Eline Vere

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?

She had a sense of triumph as she surveyed her relatives and acquaintances drifting about the salon; how brave she was to be defying their conventional sense of propriety, that she should dare to have a crush on Fabrice! She laughed more merrily than called for when Emilie said something comical, indeed she was laughing at them all, exulting in her covert, forbidden passion.

‘And so Mr van Raat — Mr Paul, I mean — is to be a lawyer, is he not?’ asked Cateau.

Why did she keep mentioning Paul? thought Eline. It was Paul here, Paul there, his wonderful singing voice, and now his career.

‘You are rather taken with Paul, I do believe!’ said Eline.

‘Oh yes, I like him very much!’ Cateau burst out happily. ‘Only sometimes, you know, he can get quite cross. Fancy, the other day, during the tableaux—’

And Eline was obliged to listen to a lengthy account of how Paul had lost his temper over some detail regarding the tableaux, and also how clever he was at draping the costumes.

‘She doesn’t mince matters,’ thought Eline. ‘But then it doesn’t necessarily mean that she’s sweet on him, I suppose, even if she does talk about him all the time. Because if she were, she’d probably not breathe a word, like me.’

It was half-past five; the callers began to take their leave.

‘So you’ll let me hear you and Paul sing?’ pleaded Cateau.

‘You could come on a Thursday afternoon, that’s when we usually sing together.’

‘Oh dear, I’m at school then.’

‘Well, in that case you could come during the evening some time.’

‘Oh, I’d love that, Eline.’

It was the first time Cateau had called Eline by her first name, and she beamed with gratification at her newly acquired status. Then she bade goodbye, urged to do so by her mother.

By the front door Eline, having said her farewells, found herself alone with Frédérique, quite by chance, while she waited for Betsy, who was still chatting with Mr Verstraeten. Eline was just about to say something to Freddie, but hesitated, thinking Freddie might address her first, and in the end both remained silent.

Young Cateau was ecstatic all the way home, singing the praises of Eline and Paul to her mother.

. .

The new year arrived with freezing temperatures. Betsy had invited the Verstraetens and the Van Erlevoorts as well as Madame van Raat and Paul to an oyster supper on New Year’s Eve, and a very pleasant evening was passed by all in the warm luxury of her salons. The wintry days of January succeeded one another in unbroken sameness, relieved in the evenings for Betsy and Eline by a constant string of dinners and soirées. The Van Raats led a busy social life, and Betsy was renowned for her elegant little dinner parties, with never fewer than ten guests and never more than a dozen, and always served with the most munificent refinement. They belonged to a coterie whose members were frequently in company with one another on terms of close familiarity, a state of affairs that caused them considerable satisfaction.

In between these light-hearted social engagements Eline fanned the flame of her secret love in mute contentment, and felt steeped in romance. One morning, as she was walking homeward along Prinsessegracht after an errand, she caught sight of Fabrice emerging from the Wood. She felt her heart beating and hardly dared to look again, but after a moment allowed her eyes to chance upon him with feigned indifference. He wore a short duffel coat with a woollen muffler thrown casually around his neck, and walked at a leisurely pace with his hands in his pockets, his swarthy features and somewhat moody expression partially hidden by the wide brim of his soft felt hat. He made on her an impression of lofty reserve, which fired her imagination: he was bound to be from a good family, for there was a quality to the set of his broad shoulders that struck her as very distinguished; his parents had opposed his wish to devote himself to art, but his vocation had been impossible to resist; he had received his musical training at a conservatoire, and he had made a successful debut, but now he found himself in the throes of disillusionment and bitterness about the world of the theatre, which was too coarse and uncivilised for his artistic sensibilities; he had withdrawn into proud isolation; he thought back on his childhood, on his youth, and he could see his mother wringing her hands and imploring him to abandon his ambition and think no more of the stage. .

From that day on Eline was seized with the caprice, as Betsy called it, of taking long walks in the morning. The Wood was so beautiful in winter, Eline declared; she adored the way the tall, straight trunks looked like marble pillars when it snowed; it was like being in a cathedral. Henk accompanied her a few times with Leo and Faust, the two Ulmer hounds, but he missed his habitual horse ride, and so she took to walking alone, after calling at the stable to collect the dogs, which bounded happily and protectively at her side like a pair of boisterous pageboys.

It was good for her constitution, she explained when eyebrows were raised at her new pursuit; she did not get enough exercise, and feared putting on weight like Betsy if she followed her example and never went anywhere on foot. Besides, Dr Reijer thought her morning promenades an excellent idea.

In the Wood she would see other people taking a stroll, usually the same ones, and there was an elderly grey-haired gentleman in a fur cloak, invariably coughing behind his hand, whom she crossed daily. But she seldom saw Fabrice. No doubt he was rehearsing, she told herself when the baritone failed to appear. Each time the disappointment left her feeling worn out, and she would make her way home longing for her boudoir, her warm stove and her piano. But she persisted in her walks regardless, and in due course noticed that Fabrice tended to favour Fridays. Any other day was completely unpredictable; she might see him, but then she might not. She made a point of rising early, even if she had only gone to bed at three after an exhausting soirée or a dance, and had dark rings beneath her eyes. True, she saw Fabrice quite often these days, but it was always at the opera, from a box, or the stalls, when she was accompanied by the Verstraetens or by Emilie de Woude and Georges — one evening she had even invited the Ferelijns to join her — but it was nothing like seeing him in the Wood. There she saw him differently, no longer as a vision on stage divided from her by the blaze of footlights but at close quarters, less than three paces removed from her, a man of flesh and blood.

On the days that she did catch sight of Fabrice, her heart soared, filling the high vault of snow-covered boughs with joy. She would see him coming in her direction with his manly, vigorous step, the hat at a rakish angle, the tasselled muffler fluttering from his shoulder, and when their paths crossed he would glance at her, or at the dogs sniffing his legs, with an inscrutable expression on his face. Afterwards, making her way home along the tree-lined Maliebaan, she would be overcome with a joy that made her bosom heave and the blood rush to her cool cheeks; she would not feel in the least tired, and on her return would break into jubilant song the moment she crossed the threshold. She would be in high spirits all day, her customary languid grace having ceded to quicksilver vivacity. Her eyes shone as she kept up her incessant banter; she called Henk an old lazybones and Ben a slowcoach and teased both father and son; she made the hall resound with her silver laughter and the stairs creak with her rapid footsteps.

One Friday morning, seeing Fabrice coming towards her, she made a decision. It was so childish not daring to meet his gaze, she reasoned; he was a member of the acting profession after all, and surely accustomed to being recognized in public by ladies. And so, when he was close, she tossed back her head with an air of almost haughty defiance, and looked him directly in the eye. He returned her look in his usual blank manner, and passed her without slowing his pace. Then, feeling reckless, she looked over her shoulder. . would he, too. .? No, he continued walking, his hands in his pockets, and her eyes followed his retreating, broad-shouldered frame.

That morning she sped homewards, humming under her breath, with a hint of mischievous glee about her closed lips. She could think of nothing but her encounter with Fabrice. When she rang the bell at Nassauplein and Grete let her in, the dogs bounded into the hall, barking with excitement. She had to laugh: she had clean forgotten to leave Leo and Faust behind at the stable on her way home!

Betsy burst out of the dining room, fuming.

‘Good heavens, Eline, are you mad? Fancy bringing those wretched dogs here! You know I can’t abide them. What’s come over you, going against my wishes like this? It’s as if I’m not mistress in my own home! Please take them away at once.’

Her voice was harsh and strident, as though she were giving orders to an inferior.

‘They’re thirsty, and I want to give them some water,’ responded Eline, affecting cool authority so that Betsy would not guess that the dogs had simply slipped her mind.

‘That’s as may be! I will not have them drinking water in my house, do you hear? Look at that carpet, muddy paws everywhere.’

‘Grete can clean it in no time.’

‘You don’t know what you’re saying! You live the life of a princess here, doing exactly as you please, taking no notice whatsoever of me! Take those filthy dogs away, I tell you!’

‘They must have some water first.’

‘Didn’t you hear me? I said I will not have them drinking water here!’ cried Betsy, beside herself with vexation.

‘Well, they must have their drink. I’ll take them to the garden,’ said Eline calmly.

‘Don’t you dare!’ shrieked her sister. ‘Don’t you dare!’

‘Come here, Leo, come here, Faust,’ called Eline, patting her thigh with maddening slowness.

Betsy was incensed. Her lips quivered, her hands shook, her breath came in quick, short gasps. She was speechless with rage, and wanted only to slap her sister hard, but Eline was already sauntering down the hall with the frisky hounds at her heels, into the garden, where she proceeded to fill a bucket of water at the outside tap. It gave her a subtle pleasure to anger Betsy so. The dogs drank their fill and she brought them back inside

Betsy was still standing in the hall, glowering impotently at Eline, wishing she had run after her and wrested the bucket from her grasp.

‘I warn you, Eline,’ she began, her voice quaking and her cheeks aflame, ‘I shall have to speak to Henk about this.’

‘Oh, see if I care!’ returned Eline with a flare of temper, whereupon she flounced out of the house with the dogs, slamming the door behind her.

. .

Fifteen minutes later she was back again, humming to herself in secret rapture about her meeting with Fabrice. Starting up the stairs, she broke into a long, pearly ripple of song, as though in deliberate provocation of Betsy, who was moping in the dining room, close to tears.

When Henk returned at midday, Betsy told him of Eline’s intolerable conduct, but he had little patience with her, refusing to take sides. Betsy was outraged; she accused him of being spineless, and made a scene.

For a whole week the sisters barely spoke to one another, much to Henk’s dismay, for their sulking ruined his enjoyment of the comforts of home, especially at table, where the meals were hurried through, for all that Eline chattered incessantly to him and Ben.