Eline Vere

by Louis Couperus

  After a brief exchange of civilities, Madame Eekhof enquired:

  ‘Aren’t you dancing tonight, Van Raat? I can hear the music starting up again.’

  Replying that he did not care for the mazurka, Paul requested the ladies to make room for him on the sofa, and he nestled himself between them with remarkably little ceremony. He listened with an air of rapt attention to their questions and responded willingly, toying with his opera hat all the while. No, he had abandoned painting entirely – the smell of oils was so disagreeable – and he had even banished his easel to the attic. He had given up music, too, since Eline Vere was no longer there to sing duets with. He smiled graciously, twisting the ends of his thick blond moustache when Madame Eekhof protested that it was a shame to let his talents go to waste, and did he not recall how Cateau used to fall into a swoon whenever she heard him sing?

  ‘Talking of Eline,’ Madame van der Stoor interposed, ‘do you happen to know when she will return? Is she still travelling?’

  ‘You know she went to Spain with her uncle and aunt, don’t you? She stayed with them for quite a while in Brussels after that, and then all three of them went to Nice. She also spent some time with relatives of her aunt’s, in a chateau somewhere near Bordeaux, and goodness knows where else she has been.’

  Paul was beginning to find the conversation tedious, for he was singularly uninterested in Eline at the moment. Having no wish to hear Madame Eekhof raking up the sorry affair, he rose abruptly and took his leave. He turned to the row of matrons, each of whom he greeted with due charm and ceremony, taking great relish in their eagerness to speak to him. Ah, there was Madame Oudendijk, who seemed to think he was minded to propose to Françoise this very evening, for there was a touch of the motherin-law in the way she rested her hand on his arm, to which he responded by showering her with refined little compliments about her daughter, and oh, how she lapped them up! He said Françoise had mentioned to him that she would love to ride; perhaps her mother could buy her a horse? What a pretty picture she would make riding side saddle! Waiting for her answer, he imagined he could read her thoughts: let him give Françoise a horse if that’s what she wants, and himself into the bargain! But he had no intention of doing anything of the kind.

  …

  He moved away, and in passing overheard Uncle Verstraeten and Henk discussing the likelihood of Eline returning to The Hague in the summer. He recalled having heard something about Eline having plans to stay with his mother. Well, that would be very nice, having such a pretty girl in the house … How old was she now? Twenty-five, at a guess – young enough at any rate to be good company, and he resolved to see if he could make her fall in love with him, just for fun.

  Returning to the salon, he found the bride and groom and their entourage besieged by the crowd. His appearance caused a stir, and when several girls ran towards him to berate him for shirking his duties as best man, he put up a comical defence.

  ‘Paul’s such a card nowadays!’ giggled Léonie.

  He gave a condescending smile and looked past her at Frédérique, who was talking to Georges as they waited for the music to begin.

  ‘Come on, I’ve got so much to tell you!’ he said to Léonie, feeling a twinge of regret at the distance between him and Frédérique. ‘But remember, we’re supposed to be talking, not dancing.’

  ‘Oh, please, Paul, just a little whirl?’

  But after that first whirl he resolutely steered his young partner through the crowd to a settee at the back shaded by overhanging palms.

  ‘Léonie, now be a good girl and say something nice!’

  ‘But I thought you had so much to tell me!’ she countered coquettishly.

  He was about to reply when he caught sight of Françoise coming towards them, fluttering her hands as she threaded her way through the surge of dancers.

  ‘Is there any room for me on the sofa?’ she asked. ‘You invited me to be your conversation partner, remember?’

  ‘Ah! so you’ve decided to accept after all, simply because you haven’t found a dancing partner I suppose. Well, now it’s my turn to decline – be off! Away with you!’

  ‘Oh, Paul, have mercy on me! Let me sit here with you, it was hard enough getting here in the crush, please don’t send me away!’

  He was merciful and shifted to the middle of the sofa so that Françoise could sit on his other side, which left him half submerged in their bouffant tarlatan skirts.

  ‘And now for some fun with the grand parade!’ he said, in a lordly manner.

  The threesome settled back to observe the black tails and billowing skirts reeling past. Paul borrowed Françoise’s fan to beat time with, and leant back like a sultan to enjoy the running commentary of his mirthful companions.

  ‘Ah, there’s Freddie! An excellent dancer!’ exclaimed Françoise as Georges and Freddie hove into view, and the threesome clapped their hands so vigorously that they caused the settee to jolt on its legs.

  ‘Sheer, sheer madness!’ cried Paul, bouncing up and down, crumpling their frocks.

  ‘Ah, talk about being mad!’ said Françoise. ‘So tell me, Paul, why you’re so mad these days? You were going to tell me, remember?’

  ‘Because I’m mad about you!’ he gushed. ‘Yes, mad about you, Françoise! I’m dying of love for you! Let me kiss you!’

  Françoise recoiled in mock horror, upon which Léonie exploded with laughter.

  …

  The music stopped for the intermission; it was time to bring in the trestle tables, which had been laid up beforehand to enable the swift conversion of the reception suite into an elegant restaurant.

  The guests dispersed themselves about the hall and the conservatory, whence the pianist had departed, forming small clusters amid much banter and fluttering of fans, and a magical golden dust seemed to descend on the entire gathering, setting each glance, each smile, each peal of laughter aglow with contagious euphoria.

  Madame Verstraeten approached the young bride and whispered in her ear: was she not tired? Lili assured her she was not. She lay back in her cane chair and sniffed the wilting jasmine in her bouquet, rejoicing in the sight of so much celebration and laughter – and all of it in her honour, simply because she was marrying her Georges! She felt quite the little queen appearing before a cheering multitude, especially now that Paul’s loud voice had drawn everyone to the conservatory. Everyone crowded round to hear what he was saying to the bride and groom, and when he was finished he jokingly invited Léonie and Françoise to come and sit on his lap, one on each knee.

  Marie’s accusations that his manners were worsening by the day fell on deaf ears: he had already sprung to his feet, having caught sight of young Cateau van der Stoor peering round the door of the conservatory. Ah, he would now show compunction for a change.

  ‘Are you very cross with me, Cateau, for pulling your leg?’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t even notice,’ she said, but her quivering lip betrayed her.

  He offered her his sincere apologies, rolling his eyes and begging her to reserve a dance for him.

  ‘I have no dances left!’ Cateau retorted triumphantly, showing her dance card.

  ‘But I must dance with you! I insist! Let me see: Hijdrecht, Hijdrecht – two dances with Hijdrecht! But that’s not fair! Why don’t you go and tell him you want to dance with me?’

  ‘But I daren’t!’

  ‘He won’t bite, you know! Please, Cateau, come with me, I want that dance!’

  He pulled her along in search of Hijdrecht and made her retract her promise for the next Scottish reel.

  Cateau was somewhat annoyed with herself for letting him have his way, but it was impossible to refuse Paul anything.

  ‘Right then, see you later, and you’re not angry with me any more, are you, dearest Cateau?’ he murmured beseechingly.

  ‘I’m not your dearest Cateau by any means!’ she scoffed, inwardly gratified by his effort to make amends.

  …

  The long table in the centre was
occupied by the bride and groom and their entourage, while the smaller tables were occupied by groups of four. Paul was in excellent humour, for he had not only danced the polka with Frédérique but also found himself placed beside her at the table, and he submitted with remarkably good grace to Marie’s admonitions about his forwardness with all the girls. Etienne was flushed from drinking champagne, and grew maudlin, lamenting the pointlessness of dancing and disporting oneself when life was so short and sad!

  After supper Paul waltzed again with Freddie, and it seemed to him that this second waltz was even sweeter than the first, the effect of several toasts of sparkling champagne being compounded by the intoxicating whirl of pink tulle, and all was froth and ebullience between them. Yet he had a feeling that he could not be truly in love with her, because although she was certainly the prettiest of them all, the other girls struck him as rather attractive, too, and afterwards, when he and Etienne led the cotillion, he outdid himself in inventing brand-new figures for them all to follow.

  With the party drawing to a close he was mobbed by the girls, who pranced about challenging him to run and catch them, and in the middle of the last dance he played an impromptu game of tag, which ended with Ange and Françoise crashing into a potted azalea and Emilie de Woude pronouncing the ball to have degenerated into a veritable bacchanal.

  ‘Oh, it’s all Paul’s fault, it’s Paul’s fault!’ they all cried out.

  The wraps were brought into the dining room and the guests began to leave. It was three o’clock in the morning.

  ‘You were so much nicer this evening than yesterday, Freddie,’ said Paul, helping her with her cloak.

  She smiled dreamily, wondering whether she had said anything she shouldn’t have, but she could not recall anything untoward.

  Paul set off homeward with several other young men. He turned up his collar, thrust his hands in his pockets, and thought back on how he had fared this evening. Well, there was no doubt in his mind – they were all mad about him, every single one of them!

  …

  The church wedding took place the following Thursday morning. All agreed that Lili made a lovely young bride as she entered the church on the arm of her young husband-to-be, delicately pale and blonde in the white mist of her veil, with her long train of heavy white moiré and her pageboys Ben van Raat and Nico van Rijssel. Behind them followed Mr de Woude and Madame Verstraeten, then Mr Verstraeten and Emilie, with the ushers and bridesmaids, the witnesses and other members of the family bringing up the rear. At one o’clock the carriages departed to Prinsessegracht for the wedding breakfast, the final event in the celebrations, during which well-wishing toasts were brought out and tears were shed, notably by Madame Verstraeten, and also by Lili and Marie. By seven o’clock there was only a small gathering of intimates left in the drawing room. The newlyweds, bound for a fortnight in Paris, had slipped away earlier, but not before Marie had whispered tearful assurances to Lili that their love nest in Atjehstraat would be in perfect order for them when they returned.

  Old Madame van Raat and Emilie, Henk and Betsy, Frédérique, Otto and Paul stayed a while to keep the Verstraetens company. Attempts were made to keep up a lively conversation, but a pall of melancholy seemed to have settled on the drawing room, mingling with the dying perfumes of the bouquets and flower baskets. Mr Verstraeten dithered about, irked by all the flowers and greenery and inwardly more moved than he cared to admit, now and then tapping his wife on the shoulder in passing to press a rapid kiss on her brow. Emilie said it was time she was going, and gave him a farewell embrace, whispering that she hoped he was not vexed with her for her persistence on behalf of her young brother’s love for his daughter … When Otto, too, took his leave, Marie was so moved by the sadness in his voice that she had to fight back her tears, and she fled upstairs to the rooms she had shared with Lili for as long as she could remember, which would henceforth be hers alone.

  The first sight to meet her eyes was Lili’s wedding dress lying across the deserted bed, with its long white train hanging over the side and trailing on the carpet; her veil and orange blossom lay in a crumpled heap on a chair, the dainty white satin shoes discarded at some distance from each another. She sat on the side of Lili’s bed in tears, and took up a rustling handful of the moiré train. It reminded her of a shroud. She had a sense of utter desolation – Lili was gone, and it almost felt as if she was dead and buried. Then the door opened and Dien came in.

  ‘There, there, dearie, don’t upset yourself! You know she’ll be back soon, and they won’t be living far away. You can see her every day if you want. My oh my! How pretty she looked in her white wedding dress! Such a fine-looking pair, too,’ said Dien, with a catch in her voice. She crossed to the window and drew the net curtain away to let the afternoon sun stream into the room.

  ‘Ah yes, so it goes, so it goes. You raise your children for all those years and then they go off to the Indies, or they get married, and leave you all lonely and forlorn. Fancy you, crying! Did you really believe you would stay in this house for the rest of your life? You’ll see, you’ll find a husband, too; when the time is right you will marry, that’s how it always goes, you mark my words!’

  Marie smiled through her tears. ‘Oh, what would you know about it, Dien! I might become an old maid for all you know!’

  ‘My dear child, you must be joking! No, that would never suit you. It will be your turn next, you mark my words!’

  Marie had to laugh. The sun slanting in was like a ray of hope and expectation, and it set the creased moiré of the wedding dress ashimmer with dazzling light. That was no shroud, it was a festive dress, white as snowdrops, worn to mark the most wonderful of occasions! She felt a rush of optimism, and sat back, giving herself up to the sweet promise of spring sunshine until all budded and blossomed in her soul.

  XXVII

  It was two o’clock in the afternoon when Paul awoke. He had been out with friends the previous evening, and had not returned home until daybreak. He took a cold bath and dressed at leisure, so that it was past three by the time he went down to the dining room, where his breakfast awaited him. He felt hungry, and noted with relish the jellied chicken and bottle of Hochheimer wine. But first he took a couple of raw eggs from the dresser and, whistling a tune, stirred them into a glass of cognac. He did not like the taste, but downed the drink anyway for its restorative properties, after which he took his seat at the table and helped himself to a slice of the tender cold chicken in pale golden aspic. He was in no hurry at all, and wished to enjoy every mouthful.

  It was a cloudy day in early June, and still quite chilly. The bleak light coming in through the window showed up the decaying opulence of the room. Paul was a little discomfited by the faded, old-fashioned drapes, the threadbare chair covers and ancient Deventer rugs, and had on several occasions tried to persuade his mother to redecorate her home, but without success. So he had resigned himself to the situation, for he realised that Madame van Raat, at her age, would not feel at ease with a more modern style, and also that each timeworn object in her home was aglow with memories and associations that she held dear and wished to surround herself with for the rest of her days.

  As he savoured his chicken and Hochheimer his thoughts took a philosophical turn. Life was not so bad at all, he mused, and he could not imagine why he had ever felt differently. His student days floated into in his mind, chiefly as a time of youthful waywardness, but there was also Uncle Verstraeten hovering in the background, urging him to sit one exam after another. All those exams – there had seemed to be no end to them! On the other hand, it was just as well his uncle had kept such a stern eye on him. Because what would he have achieved otherwise? Had he been left to his own devices, free to do as he pleased as he was nowadays, he would probably still be a student! After graduating he had gone through that period of artistic ambition, and what a disillusion it had been to discover that he had insufficient talent for either painting or music! Well, he had got over all that; he no longer painted,
no longer sang, and, thank God, no longer suffered despair at his piteous lack of creative genius. Now his sole aim was to enjoy life for its own sake, to lead a comfortable, heedless existence, indulging his spendthrift inclination – which he did with gusto – and sure enough, he found himself more energetic and in better spirits than he had ever been before, either as a student or an aspiring artist. Pursuing his materialistic and epicurean tastes gave him a sense of hearty wellbeing, indeed, he sometimes felt rather like a young bull frisking in a sun-drenched meadow at the height of summer! Thus he mulled over his transformation from what Betsy had been known to call a ‘feckless fatty’, into the devil-may-care, fun-loving young blade he was today. His meditations did not run deep, however; he was merely letting his thoughts roam for want of a conversation partner at his breakfast table.

  Having eaten his fill, he lit a cigar and looked idly about him. Through the window he caught a glimpse of Aunt Verstraeten and Marie passing by; a moment later the doorbell rang. Knowing how slow Leentje was getting in her old age, he answered the door himself.

  ‘Ah, good day, Aunt, good day, Marie.’

  ‘Good morning to you, Paul. Is your mama in?’ enquired Madame Verstraeten.

  ‘I expect she is, Aunt, but to be honest I haven’t seen her. I got up rather late, you see.’

  They went upstairs together and found Madame van Raat in her dimly lit room at the back; she was sitting by the window with her hands folded on her lap, gazing into the garden. A book by Gustave Droz, Tristesses et sourires, lay open on the table beside her. She rose to welcome her visitors; kisses were exchanged, after which Paul, too, planted a kiss on his mother’s cheek. When they were all seated Madame van Raat asked after Lili and Georges.

  ‘They are very well. Apparently, they ran into Eline at the home of some French relatives of Vere’s wife,’ reported Madame Verstraeten. ‘They seem to be enjoying Paris very much, although in her letter Lili did mention that she couldn’t wait to move into their new home!’