Eline Vere

XVI

It was a fresh, bright day in May, after a week of nothing but rain and chilly mist. Jeanne had sent the children — Dora, Wim and Fritsje — for a walk in the Scheveningen woods with the nursemaid while she stayed behind, as there was always so much to do. She now felt lonely and forlorn in the cramped apartment over the grocer’s shop, sitting there all by herself, doing the mending in the pallid ray of sunlight that she now welcomed in her abode, without a thought for her carpet and curtains. Frans was out; he had taken the train to Amsterdam to consult a specialist. It was now half-past one, she established, glancing at the mantel clock ticking loudly in the quiet room. Frans would not be back until about half-past five. The intervening hours seemed to her like an eternity, for all that she was glad of the chance to work without interruption.

When the sunbeam slanted on her face she did not mind; on the contrary, she basked in its feeble warmth. The light shimmered about her light-brown hair, giving her pale, sunken cheeks an alabaster translucence; it shimmered, too, over the slender, delicate fingers plying the needle with practised regularity. Oh, how she longed for the summer! She could not wait for May to end — all that damp, misty weather they’d been having, and so rarely a clear day! How silly of her to have expected this month of May to live up to the exalted reputation it had among all those romantic poets!

She smiled sadly as she bent over her sewing, pressing the seam down with her nail as she stitched. How curious it was the way her illusions, even the most modest ones, kept vanishing into thin air while her life rolled on, and how the future, which held an unspeakable dread for her, kept receding to make way for the monotonous reality of her day-to-day existence. She shuddered at the presentiment lurking in her soul like a shrouded ghost, the fear that some catastrophe would strike and crush them all. Pressing her hands to her chest, she took a deep, quaking breath, and shuddered again, not for herself, not for her husband, but for her children.

She stood up. She found it impossible to continue her work, and yet she should not be idle on the rare sunny day when the children were out and there was no one to disturb her. Oh, why was she not stronger? She leant against the window, relishing the sunshine like a pale hothouse flower craving light and air, and looked down on the square patch of garden at the back of the grocery. A lilac bush was budding into leaf, but there was nothing growing in the central flower bed or along the sides, and suddenly she had a vision of Persian roses, like the ones they had grown on their estate at Temanggoeng, a riot of pink blooms diffusing the sweetest of fragrances. She could smell them now, and the remembrance of the blushing roses seemed to drive her cares away, leaving only a sense of mild nostalgia for warmth and love.

She was standing thus when the doorbell rang; a moment later Mathilda van Rijssel came in.

. .

The two women had met a few times at the Van Raats’, and had found that they had a sympathy for one another.

‘I have come with an ulterior motive, I must confess, because I want you to take a walk with me,’ said Mathilda warmly. ‘It’s such pleasant weather, and it would do you good to take some air.’

‘But Tilly, the children are out, and so is Frans. So I really ought to take advantage and get some work done.’

‘Well, can’t I tempt you anyway?’ persisted Mathilda. ‘It’s not as if you have to guard the house, is it?’

‘No, but the children. . they’ll be back soon, and what if they don’t find me at home?’

‘Oh really, Jeanne, they’ll survive. You spoil them. And as for your husband being out, well, that’s hardly a reason for you to stay in, is it? So please put on your hat and coat, there’s a sensible girl, and come with me. You can catch up on your sewing when it rains.’

Jeanne was only too relieved to be taken in hand by her new friend, in whose kind voice, even when jesting, there was an undercurrent of despondence. That was settled, then, she would go, and she ran upstairs to change, humming under her breath.

She was ready in no time, and after repeated admonitions to Mietje she accompanied Mathilda into the street. The cool breeze cleared her head and brought a little colour to her pale cheeks as her friend chatted on, explaining that she had just dropped Tina and Jo off at Nassauplein because Betsy and Eline were taking Ben on an outing and had invited the older children along.

‘And the little ones?’ asked Jeanne.

‘Oh, Mama insisted on taking Madeleine and Nico for a walk, she dotes on her grandchildren so. Dear Mama!’

Having reached the end of Laan van Meerdervoort, they turned into the road to Scheveningen. There were few people about. Mathilda felt invigorated by the fresh air and, contrary to her habit, grew talkative.

‘You have no idea how good Mama is to me,’ she said. ‘All she cares about is the family, her children and her grandchildren. She never thinks of herself, her entire life is dedicated to us. And I’m sure that if you asked her which one of us she loves the most she’d be unable to tell you. Of course she worships Etienne, he’s always as happy as a sandboy, and he makes her laugh, but I have no doubt whatsoever that she’s equally devoted to Frédérique and Otto, and to my little ones, too. And she’s always sending letters to her far-flung offspring complaining that she doesn’t see enough of them. You can imagine how affected she was when Catherine and Suzanne left home to marry. What she would really like, I do believe, is to build a sort of hotel so that she could have all of us to live with her: Theodore, Howard, Stralenburg and all the rest. Dear, kind Mama!’

Neither of them spoke for a while. The lane stretched ahead like a grey ribbon, affording a long perspective of tree trunks beneath a tracery of budding branches. The sunlight glinted on the greeny-yellow leaves unfurling against the bright blue sky, the time-worn trunks were clad in new velvety moss, and the twitter of birdsong sounded crystalline in the clear air.

‘How lovely it is here!’ said Mathilda. ‘So refreshing. But let’s take one of the footpaths. Then we won’t have to see those people over there, and they won’t have to see us. We humans look out of place in natural surroundings. People spoil the view, I find, especially in spring, when everything is so intensely green. . I’m waxing philosophical, would you believe!’

Jeanne laughed. She felt quite elated; the world was full of beauty and goodness, full of love, too, and her thoughts turned to Frans. .

. .

They sat down on a bench for a rest, and Jeanne ventured to ask:

‘What about you, Mathilda? You always talk about your mama, never about yourself.’

Mathilda gave a start.

‘About me? I do my best not to think about myself. . I. . I’m nothing, nothing without my children. I’d do anything for my little ones. If it weren’t for them I’d be dead.’

The sadness of her words belied the resignation of her tone.

‘Imagine believing you are happily married to a loving husband for whom you would sacrifice body and soul, and then waking up one day to find. . But let’s not talk about that now; it’s all in the past.’

‘Is the memory of it too painful?’

‘Oh no, not any more, but there was a time when the pain was so bad that I thought I was losing my mind, and I blamed God for my suffering. But since then the pain has become a blur, and I don’t feel it any more. I never think of it, I only think of my four darlings. And they keep me far too busy to mope about the past. You know I have been tutoring them at home, don’t you? But it’s time Tina and Jo went to school, I suppose, at least that’s what Otto says, but I’d miss them terribly, and of course Mama agrees with me about this. I do love them so!’

Jeanne thought she detected a hint of bitterness in Mathilda’s voice, and reached out to take her friend’s hand.

‘You poor dear,’ she whispered.

‘Yes, I am,’ replied Mathilda simply. ‘Poorer than you, anyway, because at least you are a wife as well as a mother!’ She tried to smile, and her eyes filled with tears as she pursued: ‘I know you aren’t having an easy time of it by any means, but you aren’t as poor as I am. You can think of that as a consolation when you feel low, just think of me and how much I’d envy you if I didn’t feel quite so. . so dead inside.’

‘Oh, Mathilda, it pains me to hear you say such a thing!’

‘Well, there’s no reason why it should, since I don’t feel the pain any more myself. It’s only a far-off memory of something that’s over and done with, you know. That’s all. Still, it’s better not to talk about it, let bygones be bygones.’

‘Oh, Mathilda, how can you bear to keep it all bottled up inside you? I could never do that, I’d have to pour my heart out to someone. .’

‘No, Jeanne, no! I mean it! Don’t ever mention the subject again, I beg you, or I. . I might come alive again.’

She leant against the back of the park bench, her eyes brimming with tears. Dressed all in black, ashen-faced, she resembled an icon of infinite, lacerating woe.

She did not wish to come alive again; she wished she were dead.

. .

Jeanne wanted to be back by the time Frans returned, so they set off homewards.

‘Oh dear, I’m afraid I’ve made you sad, while all I wanted was to take your mind off things with a pleasant stroll,’ said Mathilda. ‘That comes of all my philosophising. I do hope you’ll forgive me.’

Jeanne could find nothing to say, so she merely shook her head with a smile to show that no, she was not sad. And it was true: deep in her heart she had to admit that while she had at first been distressed by Mathilda’s quiet despair, she realised, now that Mathilda had resumed her air of acceptance and self-possession, that the pity she felt for her friend made her own troubles appear positively trivial by comparison. Had she herself suffered a tragedy like Mathilda’s, she would never have got over it. She reproached herself for ever feeling ungrateful for all the good that had been bestowed on her, and felt remorse at having grumbled about her domestic circumstances while she had been spared so much misfortune! And dear Frans. . he had his flaws, naturally, he could be short-tempered and churlish with her when he was unwell, but he always came round quite quickly once he realised he was in the wrong. And he cared for her. He loved her. Her heart lifted with pride, and she found she could no longer be sad out of pity for Mathilda. That was selfish of her, but never mind, such moments of sweet satisfaction with the circumstances of her life were so fleeting and so rare — surely a moment’s egotism couldn’t do any harm?

Arriving at the grocery, Mathilda said goodbye and proceeded on her way. Jeanne, left to herself in her upstairs apartment, was eager for her children to return. They soon appeared, fresh-faced from their outing, and she hugged and kissed each one in turn, wanting to know exactly where they had gone and what games they had played, and when Dora pulled a long face she did her best to make her daughter smile again with a joke and a romp. No, indeed all was quite well with the world.