Roberts, her singing master; that he was getting on in years and not very good, really, and that she was thinking of taking lessons from a proper artiste instead – Fabrice, for instance – and Betsy had said she must be mad; it was a preposterous idea, and there was no way she would put up with such silly nonsense as long as Eline was living under her roof.
Well, there would be no need for her to put up with it now.
XV
The winter cold had abated, and the onset of spring brought heavy downpours and chilly days with veils of mist hanging from the leafless trees. There was much talk of Otto van Erlevoort and the attention he had been lavishing on Eline Vere. Oh, an engagement was bound to be announced very soon, agreed the Eekhofs, the Hijdrechts, the Van Larens and Madame van der Stoor. Henk was away in Gelderland, as was Etienne; they were staying at Huis ter Horze, the Van Erlevoort country estate, where Theodore, the eldest son, had made a home with his wife and children. In the meantime, Otto had paid several visits to Betsy and Eline; true, these were usually in response to an invitation to join other guests at the house on Nassauplein, but still, was it not quite remarkable that he, who generally led such a quiet life and went out so little, should be a such a frequent visitor at the Van Raat residence? In any case, an engagement would be splendid: Otto was a likeable enough fellow with a good position, while Eline was utterly charming, elegant and believed to have a fortune of her own. They seemed made for each other, and besides, Eline was bound to jump at the chance of having a baron for a husband. Indeed, they appeared so well suited that people were at pains to find anything to criticise about the match. In the end all they could come up with was that Betsy was finding it increasingly difficult to get along with Eline, which was common knowledge, and that she would doubtless be glad of some elegant way of being relieved of her sister; it was therefore in Betsy’s interest to encourage Otto, not that Eline appeared unwilling, to be sure, but had it not been for Betsy neither he nor she might ever have thought of it. Oh, of course, Betsy was charming in society, but what she was like in private, as the mistress of her own home, was a different matter altogether. She had a strong will and could be quite a vixen, witness the way she kept good old Henk under her thumb! And if Eline had been more accommodating, if she had not stood up for herself, she too would have been under Betsy’s thumb! It seemed so good and generous of Betsy to take in her orphaned sister, but with the kind of money the Van Raats had this was of little consequence; besides, the Vere girls had substantial private means of their own, and nobody believed it was all sweetness and light in the house by any means. Clearly Betsy thought it was time her sister found herself a husband. Eline had received several proposals of marriage already, there had been plenty of suitors, but she was a very pretty girl, hard to please, and, well – it was all up to her, wasn’t it?
Eline was aware that people were talking about her and Otto, but maintained her attitude of haughty indifference. Like everyone el
se, she thought Otto would certainly ask her to marry him, and she thought she would accept. What she felt for Van Erlevoort was not love as she understood it, but there was no reason she could think of to turn him down. It would be a very good match in every sense, although, in her heart, she would have preferred his fortune to have been a little larger than it was. But it would do. Being astute with money herself, she knew there would be enough for her to create an appropriate illusion of grandeur.
That it was all down to Betsy’s encouragement of Otto was not actually the case, for although she was much in favour of the marriage, she felt no particular sympathy for Otto. His manner was too stiff and studied for her liking, and she had to make an effort to treat him with the warmth merited by a potential brother-in-law.
The Van Erlevoorts, too, were subjected to indiscreet questions from time to time, but Frédérique invariably responded with a dismissive shrug of the shoulders: Eline had been engaged so many times already – according to gossip at any rate – so why not with Otto for a change, she would say, with such irony in her tone that no one would guess the truth. However, it had not escaped her notice that her mother, Mathilda and Otto had been holding mysterious discussions behind her back, some sort of family council, the outcome of which was apparently still undecided.
She felt hurt at being left out, and was too proud, since they did not seem to place any value on her opinion, to show any further interest in the affair. Only the other day, coming upon her mama, sister and brother sitting together after dinner, she had noticed how the conversation had ceased as soon as she appeared, how they had started with slight embarrassment as she stood with her hand on the doorknob, and she had turned around without a word, softly closing the door behind her, filled with bitter resentment. Nor had she sought out Otto again after the conversation they had had about the fan, for didn’t he regard her as a mere child? Very well then, she would not trouble him with her childish views any further. Only with Lili and Marie did she speak of Eline, calling her a vain coquette, all smiles and poses, without a spark of real feeling. When Paul was present she kept silent; he always took Eline’s side nowadays – yet another person she had twisted round her finger! It was the same with Etienne, who wouldn’t hear a word spoken against her. Frédérique couldn’t imagine what on earth they saw in her; as far as she was concerned Eline was all artificiality and pretence, nothing but an actress.
Notwithstanding her irritation at Etienne’s loyalty to Eline, Frédérique missed her brother now that he was away, and felt quite forlorn in the big house amid the noise and bustle of the Van Rijssel foursome, Hector the dog and fat Nurse Frantzen’s desperate attempts to call them to order.
…
It was Sunday, and Paul van Raat was sitting at his easel, contemplating a half-finished still-life composed of some old pieces of Delftware, an antique Bible, a glass Rhine-wine goblet and the silver jug he had bought from Vincent – all loosely disposed on an artfully rumpled Smyrna table cover. But the work proceeded very slowly, the light in the room was unsatisfactory despite repeated attempts to adjust the curtains, and he was exasperated to find how much more adapted his fingers were to arranging the various items in a pleasing composition than to portraying them with oils on canvas. It was all the weather’s fault: with such rainy skies it was impossible to catch any sparkle in the goblet, while the silver jug looked positively cheap. He laid aside his brush, thrust his hands in his pockets and, whistling tonelessly, began to pace the floor. He was troubled by his lack of energy, for, much as he wished to finish the picture, he found himself unable to continue.
The artistic chaos reigning in his room was matched by the chaos of his dilettantish temperament, which was hardly conducive to the creation of serious art. Above a carved-oak cabinet hung an array of antique weapons; the walls were covered up to the ceiling with porcelain, paintings and prints, and all about the room stood female figures in marble and terracotta, a veritable harem of milk-white and amber-coloured graces. Books abounded, and then there were the portfolios spilling sketches and prints, while the floor around the easel was strewn with tubes and paintbrushes of every description. The large ashtray overflowed, and there was dust everywhere, as Leentje, the maid, was seldom permitted to enter.
As he wandered about in dismal mood, it occurred to him that he might feel better if he not only did away with all these artistic accoutrements but also banished his easel and paintbrushes to the attic. Once his room was free of artefacts, he reasoned, his desire to create art would vanish of itself, and with it his sense of disillusionment. Because, if truth be told, it was just a waste of time, he was simply lacking in talent and could find better means of distraction than this fruitless dabbling in oils. His mind turned to ways of redecorating his room: he would keep it simple and uncluttered, so that one could move about at will without bumping into statues or tripping over oriental draperies. Still, it was too bad that it had all been an illusion, and having to dispose of the last vestiges of his artistic ambition was not something he looked forward to.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Eline’s bright voice in the hall, and he went downstairs. He entered the drawing room just as she was greeting his mother with an embrace. She had brought Ben, and had come on Betsy’s behalf to invite his mother to dinner that evening at Nassauplein. The other guests would be Madame Eekhof and her daughters Ange and Léonie, Frédérique and two of her brothers, and Vincent.
‘Of course we’re counting on you, too, Paul!’ she said, extending her hand to him. ‘That goes without saying. Dear lady, I do hope you won’t disappoint us; so please say yes! We won’t keep you beyond your usual hour, I promise. Ce n’est pas à refuser.’
Madame van Raat hesitated, saying she had reservations about her place in such youthful company.
‘But it’ll do you good! A little diversion will take you out of yourself! Think of Madame van Erlevoort,’ Eline persisted, ‘she finds it enjoyable enough! Why don’t you take her as an example?’
Madame van Raat was touched by the dear girl’s persuasive tone, and consented to come. Paul too accepted the invitation. Then she turned to Eline, who was seated beside her, and fixed her with a searching look, as though pondering some question in her mind. Meanwhile Paul, finding Ben annoyingly indolent as he sat quietly on a stool at his grandmother’s feet, did his best to engage the child in some play.
‘Now Eline dear, there is something I want to ask you,’ Madame van Raat began in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Tell me, is it true?’
Eline felt a faint blush rising to her cheeks, but she pretended not to understand the question.
‘I don’t quite know what you mean.’
Madame van Raat smiled. She did not pursue the subject further, merely asked: ‘Did you say Frédérique would be coming, too?’
‘Yes, I expect so, only …’ said Eline.
‘Just her?’
‘No, no, she’ll be coming with her brothers, Otto and Etienne …’
‘Oh, indeed,’ said the old lady with a casual air, but she gave Eline another long, knowing look, with something like a twinkle in her otherwise bleary gaze. Eline smiled, a trifle uneasily.
‘I do believe you are teasing me,’ she said, stroking her muff.
‘Oh, you know how people talk. One hears this and that and all manner of things, and yet, once in a while one hears something that’s true.’
‘And what have you heard?’
‘Something you would have told me yourself long ago if you had placed any confidence in me. Now I had to hear it from Betsy.’
Eline gave a start.
‘Did Betsy say …?’ she faltered.
‘Yes, my dear, she did, and I would much rather have heard it from you first,’ said the old lady petulantly.
Eline was secretly rattled. It was true, Otto had asked her to marry him – but she had not yet made up her mind about accepting, and it was so annoying how everyone seemed to be in the know, eager to offer their opinion, how they had the
audacity to address all sorts of comments to Betsy, even quite blunt ones. There had even been someone who, under the pretext of sincere friendship, had whispered in her sister’s ear that she should urge Eline to declare herself. All the indiscretions were getting on her nerves, and she was on the point of giving a sharp reply, but thought better of it. Showing no emotion, she murmured in the old lady’s ear:
‘Well, what was there to tell, really? Yes, Van Erlevoort did propose to me, but I wasn’t to say anything about it until I reached a decision.’
She glanced at Paul, then quickly looked away, for he had stopped playing with Ben and was watching her keenly, trying to follow what was being said. But she had no intention of satisfying either his or Madame’s curiosity, so she stood up, meaning to bring the conversation to an end at the earliest opportunity. When Madame van Raat said that Otto was a very personable young man in her opinion, Eline intervened by embracing her affectionately and said she ought to be going.
The old lady kissed her in return with tremulous insistence, and this irked her, as did the gleeful look in Paul’s eyes, and her annoyance was compounded by having to wait for Ben, who was taking ages to bid his grandmother goodbye.
…
No, Eline could not make up her mind. She was fearful of taking a step that might make her happy or unhappy for life, as though her entire future now hinged on a single word, and she could not bring herself to utter it. Fearful too of a marriage of convenience, for she knew that her heart yearned for passionate love, despite her valiant efforts to suppress all such feelings after her disillusionment. As for Otto, well … she had danced with him, she had laughed and jested with him, but not for a single moment did she find herself picturing him in her mind, indeed she seemed to forget what he looked like the moment he was out of her sight. On the other hand, he was manifestly kind and sincere, and at first the realisation that he was in love with her had certainly been gratifying, so much so that she told herself it would pain her to cause him grief, or to refuse him anything, including her hand in marriage. And while she thus wilfully blinded herself, the gentleness of his quiet adoration seemed to pour balm on her wounded heart.
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