Eline Vere

by Louis Couperus

  In her recent state of self-delusion, the thought of becoming his wife had lulled her into a sense of calm contentment, and something akin to a rosy future had risen before her eyes. Moreover, she had considered the financial advantages.

  Another cheering prospect was that of gaining her independence, being her own mistress. At last she would be able to leave her sister’s house, where, notwithstanding her private income, she always felt constrained and de trop, as if she were a demanding lodger whose presence was tolerated for appearance’s sake alone. But beneath all these deliberations warming her to Otto’s favours there lurked, like an unseen adder, the bitter regret at the shattering of her dreams, and if she ever gave herself to him it would be for the sake of revenge, revenge upon Fabrice, upon herself.

  Yet now that Otto had actually proposed, now that she was obliged to come up with an answer in the absence of a grand, all-consuming passion, she had shied away from giving it.

  Otto, for his part, bided his time; at least he was discreet.

  For some days past he had avoided the Van Raat residence. Eline thought he deserved a reward for his tact, so she ventured to ask Betsy – she could not help blushing a little – to invite him to an informal gathering with Freddie and Etienne.

  He would come, she would speak to him, and she had a sense of no longer possessing a will of her own, as though some unseen power were pushing her down a steep slope towards her inevitable fate; she felt as though blindfolded, groping for her happiness, her hands outstretched, her ears straining to catch the faintest echo of that joy, yet knowing it would elude her for ever.

  …

  Betsy poured the tea. Sharing the sofa with her were her motherin-law and Madame Eekhof, deep in conversation with Emilie de Woude; Henk stood with his hands in his pockets listening attentively to Vincent, while Eline, Paul and the Eekhof girls discussed the music books lying on the piano. Then Otto and Etienne arrived.

  ‘Where’s Frédérique?’ asked Betsy in some surprise, as she held out her hand to Otto.

  ‘Frédérique is feeling rather tired; she asked to be excused,’ he answered simply.

  ‘She’s often out of sorts these days,’ said Etienne with finality, as though to lend weight to his brother’s words.

  Eline’s heart began to beat faster. She felt very nervous, although she succeeded in covering her emotion with a veneer of gaiety. She felt as if everyone in the room could guess what she was thinking, and hardly dared glance about for fear of seeing all eyes fixed upon her. But when she did venture to look up, nothing had changed: the old ladies were chatting with Betsy and Emilie, Vincent was talking in an undertone to Henk, and now Etienne was shaking hands with Paul and the girls.

  Otto, however, came straight towards her. She was flustered, and feared that it showed, but her secret discomfort added a trace of tentativeness to her slim figure, which was very becoming. She heard him say good evening in his simple, unassuming way, but there was something warm and generous about his voice, which sounded to her like a promise of tenderness. Suddenly she felt a new emotion, a melting softness in her heart, which she did not comprehend.

  He joined the small gathering by the piano, standing close to her but chatting with Ange while Léonie giggled at Etienne’s flirtatious attentions. Now and then he glanced at her, seeking to involve her in their conversation about nothing; she smiled, without hearing what passed. Her ears buzzed with the confusion of voices, and she could not keep track of her thoughts, which flittered about her brain like so many butterflies.

  She knew she had to resist lapsing into one of her soothing meditations; she could hardly stand there daydreaming in the middle of a salon full of people, and after making one or two light remarks in a voice she hardly recognised as her own, so muffled did it sound, she moved away.

  ‘You play too, don’t you, Vincent?’ she heard Betsy ask, while out of the corner of her eye she saw the ladies rising from the sofa and Henk moving to the salon, where he proceeded to take the mother-of-pearl counters from a Japanese box. She felt she was dreaming. She saw the cards spread out on the circular red cloth in the shape of an S; she saw the candles burning at the corners of the table, she saw Madame Eekhof’s bejewelled fingers drawing a card.

  Everything seemed to be happening in the remote distance. Vincent seated himself opposite Madame van Raat; Henk was to be partnered with Madame Eekhof. Betsy came up with Emilie in tow; they would take a turn later.

  ‘Would it be all right if we made some music, or are they very serious about their game?’ Léonie asked Betsy, pointing to the card table.

  ‘Oh by all means, amusez-vous toujours!’ responded Betsy, inviting Otto and Emilie to join her on the sofa. Her manner with those outside her family was unfailingly gracious.

  ‘Go on, Eline, do let us hear you! We’re dying to hear your lovely siren song!’ Léonie continued, in irrepressible high humour. ‘And I shall play the accompaniment with my light-as-fairy fingers.’

  ‘Oh no, Léonie, please. I’m not in voice this evening.’

  ‘Not in voice? I don’t believe you! Come! Allons, chante ma belle! What is it to be?’

  ‘Yes, Eline, do sing for us!’ called Madame van Raat from the adjoining salon, after which she anxiously asked her partner what was the meaning of trumps.

  ‘No really, Madame, I cannot; no, Léo, not today. I can always tell when I’m not in voice, and I hardly ever refuse, do I? But didn’t you say you had brought some music with you?’

  ‘Yes, but they aren’t the right sort of songs to start the evening with; we can have them later. Let’s have something serious first – please, Eline, I beg you.’

  ‘No, I can’t possibly!’ said Eline, shaking her head. It was out of the question: she felt herself in a fever with the blood rising to her cheeks, her eyelids drooping, her pulse throbbing, her fingers trembling. She would never be able to contain her vibrato, she had no voice today.

  ‘Can’t possibly?’ she heard someone murmur behind her, and glanced round. It was Otto, gazing at her admiringly from the sofa he was sharing with Betsy and Emilie. Again she shook her head from side to side. She felt awkward as she did so, although she looked artlessly alluring to the others.

  ‘Really, I could not …’

  She quickly averted her face, in case he might suspect the cause of her reluctance. Meeting his gaze had greatly embarrassed her, even though there was no trace of reproof in his eyes. She had a feeling there was something afoot among the friends and relations filling the adjoining rooms with their animated conversation. The atmosphere was charged, somehow, and yet, she reasoned, Betsy and Madame van Raat were the only ones there who knew that Otto had already proposed and that an answer would be expected of her this very evening. But whatever the others might suspect, they would not be so indiscreet as to press her to reveal her secret before she was ready; thankfully, they were too well-bred for that.

  Léonie accused Eline of being a spoilsport, whereupon Paul and Etienne clamoured for Léonie to sing instead, and offered to fetch her music book for her from the vestibule, where she had left it out of false modesty. They started for the door, but Léonie tried to stop them, causing an abrupt, frolicsome stir, at which the whist-players looked up from their cards. Etienne squeezed past her, and soon returned in triumph, waving the dog-eared score of La Mascotte. The Eekhof girls were duly persuaded, and launched into a laughing, halting, high-pitched rendition of the duet between Pipo and Bettino.

  ‘O, mon Pipo, mon Dieu, qu’t’es bien!’ they sang, while Etienne played the accompaniment, frequently striking doubtful chords.

  But everyone was delighted anyway, which emboldened Etienne and Paul to join in. They did so with great gusto, and the foursome warbled on in blithe disregard of both time and tune, lingering over the dreamy ‘Un baiser c’est bien douce chose’ and brightening over the comical air of ‘Le grand singe d’Amérique’.

  Eline sat on a pouffe, leaning her fevered temple against the piano, almost deafened by Etienne�
��s vigorous striking of the keys. She was tapping her hand on her knee in time to the music so as to appear interested, but her ears ached from the thrum of the instrument, and the noise prevented her from thinking and making a decision. Her emotions kept swinging from one extreme to the other. Yes, she would accept him: his love, albeit unrequited, would make her happy, it was her fate … No, she could not go against her deepest feeling, she could not allow herself to be shackled to someone she did not love. She grew quite giddy from swinging back and forth like a pendulum, it was as if there were a clock thudding in her brain: yes, no, yes, no … What a relief it would be simply to shut her eyes and point at random to the answer. But no, she owed it to herself to think things through properly. If only that clock would stop ticking … she was in no condition to battle with her emotions, she was too frail.

  She would cease all meditation, she would surrender to the invisible forces pushing her down that steep slope, she would give herself up entirely to the circumstances of the moment – let them decide. Her eyes met Otto’s, and a tremor ran down her spine. She rose.

  …

  Vincent got up from the whist table; Betsy took his place.

  ‘Well, Elly, have you thought of anything outrageous yet?’ asked Vincent, imitating her tone.

  The piano had fallen silent. Léonie had gone to sit with Emilie, and was giving her a vivid description of a recent dance hosted by the Van Larens. Etienne spun round on the piano stool, which made Ange laugh so much that she collapsed on to the pouffe with her hands covering her face. Paul, laughing too, leafed through some sheet music.

  ‘What? How do you mean?’ faltered Eline.

  ‘Remember you told me a while ago how you wanted to do something outrageous? Well, I’m only asking if you’ve thought of anything yet. I’ll gladly join in.’

  His jocular manner irked her. In her present, unusually serious frame of mind, the mention of that frivolous outburst held an echo of her vanished hopes. No, she had no desire to indulge in anything in the least shocking or foolhardy; she wished to be sensible, as sensible as Otto was. It had been folly enough to allow herself to be disappointed in love, if she could call her craze thus, and she would never let her emotions run away with her again.

  She struggled to ward off the bitter regret rearing its ugly head like an adder in her soul.

  Groping for some lighthearted reply to Vincent’s banter, she was seized with alarm. A new thought suddenly imposed itself. No, there was no turning back. Otto and Betsy were obviously expecting her to accept. Why would she have asked Betsy to invite him to an intimate gathering if she merely wished to see him? Surely she would have written him a note otherwise? She had made her decision, that was that, and the panic of a moment ago gave way to a sense of immense calm flooding her entire being.

  ‘But my dear girl, I do believe your mind’s rambling!’ laughed Vincent. He had asked her why Georges de Woude was not in attendance, and she had murmured distractedly:

  ‘Oh, isn’t he here?’

  This made Eline laugh, too, now that she was herself again. They sat down.

  ‘Forgive me, I have a slight–’ she murmured, touching her finger to a stray curl at her temple.

  ‘Ah, a headache! I know all about them,’ he said, observing her quizzically. ‘I believe it’s a family complaint, we Veres are prone to headaches.’

  She looked up at him, startled. Had he guessed anything?

  ‘I had one myself just now; it was the music that brought it on – you know, all that banging on the piano. It was just as if I could see all sorts of lurid colours, green, yellow and orange. Whenever that vivacious young lady – Léonie, I believe her name is – begins to sing, I see orange.’

  ‘And what about when I sing? What do you see then?’ she asked coquettishly.

  ‘Ah that’s completely different,’ he replied gravely. ‘Whenever you sing I see a harmonious plethora of pinks and purples, all soft and melting. Your low notes are pink, the high ones purple and shiny. When Paul sings everything goes grey, with a tinge of violet at times.’

  She began to laugh, as did Paul, who had overheard the last remark.

  ‘But Vincent, you’re hallucinating!’

  ‘Maybe so. Still, it’s an extraordinary sensation, seeing colours like that. Has it never happened to you?’

  She reflected a moment, while Ange and Etienne, having caught what Vincent was saying, came closer.

  ‘No, I don’t think it has.’

  ‘Don’t you ever find that certain musical notes remind you of a particular fragrance, such as opopanax or reseda? The sound of an organ is like incense. Hearing you sing Beethoven’s Ah Perfido always brings back the scent of verbena for me, especially one of the high passages at the end. Next time you sing it I’ll tell you exactly which one.’

  Ange giggled.

  ‘Oh, Mr Vere, how wonderful it must be to have such a keen sense of smell!’

  Everyone smiled, and Vincent too seemed in high spirits.

  ‘But it’s true, parole d’honneur.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what: some people remind me of animals,’ whispered Etienne. ‘Henk, for instance, reminds me of a big dog, Betsy of a hen and Madame van der Stoor of a crab.’

  Peals of laughter ensued, at which Otto, Emilie and Léonie, rose from their seats and drew near.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ asked Emilie eagerly,

  ‘Madame van der Stoor is a crab!’ hooted Ange, with tears in her eyes from laughing.

  ‘And me, Etienne, what do I remind you of?’ demanded Léonie.

  ‘Oh, you and Ange are a pair of puppy dogs, woof, woof,’ cried Etienne. ‘As for Miss de Woude,’ he whispered in Ange’s ear, ‘she reminds me of a turkey, with her double chin. Miss Frantzen’s a turkey, too, of a slightly different kind. Willem the manservant is a dignified stork, and Dien, the Verstraetens’ old housemaid, is a cockatoo.’

  ‘What a menagerie! A veritable Noah’s ark!’ tittered Léonie.

  ‘And Eline?’ asked Paul.

  ‘Ah, Eline,’ echoed Etienne dreamily. ‘Sometimes she’s a peacock, sometimes a serpent, but right now she’s a little dove.’

  They all laughed heartily, shaking their heads at his extravagant fancies.

  …

  ‘Etienne is always jolly,’ Eline remarked to Otto when the little group had dispersed; she turned to smile and wave at Madame van Raat, who had ceded her place at the whist table to Emilie. Vincent, meanwhile, was besieged by the Eekhof girls clamouring to know whether he planned to start a perfumery store.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Otto. ‘Etienne is very jolly. He has every reason to be so, since he has everything he could wish for.’

  His tone was a touch wistful, as if for him that were not the case, and Eline could not think of any reply. For a while they remained standing side by side, wordlessly. She extended her hand to touch the plumes in the Makart bouquet, and the turmoil in her mind began again.

  ‘Have you nothing to say to me?’ he murmured. There was no trace of reproach in his voice.

  She took a deep breath.

  ‘Truly, I … oh, not just yet, please forgive me. Later, I promise, in a while …’

  ‘All right, later. I will be patient – for as long as I am able,’ he said, and his calm voice soothed the tangled web of her emotions. She could not refuse him now, but neither could she declare herself.

  She felt a rush of admiration for his tact and gentleness as he continued to converse on various topics that held little interest for either of them. That unassuming nature was in fact his greatest asset, that was why people liked him so much; he was so sincerely himself that he seemed incapable of having any secrets he might prefer to keep hidden. While he spoke he made no pretence of discussing anything of the slightest importance, he simply wished to remain standing beside her, and for that he needed to engage her attention – it was all so evident in the warm resonance of his voice. His mind was not in the conversation, and he didn’t even care if she noticed. For th
e first time she felt something like pity for him. She was being cruel, she was making him suffer, and again she felt that strange, melting softness in her heart.

  Gerard went round bearing silver trays laden with refreshments.

  ‘Would you like a sorbet, Madame, and a pastry?’ Eline asked Madame van Raat, who was sitting alone on the sofa looking rather forlorn, although she smiled now and then at the cluster of young people telling each other’s fortunes with the cards.

  ‘Look,’ she said to Otto. ‘Henk’s Mama is all by herself, I had better go and keep her company.’

  He nodded kindly and went to listen to the horoscope Ange was drawing for Paul. Eline beckoned Gerard and took a sorbet and a pastry from the tray, which she offered to Madame van Raat. Then she seated herself beside the old lady and took her hand.

  Ignoring the refreshments, Madame van Raat looked into Eline’s eyes.

  ‘Well, what is it to be?’ asked Madame.

  In her state of melting tenderness, Eline wasn’t even annoyed by the old lady’s persistence. She replied very softly, almost inaudibly:

  ‘I … I shall say yes.’

  She sighed, and felt the tears welling up in her eyes as she heard herself speak. Yes, she would accept. She could find nothing more to say to the old lady, for that one statement filled her mind so completely that it absorbed every other thought. They sat together a moment in silence, with their backs half turned to the cheerful gathering across the room. Suddenly Eline became aware of Ange’s shrill voice reading out the cards one by one.

  ‘Now listen carefully, Mr van Erlevoort. I’m much cleverer at this than Madame Lenormand, you know. Here’s yours: King of Hearts. You are in a vale of tears, I see, but not for long. You shall be very rich, and you shall live in a chateau in the Pyrenees. Or would you prefer a villa in Nice? Ah! There she is! The Queen of Hearts! You are rather far apart, but all the cards in between are favourable. You will have to overcome many obstacles to reach her, for she is much sought-after: look, here’s the King of Clubs, and the King of Diamonds, and there’s even a commoner, a Social Democrat if you please, the Jack of Spades!’