Eline Vere

XX

August was stiflingly hot in The Hague, though the evenings were refreshing on the terrace at Scheveningen or at the Tent in the Wood. It was Sunday evening, and Betsy decided to stay in for a change. It was so long since old Madame van Raat had been to see her, and so, rather than go to Scheveningen, which was less interesting on a Sunday anyway, she had instead invited her mother-in-law to visit. Tea would be taken in the green conservatory, where the glass doors already stood open. Henk took a turn about the garden with his mother, who professed admiration for his splendid long-stemmed roses. Betsy and Vincent sat alone.

‘I have had a letter from Eline; she is returning with the Van Erlevoorts next Wednesday. Apparently the Howards are staying on a little longer at De Horze,’ she said.

‘Oh? And when Eline returns I am to move out, I suppose?’ he responded bluntly. Betsy was taken aback, but smiled very sweetly.

‘The very idea! Certainly not. You know that our home is yours until you decide where you want to go. Have you heard anything from that friend of yours in New York, what’s his name again?’

‘Lawrence St Clare. No, I haven’t had any news for quite some time. But then it’s hard to keep up with friends over such a long distance. I can’t say I blame him.’

He leant back in his cane armchair with a slightly aggrieved air. In reality, however, he felt very well at ease, agreeably lulled by the luxury surrounding him in the tenebrous lighting of the green conservatory. The garden beyond was well kept, rich in flowers, with an ornamental marble urn on the lawn. In that soothing environment, with the presence of Betsy in her light summer dress, elegantly poised over the softly gleaming silver and Japanese porcelain on the tea tray, he felt shielded from the discomforts of life. It was all very reposeful, monotonous even, but to him it was refreshing. He knew he had the upper hand with Betsy, but there was no need to throw his weight about just yet. Besides, he felt distinctly idle. For the present, life was easy, and he had nothing to worry about.

‘What would you say if I were to look for a wife?’ he asked abruptly, the sight of Betsy having put him in mind of the pleasures a wealthy marriage might offer.

‘A wife? Oh, an excellent idea! Shall I try and find you one? What sort of wife did you have in mind?’

‘She needn’t be a beauty, just elegant. But not too naive and idealistic, please! And with money, naturally.’

‘Naturally. You wouldn’t want to get carried away by an unsuitable passion, would you? What is your opinion of the Eekhof girls?’

‘The very idea! All they do is giggle! No money there either, is there?’

‘Some say there is, others say they live beyond their means. Anyway, you could find out. But are you serious, Vincent? Or were you just making conversation?’

‘No indeed. I think it would be very sensible of me to get married. Don’t you agree?’

Betsy looked at him intently, full of secret contempt. With his lacklustre eyes, his languid gestures, his weary drawl, he appeared to her as anything but an ideal husband for a young girl.

‘Not entirely. It seems to me that you’re an inveterate egotist. And I can hardly imagine a wife getting much support from you. You’re weak — I mean your morale, of course.’

She regretted her words on the instant, and was annoyed by her carelessness. She almost shuddered as he regarded her with that inscrutable smile of his, and those pallid, snakelike eyes.

‘And a wife always needs support, eh?’ he said, with slow emphasis. ‘As you do yourself. You find support in Henk, you can rely on him for everything, can’t you? And he’s strong enough — I mean his physique, of course.’

Each word was uttered with what sounded to Betty like spite, and each word pricked her like a needle, but for all her domineering nature she dared not answer back, hiding her consternation with an amiable little laugh, as if it had been mere banter on his part. He echoed her laugh with his own, equally light and amiable.

They paused a moment, both keenly aware of the resentment underlying their ostensibly jocular exchange. To end the silence Betsy launched into a plaintive account of her relations with her mother-in-law, how she was misjudged by the old lady and how she despaired of their ever getting along. But his air of utter indifference as he listened brought home to her just how much she had come to loathe him in these past weeks of proximity. If only she could send him packing there and then! But she knew that would be impossible without risking some awful scene; he would simply not go away, he would hang around for ever and ever, while she remained powerless to take matters in hand. It was all Henk’s fault. If her husband had given Vincent that miserable sum of money he needed she would never have taken it into her head to invite him to stay. She despised Vincent, and she despised herself for being intimidated by him; she was rich and happy after all, so what harm could he ever do to her? But the harder she tried to shake off her fear, the more firmly lodged it became, like some debilitating idiosyncrasy of mind.

Henk and his mother returned from their leisurely stroll in the garden and seated themselves in the conservatory by one of the open glass doors. The old lady had not spoken since admiring the roses, and had grown pensive. In her son’s luxuriously appointed home she now perceived a degree of coldness, an emptiness, which she found even more dispiriting than the vacancy of her own lonely abode. And suddenly it came to her: she missed Eline — Eline who radiated charm and agreeableness wherever she went. She missed the dear girl, so unlike her sister Betsy, so warm-hearted and sympathetic. And she could not help remarking dolefully:

‘Your home seems so empty with Elly being away. How dreadfully we will miss her when she is married and goes away for ever. Dear, dear Elly.’

She did not hear what Betsy and Vincent said in response, nor did she hear Henk’s comforting words. She sat with her head bowed, staring vacantly at the veined hands she held clasped in her lap. How bleak life seemed, nothing but heartache, sad partings and tears, a grey realm peopled by tragic shadows.

A shiver passed through her, and Betsy asked if she felt cold, whereupon Henk closed the glass doors and called for the gas lamp to be lit.

. .

Although she would never have cared to admit it, Betsy agreed with her mother-in-law that it had been lonely and dismal in the house of late, despite Vincent being there to entertain her with his supposed social graces. There was so little variation in the summer, it was always either the Tent or Scheveningen, and she was beginning to feel quite suffocated by the tedium of it all. And when Eline returned at last, radiant in her newfound happiness, it was as though a fresh country breeze blew through Betsy’s plush salons. With Eline babbling on about the delights of life at De Horze, about Theodore and Truus and the children, about the Howards and the Van Rijssel foursome, Betsy came to realise that her mother-in-law had been right about her home being dreary without Eline. Betsy herself began to have misgivings about her sister’s departure, and her feelings towards her softened considerably. She also changed her mind about Otto, whom she had earlier found too stiff and mannered to her liking. Now that she knew him better, she found him likeable enough, and urged him to dine with them often.

Thanks to Eline’s presence the talk at the dinner table became lively again, quite different from the stilted conversations she and her husband had been having with Vincent during mealtimes. Betsy was grateful for this, and cordial towards Eline as a consequence, and the sisters had endless discussions about Eline’s trousseau, which she would have to hurry to assemble if they were to be married in the autumn. They spent their afternoons shopping or consulting with seamstresses; one time they accompanied Otto on a two-day trip to Brussels, where Eline wanted to order her wedding dress: extravagant yet simple, nothing but white satin, no lace trimmings or bows.

Meanwhile Eline, in all the bustle, had little time to think, only at bedtime did she find a moment’s peace. The evenings were often spent at home. It was September; Scheveningen was gradually losing its appeal, and with Otto coming to dinner so often it generally grew late without their noticing it. She sat with him in the garden, or in the violet anteroom, absorbed in her tranquil felicity, as though she had never known anything else. . it was all so very calm and contented that she almost wished for more diversity of emotion. . but no, she loved Otto, and that single emotion was enough for her. . just that sense of peace, that blue haze of serenity, lasting for ever and ever.

And yet, as she re-adapted herself to life in The Hague, she found her initial vivacity diminishing by degrees as she ran out of stories to relate about De Horze; the wholesome country vigour she had gained seemed to evaporate now that she no longer had occasion to romp on the floor with the children or recline in pine groves with Otto, now that she spent so much time sitting in a comfortable armchair, smiling serenely while she waited for her fiancé to reappear. The hours that she and Otto were parted were filled with the pleasant distraction of Vincent’s soft voice as he held forth about his travels, the cities he had visited, the people he had met, and his own philosophy of life. Having found happiness herself, she loftily dismissed his pessimistic outlook, reasoning with a charming want of logic that made Vincent smile and shrug. That was all very well, he said, but she would discover for herself one day that making a life for oneself was not as easy as it appeared. One thing led to another; circumstances changed, influencing each other in random ways ranging from the slightest, most benign coincidences to catastrophic misfortunes, and life, well, life was the chain of fate linking all these contingencies together. . and there was nothing she or anyone else could do about it.

‘So you believe that everything is preordained, and that when I think I am doing something out of my own free will I am really only doing it because — how shall I put it?’ she asked in some bewilderment late one afternoon during one of her tête-à-têtes with him in her room.

‘You only think it’s your own free will, but your will is nothing other than the outcome of hundreds of thousands of previous socalled chance occurrences. Yes indeed, that is what I believe.’

‘Vincent, what fatalism! In that case I might as well remain seated in this easy chair and simply wait for things to happen.’

‘You could do worse. But I assure you that if you did just sit there doing nothing, your passive attitude would not be the result of your own free will, but of all sorts of tiny, insignificant events which you’ve mostly forgotten about or didn’t even notice at all.’

She pondered this, giving a vague smile, then slowly nodded her head.

‘It’s strange, but I have a feeling you might be right. It could be true, I suppose.’

She enjoyed these conversations, which generally ended with her agreeing with him. Each time she felt her old sympathy for him flare up anew, and each time she was reminded of her father, the way he spoke, his gestures, the expression on his face. She thought Vincent more interesting than he was, and one day, in a romantic mood, she suddenly felt that her love for Otto might not be enough after all. The notion flashed across her mind like a bolt of lightning, and for a split second she thought she saw a ghost. But the ghost vanished, and she laughed again. How strange to have such peculiar, nervous fancies!

‘So you believe. .’ she resumed, still somewhat flustered.

He smiled at her.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘You believe, for instance, that if I marry Otto all I’m doing is following a preordained path?’

He patted her hand gently.

‘My dear girl, why bother your pretty little head with things like that? You love Van Erlevoort, you’re happy, what more could you wish for? Happiness is a butterfly: when it comes within reach it’s no good trying to catch it so you can study its anatomy, it’s far too delicate and ethereal a creature, and you’ll only end up killing it.’

She looked up in wonder. How clever he was at putting his thoughts into words, in such a plain-spoken way, without poetical affectation, as if he were saying something perfectly simple! And he was quite unselfconscious about it, too, which just showed how innately artistic he was. Then she saw, to her alarm, that he had turned deathly pale. He rose unsteadily from his seat, with wild staring eyes and a morbid, purplish look about the small, sagging mouth.

‘Good heavens, Vincent, what’s matter?’ she cried out, springing to her feet.

‘Nothing, I just need some air — could you open the window, oh please—’ he gasped.

‘Can I get you anything? Water?’ she offered tremulously.

‘No, no — air — I need air,’ he faltered.

She rushed over to the window, but her hands were shaking so badly that she was unable to open it, and she rang for the maid.

‘My God, oh my God!’ she cried.

Vincent had collapsed onto the Persian couch in a faint, and was now sliding off the cushions to the floor until only his head remained propped against the side. His forehead was bathed in perspiration and his breathing choked and rasping.

‘My God!’ screamed Eline in desperation.

She ran out to the landing and shouted down the stairs:

‘Betsy! Mina! Henk! Help! It’s Vincent — come quickly! I think he’s dying!’

She ran back and tugged furiously at the bell pull.

There was a commotion in the depths of the house, and a moment later Betsy came running up the stairs followed by the three maids, Gerard the manservant, and little Ben. Henk was out.

‘It’s Vincent!’ cried Eline. ‘Vincent! He’s dying!’

Betsy was frightened, but remained quite calm. She promptly dispatched Anna, the nursemaid, to take Ben away, and sent Gerard to fetch the local general practitioner, as Reijer was bound to be out. With assistance from Eline and Mina she lifted Vincent onto the couch and ordered Grete to fetch some vinegar.

‘Go on, hurry up!’ she snapped.

Vincent lay motionless with his eyes closed, the purplish stains about the lips still showing. Betsy undid the buttons of his jacket and waistcoat, and removed his tie and collar.

‘Pass me some eau de cologne, Eline. Do try and be helpful, you know I’m no good at this sort of thing!’

She began to dab Vincent’s temples and wrists with handkerchiefs, some soaked in vinegar and some in eau de cologne. She asked Eline what had happened and Eline explained that they had been sitting down having a chat when he had suddenly stood up and then keeled over, just like that, oh, it was a terrible shock!

‘Do you think he’s going to die?’ she asked, quaking.

‘Of course not. He’s fainted, that’s all. It’s happened before, you know. When you were at De Horze.’

‘It’s happened before?’ echoed Eline, aghast.

Betsy did not answer, and just then the door opened quietly and Otto entered.

‘Grete told me Vincent has taken ill. Can I be of any help?’ he asked.

‘No, no, I can manage, but do take Eline away, she’s so upset.’

‘Oh please, do let me help you!’ begged Eline.

‘No, I’d rather you didn’t, the doctor will be here soon, at least I hope so, and then everything will be all right. Off you go, now!’

Otto offered to check whether Reijer had returned in the meantime, but Betsy said there was no need, so he ushered Eline out of the room. He had spent the day at the office, and had arranged to go for a walk with Eline afterwards, but now he led her to the salon, where they seated themselves on the sofa. She began to cry.

‘Betsy said it has happened before, but I’ve never seen anything like it in my whole life. I thought he was dying! Aunt Vere had the same look about her mouth when she died,’ she said breathlessly.

He pressed her to his chest and kissed her forehead.

‘Come now my darling, you must calm down. I am sure he will be all right. Why, you’re shaking!’

‘Oh, I’m in such a state! My nerves. . Oh, Otto!’

He patted her hand gently.

‘There, there, you must try and calm down.’

‘I get so dreadfully upset. . I can’t bear this sort of thing.’

She felt something like a twinge of conscience, wondering whether there could be any connection between the last words she had spoken to Vincent and his fainting fit. But she couldn’t recall what their conversation had had been about, so she leant her head wearily against Otto’s shoulder.

‘Childish of me, isn’t it?’ she murmured, still trembling. ‘But I can’t help being squeamish; I remember once seeing a dog being run over, and it still makes me shudder to think of it!’

‘You’re a little oversensitive,’ he said.

‘Oh yes, I’m so. . I feel so. . never mind, just hold me,’ she murmured, leaning closer to him.

‘Darling!’ he whispered.

‘My Otto, my very own Otto,’ she sighed. ‘Oh yes, I’m far too sensitive. How you’ll put up with me I cannot imagine. I’m always so. . Oh poor Vincent, I do feel sorry for him, don’t you?’

‘Yes I do; he doesn’t seem at all well.’

She continued to lean against his shoulder for some time, and gradually calmed down. Her weeping subsided, but her eyes remained moist and sad, for she was thinking of that split second when she had seen the ghost, willing herself to recall what it had looked like, the better to banish it for ever. The ghost must never, ever come back to haunt her, it was just too upsetting!

. .

After a hurried lunch following the physician’s visit, Betsy decided to send Dirk with the coupé to fetch Dr Reijer after all, and when the latter arrived she went with him to see Vincent, who had been put to bed in his room. As it was not the first time Vincent had fainted, she knew what to do: following Dr Reijer’s instructions, she made sure his head was lower than the rest of his body by stuffing cushions under his back. Slowly Vincent came to himself again. He opened his eyes a moment, and trailed his hand over the coverlet. Dr Reijer turned down the light in the room and prescribed complete rest for the patient.

‘It’s not dangerous, is it, doctor?’ asked Betsy downstairs in the salon, where Eline, Otto and Henk were waiting.

‘Not immediately, dear lady,’ replied Reijer, hurriedly buttoning up his smart demi-season coat. ‘But you do realise, twice in relatively short succession. . It does not bode well for Mr Vere’s state of health. I have the impression he suffers from anaemia; altogether a weak constitution, very weak. What he needs is repose, as I mentioned before. Have you seen the Ferelijn family? They are all looking very well, including the children. Such a charming lady. Well now, au revoir. I will gladly make use of your vehicle again, thank you. Au revoir, Mr van Raat, I’ll let myself out.’

Anna the nursemaid would keep vigil at Vincent’s bedside. The house was silent; Henk retired for a rest and Betsy went upstairs with Ben to put him to bed herself rather than risk a commotion by leaving this task to the erratic Mina. Otto and Eline remained in the anteroom.

‘Are you feeling better?’ he asked as she settled herself on a cushion at his feet.

She took a deep breath and nodded reassuringly. Indeed, she felt quite calm and safe sitting there resting her head against his knee, and had no desire to dwell on the muddled thoughts crowding her mind: Vincent’s sudden illness, the conversation they had been having which she couldn’t remember, the pity she felt for this cousin of hers, who reminded her so very much of her father. But no, she was determined not to think about any of these things; she was determined to be happy, here and now, close to her Otto.

‘I always feel better when I’m with you. You’re so good to me.’

‘A while ago you mentioned that you sometimes get very nervous for no reason. Melancholy, too, I believe. In this case there certainly was a reason, of course, so it is perfectly natural that you were upset. But I want you to promise me that next time you feel nervous for no reason you will come straight to me.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘You’ll come to me and tell me exactly how you feel, and you’ll trust me because I love you and will always do everything in my power to make you feel better. Promise?’

‘All right, I promise. I never had anyone to talk to before, except Henk, in whom I confided from time to time, but I don’t believe he understood me, although he was extremely kind. At least I have you now! Oh, Otto, don’t you believe that true love only happens once in a lifetime? I mean real, true love, not just having a crush on someone, which happens quite a lot, doesn’t it?’

‘Well, not to me; at least not any more!’ he replied with a smile.

‘Then you agree. You love me properly, not just because of the way I look or anything like that. At first I didn’t understand why you loved me, but now I do: you love me because, because. . oh dear, I don’t quite know how to say it, but I can feel it deep down: I mean everything to you, don’t I? But when you gave me that fan last winter, the Bucchi fan, how much did you love me then? Go on, tell me!’

He listened indulgently to her ramblings and planted a kiss on the top of her head by way of an answer. Oh yes, she knew perfectly well that she could depend on him, that she could trust him completely, and that he would make her happy again whenever she was the least bit despondent. At length, feeling increasingly fatigued after the upheaval of the past hours, she fell silent, merely humming a little from time to time with her head resting against his knee, until she dozed off in the gathering dusk. He sat very still, gazing down at her, and for the first time since falling in love he felt a pinprick of something like doubt in his mind, doubt whether everything would turn out as he had imagined. A sense of wistfulness came over him as he kept his eyes fixed on her sleeping form, pondering the notion that however great one’s happiness, there was always a drop of bile in there somewhere, even if it only transpired from one’s private musings and fears.