Eline Vere

by Louis Couperus

  ‘I was never cross with you,’ he stammered.

  She kissed him, let him go, took a deep breath and cast a leisurely glance about the room. She had found something of a home.

  They all seated themselves at the table. Eline was not hungry: she barely looked at her soup, avoided the meat dish and ate only some slivers of duck accompanied by a few lettuce leaves. She was thirsty, however, and eager to have her glass replenished by Paul. The wine and the excitement had brought a red flush to her sallow cheeks, and when the old lady wondered aloud why her uncle Daniel had not seen fit to escort her to The Hague, she responded with loud, nervous laughter. Oh, there had been no need, it was no hardship for her to make the journey from Brussels to The Hague alone; besides, her uncle had offered to accompany her but she had not wished it – she was so accustomed to travelling that she felt perfectly at ease! Travelling, there was nothing to it: you packed your valise, found out about itineraries and such, and off you went to catch your train. Ah, if dear Madame would ever feel inclined to undertake a journey with her, Eline would show her what an expert traveller she had become!

  She prattled on, holding her wine glass all the while and pausing only to raise it to her lips for another sip. She spoke of Eliza, her young aunt, who was adorable, so lively and gay, always on the go, always thinking up amusing things for them to do. She and Uncle Daniel seemed to disagree about practically everything – oh, how they squabbled! – but they did so in such a funny way that it was quite hilarious, really. Eliza’s relatives in Paris were very nice, too, but she also had an uncle and aunt in Bordeaux, who were quite, quite delightful. Their name was Des Luynes and they owned a chateau, where she, Eline, had been invited to attend the grape festival; such a pretty pastoral scene it had been, which reminded her of something she had read in a novel, a novel by Georges Sand, she believed; wasn’t it Georges Sand who wrote La Petite Fadette? Well, then! And Spain, oh, she was mad about Spain, especially the South with all those Moorish influences, like the Alhambra in Granada – it was magnificent! But she had refused to go to a bullfight, which Eliza had thought ridiculous of her, but she couldn’t stand the idea of those poor bulls lying in pools of blood, it was simply too horrid.

  Paul laughed, saying he agreed about the pitiful bulls, and she laughed too as she embarked on yet another topic. Again Madame van Raat begged her to eat some more, since she had hardly touched her food.

  ‘No, really, dear lady; thank you but no. I am rather thirsty, though; may I have another glass?’

  ‘My dear, are you sure you aren’t drinking a little too much?’

  ‘Oh no, it helps me sleep, you know – otherwise I lie awake all night long, which is such a bore. Cordoba is a lovely town, too, the mosque there is quite superb,’ and off she was again, on yet another nervous stream of delightful reminiscences of her wanderings. She could not imagine why Paul did not travel more; had she been a man, especially a young man of means like him, she would still be roaming even now; she would have travelled far and wide, on the Great Pacific, for instance, from New York all the way to San Francisco, and then across the Pacific Ocean to Japan – halfway across the world by ship! How divine that would be! But travelling in a railway carriage was divine, too: she wouldn’t mind living in one!

  The old lady shook her head, smiling indulgently at Eline’s excitement.

  ‘But coming to live here with you is the best thing of all! Oh, you’re such a darling, such an angel!’ Eline cried out ecstatically.

  After supper Madame van Raat urged Eline to rest a while in her room. Eline said she would, but held back, pleading with her to keep her company. Paul said that he had an appointment and Henk, too, stood up to take his leave.

  ‘May Betsy come and see you tomorrow?’ he whispered anxiously. She gave a faint smile and pressed his hand.

  ‘By all means!’ she said. ‘Give her a kiss from me, will you? And how is little Ben? Has he grown much?’

  ‘Yes indeed, he’s a big boy now. You will see him tomorrow, no doubt. Goodbye for now, then, Elly. Sleep well.’

  ‘Goodnight, Henk. Till tomorrow.’

  When Henk had gone his mother offered to show Eline her room.

  ‘I am afraid that I cannot give you a sitting room of your own for the moment, Elly dear,’ she said as they climbed the stairs. ‘Not until Paul leaves, that is.’

  ‘Where is he planning to go?’

  ‘He wants to live independently, which is better for a young man, I suppose. But your bedroom is quite large; you probably remember it – the room next to mine.’

  ‘Yes I do remember. What a lovely room!’

  The lamps had been lit by Leentje and the doors to the balcony were open to admit the cool summer air. Eline began to cough as she entered.

  ‘It’s getting a little chilly,’ said Madame, and moved to shut the doors.

  Eline glanced about her in deep astonishment, and her eyes grew moist. ‘Good gracious! Whatever have you done?’ she cried.

  Wherever she looked there were mementoes of her rooms at Nassauplein. Her very own dressing table with the mirror, her writing table, her couch, her Venetian pier glass, and over there, in tasteful profusion, stood her figurines and other trinkets. The only item that was new was the ample bedstead, over which dark-blue curtains were suspended like a canopy jutting from the wall.

  ‘Do you approve?’ asked Madame van Raat. ‘I thought you would like your own things best. But my dear child, why are you crying?’

  Eline clung to her, weeping on her shoulder and kissing her again and again. Madame van Raat made her sit on the couch beside her, and Eline nestled up against her like a child seeking comfort from its mother.

  ‘Oh, at last, I shall be able to get some rest!’ she said wearily. ‘Because I am so tired, so very tired.’

  ‘Shall I leave you alone then, so you can take a nap?’

  ‘No, no, please don’t leave me. I’m not tired from spending five hours on a train, I’m just tired … tired of everything, and going to sleep now won’t help. But I feel so much better already, just sitting here close to you, because I know you care for me. You see, this is what I missed so dreadfully while I was away, with all those strangers for company and no one to lean on and comfort me with a kind word. People were friendly and considerate, but cool at the same time. Uncle Daniel is like that too: amiable and considerate to the point of gallantry, but rather cold. I got on quite well with Eliza, who is very gay, so we laughed and joked a great deal, but she is a cold sort of person, too, cynical even. And there I was, on my best behaviour and permanently wreathed in smiles, because no one likes a guest with a long face, do they? Besides, where else could I go?’

  ‘You could have come to me, my child; I would have written to you earlier had I known of your feelings. I thought you were happy over there.’

  ‘Happy!’ Eline gave a hollow laugh. ‘As happy as a horse on its last legs, having to be whipped to make it go! Giddy-up, giddy-up!’

  Her laughter speared the old lady’s heart. Too moved to speak, her bleary eyes aglitter with fresh tears, and she could only press Eline closer to her breast.

  ‘Yes, hold me fast,’ murmured Eline. ‘Now I can relax … Oh, you’re such a comfort to me, like a darling mama of my very own.’

  They remained thus for a long moment, saying very little, until Madame van Raat said Eline should try to get some to sleep.

  ‘If you want anything, just call me; I shall be in the next room. I want you to be entirely at home here, so please don’t be too discreet. That would pain me. So if there is anything you need, you will say so, won’t you?’

  Eline promised she would, and Madame van Raat left the room. But Eline still felt too restless to go to bed. She let her eyes drift about the room, and wherever she looked she recognised her own vases, pictures, and photographs.

  ‘How very kind of her,’ she murmured under her breath, smiling wistfully. The nervous agitation in her soul seemed to ebb away into a comforting sense of relief and we
llbeing, for she felt safe among the relics of her former life. She rose from the couch to wander about, pausing to trace her finger along her treasured terracotta and biscuit figurines, touching a photograph here and a trinket there. Each beloved object awakened a host of memories and associations in her mind, some like scented flowers, others like painful, scorching sparks, and suddenly it came to her that the time she had spent abroad had not passed quickly at all, that it had been a full year-and-a-half, and that the last time she had set eyes on any of these things had been on that terrible night when she had run away and sought refuge at Jeanne Ferelijn’s house.

  But she continued to take stock of her new room, and her glance fell upon the Japanese box which Madame van Raat had placed on her writing table. She automatically tried to raise the lid, but found it locked. Beside it lay her old bunch of keys, the same collection of small keys on a silver ring that she had entrusted to Frans Ferelijn such a long time ago, and she took it up, picked out the key belonging to the Japanese box and opened it. The box was filled with letters, discoloured with age. Among them were letters from Aunt Vere, sent to her when she was at boarding school, and from old schoolmates. She resolved to tear up the latter as she no longer cared for the sentimental outpourings of schoolgirls whose existence she had forgotten, much as they had no doubt forgotten hers. She also found a batch of letters written by her beloved father, who had been such a wonderful man; those she kissed reverently, as though they were sacred. As she rifled through the sheets, a small oval-shaped piece of cardboard slipped out and fell to the floor. She bent down to retrieve it, and turned deathly pale.

  It was a medallion portrait of Otto.

  What was it doing there among her letters? Then she remembered: it was a rejected proof of a portrait he had once ordered as a gift to her. The portrait itself, which she had kept with her at all times during her engagement, she had sent back to Otto along with the other presents he had given her – including the Bucchi fan – in a final, heartless gesture of rebuffal.

  Moaning quietly as she wept, she pressed the portrait to her lips. The rejected proof, which she had never given another thought after it got lost among her old correspondence, was now dearer to her than anything else in the world, and she vowed that she would never part with it, not until the day she died! It was all that was left of her great happiness, the happiness that had slipped through her fingers like a captive bird bent on escape, leaving her with nothing but a stray feather!

  ‘Otto! Oh, Otto!’ she faltered, covering the oval card with tears and kisses.

  …

  Madame van Raat sat for a while in the next room, her own bedchamber, tearfully shaking her head from side to side as she ruminated upon Eline’s plight.

  How was it possible that she had known such lasting happiness with her husband, while poor dear Elly was so bereft? Being of devout mind, with the childlike piety of a simple heart, she was thankful for such goodness as she had received, and folded her wrinkled hands to say a prayer for her beloved, unhappy Eline.

  …

  The next morning, when Eline had finished dressing, she opened the glass doors to the balcony and saw Madame van Raat among the rose bushes, wielding a pair of pruning scissors. Eline hurried downstairs to join her in the garden.

  ‘I am not too late, am I? I hope I haven’t kept you from your breakfast,’ she said sweetly. The old lady kissed her, telling her she could get up at whatever time she liked, and that she had waited with breakfast.

  ‘I can tell you have every intention of spoiling me! Oh dear, and then I shall become a burden to you eventually, I’m afraid. My, how pretty the garden looks! May I pick some flowers?’

  Smiling her approval, Madame van Raat handed over the scissors and trailed after Eline as she sauntered along the beds, going up on tiptoe by the tall bushes to draw the blossoms towards her, snipping off sprays of the deep purple and creamy white lilac, the bright yellow laburnum, the snowy elder, while the glistening dewdrops rolled like bright diamonds over her fingers. It was a pity the jasmine was not yet in flower, she mused.

  ‘Do you have a vase? Then I shall make you a nice big bouquet, but I need more lilac blossom, lilacs above all …’

  The scissors flew through a large bush, the choicest of them all, and the purple-headed stems tumbled down on the dewy grass. She gathered them up and went into the house, where her hostess was already preparing their hot chocolate. Eline set about arranging the flowers in a large vase on the dresser.

  ‘Flowers work wonders to brighten up a room, don’t you agree?’ she exclaimed, taking a few steps back to consider the effect of her mixed bouquet.

  Madame van Raat chided her gently for letting her chocolate go cold, and Eline sat down with a sigh. The previous evening the old lady had been struck by how restless Eline seemed, picking up objects and putting them down again, adjusting their position ever so slightly, darting furtive looks at the window, the door or the ceiling in what seemed like alarm, twitching her head, drumming her fingers on the table; all of this alternating with sudden fits of apathy, when she dropped into a chair and leant back with an air of utter exhaustion.

  This morning, too, Eline was showing signs of nervousness, but at least she was drinking her cup of fragrant hot chocolate.

  ‘What will you have for breakfast, my child? A soft-boiled egg and a slice of bread?’

  Eline smiled anxiously.

  ‘Oh, must I, dear lady? I’d rather not, to be honest. The chocolate is delicious, though.’

  ‘Elly, my pet, you must have some breakfast. You hardly ate a thing last night! Have a boiled egg then; just for my sake.’

  Eline consented and Madame sliced the top off her egg for her as though indulging a child.

  ‘You really ought to eat more, Elly dear,’ she pursued. ‘You’re far too thin. Why, you almost look starved! We must get some weight on you. Plenty of milk, eggs and meat, that will do you good.’

  Eline merely smiled and regarded her egg with slight revulsion, which she was unable to conceal. After a few tastes of the egg she pushed it away.

  ‘Please don’t be cross, but honestly, I can’t have any more. It doesn’t agree with me.’

  She looked so miserable that the old lady abandoned further attempts to make her eat. In the end she consumed one rusk, just to appease her hostess: that would be quite enough, she insisted, and anyway she was not accustomed to having such an early breakfast.

  ‘What about Paul? Is he still asleep?’

  ‘Yes he is.’

  Madame van Raat went on to say that Paul always breakfasted alone, or rather, that he skipped breakfast altogether most days, contenting himself with a cup of coffee; in fact, he gave her very little trouble, but then he did not give her much pleasure either.

  ‘Girls are so much easier to get on with than boys, aren’t they? Well, you could pretend that you have a daughter staying in your house!’ Eline said fondly. ‘Oh, do you remember suggesting – it was many moons ago – that I could come and live with you, and I said that you only loved me because you saw so little of me, but that you would find my presence irksome if you saw me every day. Do you remember?’

  The old lady smiled vaguely, casting back her mind, but the memory escaped her.

  ‘Oh, I know exactly when it was! It was at Nassauplein, in the violet anteroom. Who would have thought I’d ever seek shelter with you? But I promise I shall try my best not to be a nuisance.’

  She toyed nervously with an ornament dangling from her watch chain: a locket of black enamel studded with seed pearls which she had not worn for years. It had been a gift from her father for her tenth birthday, and when he died she had vowed never to wear it again, but this morning she had changed her mind. The locket now held the slip of cardboard she had found among her letters.

  ‘Dear lady,’ she began in a tremulous voice, taking Madame van Raat’s hand. ‘There is something I should like to ask you, if I may. It’s about Otto van Erlevoort – have you seen him at all lately, or have y
ou heard from him?’

  Madame van Raat looked intently at Eline, trying to read her mind, but could infer nothing from her feverish glances and fluttering hands.

  ‘Why do you ask, Elly?’

  It was the first time that Otto’s name passed between them since Eline had broken off her engagement.

  ‘Oh, I’d just like to know whether he was much affected, and whether he is happy now. Do you never see him?’

  ‘I saw him a few times at my brother-in-law’s house.’

  ‘How does he look?’

  ‘Much the same, outwardly; a little older maybe, but not that you would notice. He is certainly rather quiet, but then he was never very exuberant, was he?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t,’ murmured Eline, brimming over with memories.

  ‘He’s not in The Hague at the moment. I believe he’s gone to De Horze.’

  Could he be avoiding me? thought Eline. Then, not wishing to give the impression that her interest in Otto’s welfare was in any way personal, she said softly:

  ‘Then I suppose he has got over it. All I want is for him to be happy; he deserves it – such a good man.’

  The old lady said nothing and Eline struggled not to cry. Here she was, working herself up again to hide her true feelings, even in front of dear, dear Madame van Raat! Life was so full of sham and make-believe! She had always been someone who pretended, to herself as well as to everybody else, and she was still doing it – she could not do otherwise, so ingrained a habit had it become.

  ‘And now I would like to show you something, which I hope will please you,’ said Madame van Raat, sensing Eline’s emotion. ‘Come with me.’

  She led her to the salon, where Eline had not yet been, and opened the door.

  ‘You remember I had that old, rather battered piano? The one Paul used to tinkle on for his singing practise? Well, look what I have now!’

  They went in, and Eline saw a brand-new Bechstein. Her music books, bound in red leather with gilt lettering, lay on top.

  ‘It will suit your voice very well, the sound is so lovely and clear.’