Eline Vere

XXXIII

Daniel Vere and his young wife, Eliza Moulanger, occupied a spacious apartment on avenue Louise. The reception room was vast, with five windows overlooking the street; half salon, half drawing room, the space was decorated in no particular style, but rather with artistic flamboyance. Although the furniture and ornaments looked as if they had been picked up here and there at various auctions, together they constituted an attractive ensemble of muted shades and pleasing contours. The walls were lined with softly gilded leather, and from the ceiling, patterned in the Moorish manner with soft blues, pale reds and dull gold, hung a many-branched chandelier of coloured Venetian glass. A generous fire burned in the grand, old-fashioned hearth with a richly carved oak surround, and whichever way one turned there were potted palms, curios from Turkey and China, and artefacts of antique porcelain, all in artistic profusion.

The central bay window, wider than the others, formed a kind of interior balcony, where Eliza and Eline often sat together. A week had gone by since her arrival, and Eline found herself warming to the company of her uncle and her youthful aunt. The sheer lavishness of the reception room, almost like a museum, gratified her aesthetic sensibilities while exuding an atmosphere of warmth and conviviality. The modern luxury of Betsy’s salon, full of gilt, plush and satin, seemed ordinary and tasteless to her now, compared to the somewhat haphazard, slightly dusty, yet cosy abundance of her present surroundings.

It was morning, and in the bay window sat Aunt Eliza, attired in a Chinese robe of grey silk with red tassels, painting at a table strewn with paints and brushes. Eline was seated by the large fire with a book on her lap, an unconscious smile playing on her pale lips as her gaze slid searchingly about the room.

‘I love the way you have decorated your apartment!’ she said in French to Eliza, who was humming softly as she rinsed out her brush. ‘You can sit here quietly by the fire and conjure up the most delightful fancies, because every single thing here sparks some idea that you can embroider on. If you look around the room, you feel as if you’re travelling.’

Eliza licked the tip of her brush and laughed.

‘You have such curious ideas, Eline!’ she said, rising abruptly. She untied her mass of tightly-curled hair, which was ever dishevelled, shook it, and twisted it into a loose knot. ‘I’ve spent practically all my time in this room for the past three years, never have any of my things given me the feeling I was travelling! But all of you have such curious ideas! You and Daniel and Vincent, too. It’s very amusing; I keep being taken by surprise! So curious, and so original, you know. Is your sister Betsy like that, too?’

Eline smiled at her in wonder.

‘Betsy?’ she echoed pensively. ‘No, I don’t believe so. Betsy has a very practical nature, very resolute. Betsy takes after our Mama, not after the Veres at all.’

Eliza smiled gaily.

‘Shall I tell you what I think? You’re all a bit peculiar, I do declare, a bit peculiar, every one of you! Believe me, it’s true!’ She said this in such a joking, friendly fashion that Eline could not take offence. ‘But you know, I rather like a whiff of peculiarity. I can’t abide ordinariness. Ordinary people — ugh! So you see, that’s why I adore you: you aren’t a bit ordinary, you’re interesting and original!’

‘Really?’ said Eline forcing a laugh. ‘Well, I can assure you that I would give half my life for the privilege of not being original or interesting, but ordinary instead, as ordinary as it is possible to be.’

‘My dear girl! What an absurd privilege to aspire to! The way I see it, one shouldn’t aspire to anything, one ought to want to take life as it comes, and be satisfied with one’s lot. Voilà le secret du bonheur! You are original, Eline, so you might as well be satisfied with your interesting personality. But there you go, wanting to be different — wanting to be ordinary, no less! Shame on you!’

She seated herself beside Eline and stretched out her hands to the fire.

‘I’ll tell you something else, Eline, something that has always puzzled me about you. You are a very pretty girl, you have enough money to do exactly as you please, and yet you don’t enjoy life. You’re always dreaming, dear girl, but dreaming is not the same as living, is it? Had I been in your shoes before I got married, I’d have made sure I enjoyed life to the full. But I didn’t have a penny to my name, and I was a plain-looking girl — as I still am. Daniel fell for me anyway, and I accepted him. Of course I did! If I’d been pretty like you and if I’d had a little money of my own I would have made sure I amused myself — but it would have been without Daniel, you see. With who else? Well, I couldn’t say at this stage, but I know I would have had lots of fun! As for you — o mais c’est une pitié! — you’re simply bored, bored to death if you ask me. It’s a crying shame! In a word, you’re a mystery to me. And that’s exactly what I like about you.’

Eline gave a rueful smile, remaining silent.

‘Ah well, I don’t know your personal history, all I know is that you left your sister’s home in the middle of the night, during a storm. Not everyone would do that, you see, and that’s what appeals to me. It’s intriguing, to say the least. I dare say you have some dramatic story to tell, but then who hasn’t? A romantic story, perhaps? If so, I pity you, because you obviously made some foolish mistake.’

She paused in anticipation of some response from Eline, but none was forthcoming.

‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ she prattled on, relishing the occasion to air her views. ‘I think love is a fine thing. It is most enjoyable. But I also think it ought to remain enjoyable. Once romantic love becomes a source of heartache it’s not worth pursuing, in my opinion. I don’t believe there is such a thing as all-consuming love, like a big flame that won’t tolerate any flamelets in its vicinity. It’s an impossibility, when you think about it. Take me. I have always lived here in Brussels. Daniel happened to be living here, too, and so we met. We fell in love, as they say, and we got married. All well and good, but what if I had been living in Lapland, and Daniel on the South Pole? Just think about it. We would never have set eyes on each other, and each of us would have met someone else — me an Eskimo, and Daniel someone from the South Pole. Stands to reason, no? Love simply happens, and people can fall in love hundreds of times. Why, Eline, you’ve gone all quiet. I’m not boring you am I?’

‘On the contrary!’ laughed Eline. ‘I love it when you’re in one of your talkative moods!’

Eliza blinked happily.

‘Well, I am rather a chatterbox, aren’t I? But I meant what I said about you not enjoying life enough. You might bear that in mind, my dear; you’re still young enough to change your attitude.’

Eline was certain that there was nothing she could do to change her attitude. She was simply not up to it — she had allowed herself to be driven down a steep slope, further and further until she could see the abyss gaping beneath her, and even then she had not mustered the strength to climb back up.

‘Do you know what I think your weakness is, Eline? You’re too sensitive. Altogether too emotional. What you need in life’s struggle is a good dose of indifference. You see, we have little choice: we happen to be among the living, and we must live our lives as best we can. So we might as well make things as agreeable as possible for ourselves. As for you, you have the means to do just that. You have no responsibilities, no dependents to provide for, you can do exactly as you please. The trouble is that you think too much, and thinking too much is depressing. Me? I don’t think. I only have impulses, little ideas that occur to me; but I never think. And thank goodness for that. I may be philosophising now, but I am not thinking.’

This light-hearted chat amused Eline; she even caught herself thinking Eliza might be quite right to take such a heedless attitude. But Eline herself was different: there was no way she could cast off the melancholy that seemed to have infiltrated into the very marrow of her being, and she was sure that she would end her days without having enjoyed life — or at least not in the way Eliza meant. Nor did she desire such enjoyment, for she had experienced happiness of a higher order — the happiness of being with him, with Otto.

. .

Eliza thought her indolent, but she herself took pleasure in doing nothing. She gave herself up wholeheartedly to her languorous inertia. Most days she stayed at home, pleading her cough, though in reality all she wanted to do was to nestle herself among the Turkish cushions in the big armchair by the fire and while away the hours daydreaming. She made an effort to be like Eliza and not think, and to a certain extent she succeeded in this endeavour. Only, she began to have a sense of waiting for something, waiting and waiting.

Although she seldom went out, she saw plenty of people. Uncle Daniel was always bringing home friends, sometimes accompanied by their wives, and they often stayed for dinner. The social circle Eline found herself in was not entirely new to her, for she had met various of its members when she first stayed in Brussels. But she did not feel wholly at ease with them; they were unconventional in ways that both fascinated and shocked her. In The Hague she had always moved in circles limited to her own class, where everyone, despite variations in personal fortunes, held the same views when it came to morals and manners, and where everyone observed the same rules of etiquette and exchanged the same pleasantries when they visited each other’s homes. No such rules seemed to apply in Brussels. People vented the most outlandish opinions, on topics unheard of in Betsy’s salon or at the Eekhofs’. She found her new, free-spirited acquaintances somewhat unnerving, but at the same time interestingly exotic.

It was indeed a motley assortment of friends that Uncle Daniel had gathered around him. One evening he had invited some count or other to dinner, who, much to Eline’s surprise, entered wearing evening dress with a diamond-studded dress shirt that looked decidedly the worse for wear, as well as rather oversized cameo rings on his fingers; he was handsome in a faded sort of way, with a lock of black hair tumbling over his brow, and wrote poetry; he offered Eline a volume of his poems and a booklet containing reprints of flattering reviews of his works. He was said to be rich, and Eliza thought him witty. Eline, however, felt a twinge of dislike on shaking his hand. Another evening it would be an actor, which made Eline worry about the possibility of Fabrice turning up one day. Or it would be a well-known jeweller accompanied by an enormously stout, blonde lady wearing a lot of rouge and a red-velvet gown. But from time to time the Moulangers and the Des Luynes came over from Bordeaux, and Eline would be greatly relieved to recognise in them a modicum of respectability and distinction.

With the exception of these two families, though, visitors at avenue Louise behaved with a remarkable degree of informality. They either came to dinner unannounced or arrived at eleven o’clock at night, when Eline was feeling ready for bed, and stayed until the small hours drinking champagne and smoking. Eline would smoke along with them, and laugh very loudly. Uncle Daniel would lounge in a chair, smiling somewhat wearily, and Eline often had the impression that all these strange people were in some way useful to him. She had never quite understood how he obtained his money, since he did not seem to have had any employment. But she dismissed the thought, for she was determined not to think at all, like Eliza, and as time went on she found a certain measure of satisfaction in this society, so very different from what she had been used to in the salons of The Hague.

. .

Above all, Eline liked conversing with Uncle Daniel’s physician, a man of indeterminate age who was remarkably polite in both manner and speech, and who always seemed to be watching her closely. His interest in her had initially put her on her guard, as if he might discover something within her that she herself was unaware of, some secret that would put her to shame. Yet she was drawn to his amicable, steady gaze as to a magnet, and before long she took to asking him, when she had one of her headaches, to hold his cool outstretched hand close to her forehead for a moment. The first time he had done so had been on his own initiative, and Eline had immediately felt as though a refreshing, invigorating current were passing through her brain. Since then she had become addicted, in a manner of speaking, to the emanations of that hand, which, without even touching, seemed capable of making a cool breeze blow through her overheated skull.

Eline had told him of the difficulties she had sleeping at night, and he had said he would like to try and induce her to sleep by the sheer force of his will, but she had begged him not to: she had so little willpower of her own, and feared losing it altogether if he were capable of exerting such a strong influence on her from afar. Thereupon he had supplied her with a sleeping draught of morphine, which was extremely expensive and which he had mixed himself; he counted out the drops for her in a glass of water. That night she laid herself down to sleep in a haze of blissful contentment; she felt her body becoming weightless, rising up from her bed, her pillows and sheets, and for a moment she found herself floating on currents of softly swirling blue air.

Then she sank into a profound slumber, from which she did not wake until late in the morning. And she was full of praise for Uncle Daniel’s physician for having succeeded where Reijer had always failed — at least he knew how to send her to sleep.

. .

Life went on in much the same manner, with Eline accommodating herself to the humour of the moment. She still had a bad cough, but felt comparatively content nonetheless. Eliza, though a compulsive talker, seemed to like her well enough, and Uncle Daniel, ever gallant if a touch remote, was no less well-disposed towards her. Sometimes, however, she had the feeling that they were putting on an act, in the same way that everyone had put on an act in The Hague. But she had no desire to analyse this doubt, preferring to let her brain slumber in untrammelled lethargy.

One day an envelope arrived from Vincent Vere in New York; it was addressed to Uncle Daniel, to whom it came as rather a surprise, as they were not in the habit of writing to one another. But Eline, who had not heard from her cousin for some time, was all aflutter at the unexpected mention of his name, and couldn’t wait to hear what her uncle would say about the letter. She would not be surprised if Vincent were asking for money.

But in this Eline was mistaken. He had not asked for money, nor did he need a letter of introduction or some other favour. Vincent simply wanted to let them know that he and his friend Lawrence St Clare were planning a trip to Europe, and that they would be stopping in Brussels. They would be sailing to Liverpool, from where they would travel to London and Paris before arriving in Brussels. By the time Uncle Daniel received this news they were already halfway across the Atlantic.

Vincent’s letter revived Eline to some degree from her psychic lethargy. She remembered how Vincent, pale and sickly, had lain on her couch in his Turkish chamber cloak, and how she had nursed him back to health. Her next thought was of Otto, and she fumbled agitatedly for the black enamelled locket on her watch-chain. Had she not fancied that Vincent was in love with her, and she with him? Were there any such feelings still lingering in her heart? No, those feelings were far, far away, like birds that had vanished out of sight.

Uncle and Eliza discussed Vincent’s impending visit briefly, then said no more on the subject. But Eline, though she kept silent, thought a great deal about him and his American friend. She recalled having seen the photograph of St Clare when it fell out of his letter to Vincent; it was on the same day that she had lost her temper with Otto during dinner. She recalled having asked Vincent whether his friend’s hair was fair or dark, but not what he had replied. Nor could she recall what St Clare looked like. She was very curious to see them both.

. .

After some weeks a second letter from Vincent arrived; this time posted from Paris. A few days later the two friends arrived; it was late afternoon, and they stayed to dinner. Uncle and Eliza offered to put them up, out of courtesy, but St Clare declined politely: they had already taken rooms at the Hotel des Flandres.

Vincent had not changed a whit, either in appearance or demeanour. When he and Eline were standing side by side, talking, she caught their reflection in the pier glass, and suddenly noticed that she had aged. He was the same elegantly dressed young man as two years before, and beside her sallow skin and sunken cheeks he looked healthier than she had ever seen him. She, in black lace — she wore nothing else these days — stood there with her thin shoulders and lacklustre eyes gazing at the ruins of her former youthful radiance. . ruined inside and out.

Lawrence St Clare directly made a very favourable impression upon both ladies. Eline had rather imagined him, as an American, to be a little coarse and uncivilised — possibly even spitting, swearing, or demanding whisky — and she was pleasantly surprised by his engaging, easy manner. He was tall and rugged, with a full, dark-blond beard, and in his clear eyes there gleamed a certain pride, but it was a pride that, without a trace of arrogance, betokened character and strength of will. His masterful bearing and air of independence inspired confidence in Eline. Although Vincent had not told her very much about St Clare, she felt almost at once that she had known him for a long time. His frank smile and mild yet penetrating gaze pleased her, and when she glanced about the dinner table she was struck by the calm, wholesome uprightness he exuded, compared to which her uncle’s civility and Eliza’s frothy chitchat, as well as the vague melancholy shared by herself and Vincent, seemed to her false and jaded.

After dinner they took coffee in the reception room. Eline felt at ease in St Clare’s company, and hoped there would be no further callers to disturb them. She had little opportunity to converse with him, though, as Eliza bombarded him with questions about New York, Philadelphia and St Louis. He replied in French, speaking slowly, with a strange accent that Eline found rather charming.

Vincent clasped her hands and stared at her intently; he was grateful for what she had done for him in The Hague, and now felt a pang of compassion for her.

‘I have missed you, Elly!’ he said as they settled themselves in the balcony. ‘But you really ought to put on some weight, you know!’

She gave a light laugh and nervously poked the tip of her shoe into the fleecy white rug.

‘I am quite all right!’ she said. ‘Indeed, I have been feeling rather well lately. Better than before, anyway. And I am very glad to see you again, very glad. You know I have always been fond of you.’

She put out her hand with a generous gesture; he pressed it and moved his chair a little closer.

‘And what do you think of Lawrence?’ he asked. ‘Do you like him?’

‘Yes, he seems very nice.’

‘He is the only man I have ever known who is as good as his word. I don’t trust anyone, not a soul, you see; not even you, not even myself, but I do trust him. . Don’t you find his French accent rather amusing?’

‘He speaks French very well!’ responded Eline.

‘Oh, you can’t imagine how loyal he is to his friends!’ Vincent continued familiarly. ‘If I were to tell you all the things he has done for me, you wouldn’t believe me. To be honest, his generosity towards me has been enormous, almost embarrassingly so, as it happens. You see, I was taken very ill in New York, very ill indeed — my life was in danger. At that time I was employed by the same company St Clare has invested his money in. He took me into his home and looked after me with almost as much tender care as you showed me in The Hague. I don’t know what I have done to deserve his friendship, nor can I ever repay him. But I don’t think there is anything I would not do for him. If there is a grain of goodness in me at all, it is thanks to his influence. During my illness he arranged for a temporary replacement for my position — I was second in command in the accounts department — so that I would not be without an income once I had recovered. But then a while ago he conceived the idea of going on a tour; he knew little about Europe, and was concerned about my working too hard. In short, he invited me to accompany him on his travels. I declined at first, because I was already so beholden to him, but he insisted, and in the end I agreed. He wants to go as far as Petersburg and Moscow this winter, and to spend next summer touring southern Europe. Well, as you know, I have done a fair bit of travelling myself, and so I am glad to offer my services as a guide. But I have never travelled in such style before! We stay at the best hotels, no expense is spared. Nothing but the best, don’t you know!’

He paused, tiring of his prolonged whispering.

‘Has he so much sympathy for you?’ murmured Eline. ‘How remarkable! Of course I hardly know him, but it seems to me that his temperament is not a bit like yours, Vincent.’

‘No, it is not; you are quite right. Maybe that is why he likes me. At any rate, he’s always saying I’m a better person than everyone seems to think, myself included. Which is quite a consolation, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Perhaps he finds you as interesting as Eliza finds me!’ said Eline, laughing disparagingly in spite of herself. Seeing St Clare coming towards them, she felt a pang of conscience — how could she have compared the proud sincerity emanating from his person with the trivial coolness of Eliza!

Meanwhile Eliza busied herself with the liqueurs, asking Vincent whether he preferred kirsch or curaçao, or would he rather have a glass of cognac? Vincent went to sit with her and Uncle Daniel by the fire, while St Clare seated himself in the balcony beside Eline.

‘Ah, so you are the dear cousin Vincent told me so much about! The cousin who took such good care of him,’ he said, smiling as he put his hands in his pockets and fixed Eline with his frank stare.

Eline was about to say that he too had proved his merit in that department, but checked the impulse, thinking it might be inappropriate to let on how much Vincent had already told her about their friendship.

‘Yes, I am the cousin who cared for him!’ she replied, in French. Her English was good, but she found his French so charming that she had not offered to speak with him in his native language.

‘That was in The Hague, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes it was; he was staying at my brother-in-law’s house.’

‘And you were living there too at the time, weren’t you?’

This seemed a touch inquisitive on his part, but he spoke in a tone of such candid interest that she didn’t feel offended.

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Did Vincent tell you that?’

‘He did. Vincent often spoke of you.’

He sounded as if he knew quite a lot about her. She had written to Vincent after her flight from Betsy and Henk’s house, so he probably knew about that, too.

‘And you have done a good deal of travelling?’ he pursued.

‘Oh yes, with my uncle and aunt. A great deal. You intend to travel extensively yourself, I gather?’

‘As far as Russia this coming winter.’

Neither of them spoke for a moment. It seemed to Eline that they both had much to say to one another, but did not know where to begin. She already felt she had known him for a long while, and now it turned out that she was no stranger to him either.

‘Do you care very much for Vincent?’ she asked.

‘Very much. I feel very sorry for him. Had his health been more robust, he would certainly have made his mark on the world. He possesses energy and a hardworking spirit, as well as a broad view of life. But his physical weakness prevents him from giving his mind to one thing and bringing it to fruition. Most people have the wrong idea about Vincent. They think him lazy, capricious, egotistic, and refuse to see that he is simply ill. I can’t think of anybody else who would be capable, despite suffering from such ill health, of sharing so much of his talent and intelligence with the rest of mankind.’

She had always had great sympathy for Vincent, but had never seen him in this light.

‘Yes, I believe you are right!’ she said after a short pause. ‘But don’t you think the trip you have in mind will be too tiring for Vincent? All the way to Russia, in winter?’

‘Oh no. The cold climate will have an invigorating effect on him. And he won’t have to exert himself. I don’t even want him to accompany me on every expedition I have in mind. But travelling by train poses no problem — all it requires is for him to put on his fur coat and sit in a railway car.’

His words made her suspect, as she had suspected from her conversation with Vincent, that St Clare set inordinate store by his friend’s comfort and well-being.

‘I do believe you are very kind-hearted!’ she could not help exclaiming.

He gave her a puzzled look.

‘What makes you say that?’ he asked, laughing.

‘I don’t know!’ she said, smiling and colouring slightly. ‘It’s just an impression I have. But I may be mistaken, of course.’

He gestured vaguely with his hand. A hint of coquetry had crept into her voice at the last, which she regretted.

‘Just now you spoke of energy and a hardworking spirit,’ she resumed. ‘And you said that if someone is ill, that person deserves to be forgiven for not being energetic and hardworking.’

‘Naturally. What do you mean?’

There was an unhesitating singleness of purpose about his manner, which flustered her. During her tête-à-têtes with Vincent in the old days, their rambling, philosophical speculations had wavered this way and that without aim, rather like coils of smoke dissipating in the air, and the sheer directness of St Clare’s question caught her unprepared.

‘I mean,’ she replied hesitantly, ‘wouldn’t you be even more inclined to excuse the lack of energy and activity in someone who had suffered a great sadness, than in someone like Vincent, whose only trouble is poor health?’

He held her gaze.

‘Yes I would — provided he had tried to be energetic, and had succumbed in the attempt. Not otherwise, not if he had given himself up to the force of sheer circumstance without a struggle, as if it were his foreordained destiny. A fatalistic attitude; Vincent is no stranger to it either. And there is nothing more undermining than that kind of fatalism. Life would turn into moral death if we all just sat down with our hands in our laps and thought: What will be, will be.’

Eline was nonplussed.

Had she possessed energy? Had she given herself up to the force of circumstance? She had no answer. She felt small in his forceful presence, and could not concentrate her thoughts.

‘But what if that person’s suffering were caused by remorse over something he had done in the past?’ she whispered almost pleadingly, with moist eyes, nervously fingering the black locket and digging the point of her shoe into the sheepskin rug. His expression softened into pity.

‘In that case — oh yes, he would deserve to be forgiven!’ he whispered with indulgent reassurance.

But the indulgence of his tone discomfited her; suddenly she felt that she had given herself away, that she had been open-hearted in a way that was not fitting, that she ought to have had the strength to maintain her reserve.

. .

St Clare was uncertain how long he would stay in Brussels, as he wished to take short trips from there to Mechelen, Antwerp, Bruges and Ghent. Aunt Eliza found him very likeable indeed, but frowned on his intention to tour the northern countries during winter. She was in favour of travelling, but not of suffering from freezing temperatures. St Clare laughed, saying that neither he nor Vincent minded about the cold.

Vincent accompanied him on some of his excursions away from the city, though not all, and during their absences there was much talk of them among the eccentric friends visiting avenue Louise at eleven o’clock of an evening. The Count remarked that he had met St Clare some years since; he appeared to be some sort of chevalier d’industrie, and the Veres would do well to tread with caution. At this Uncle Daniel shrugged his shoulders, but Eline fixed the Count with a stare of withering contempt. Soon afterwards she retired to her bedroom, where she could still hear the high-pitched vociferations of the blonde lady in red velvet and Eliza’s shrieks of laughter.

The carousal in the reception room prevented her from sleeping, notwithstanding the drops she had taken. But despite her wakefulness and the aggravation of the noise, she felt surprisingly calm. The thought of St Clare was reassuring to her, more soothing even than the cool liquid prescribed by the physician. Maybe there was more to life than hypocrisy after all, maybe there was such a thing as true friendship and devotion, in a word: truth.

St Clare and Vincent stayed away for a week, during which they were sorely missed by Eline. They arrived on the day before New Year’s Eve, and Eliza invited them to the soirée she was holding the following evening, which promised to be very grand.

. .

At about half-past nine the following evening the motley collection of guests began to arrive, and Uncle Daniel and Eliza welcomed them warmly. The Count, the actor, the jeweller and his blowsy consort were the first to make their appearance, after which Eline saw a strange review of guests parade past the host and hostess, the men with an air of the nouveau riche, or with bohemian flamboyance, the ladies with oversized diamonds and limp trains to their gowns.

She did not feel at home in this setting, and yet she was amused by all those remarkable people drifting about the reception room so extravagantly furnished with bibelots. The candlelight diffused by the Venetian chandelier glinted strangely over the arrays of antique bronze, antique porcelain and antique fabrics. The guests were all unusual in one way or another, in keeping with Eliza’s avowed dislike of the mundane.

Eline remained somewhat aloof, hovering at the elbows of her uncle and aunt, and was glad to catch sight of St Clare and Vincent as they entered the room. Both were in evening dress, and she found them a markedly distinguished-looking pair.

Once they had presented themselves to their hosts, however, they did not seem to notice Eline in the crush, and she felt rather lost. She was at the mercy of a diminutive, elderly lady with little red plumes in her hair and a face as brown and wrinkled as a walnut, who was talking incessantly of all the deserving painters and sculptors of her acquaintance, and of how she, as a patron of the arts, championed their cause.

‘It is to be an artistic soirée tonight, is it not?’ she asked, narrowing her eyes.

‘Yes I believe it is,’ replied Eline, with mounting discomfiture.

‘You sing, do you not?’

‘Oh no, not any more; my doctor has forbidden it.’

‘I suppose you would have gone on the stage otherwise?’

‘Oh no, I don’t think so. .’

Several gentlemen came forward and bowed to the elderly lady, after which she introduced them all to Eline: composers, musicians, actors, painters, gifted yet misunderstood artists to a man, whose names would doubtless be on everyone’s lips before long.

Being thus encircled by misunderstood geniuses made Eline feel quite dizzy, and she was greatly relieved when she saw St Clare making his way towards her.

‘What a siege!’ he laughed softly. ‘I could hardly get through the crowd.’

Eline pouted.

‘Let’s move to the side a little, there is more room there!’ she lisped, deftly making her escape from the geniuses. With a sigh she subsided on to a pouffe, nervously patting the burnished gold beadwork along her low-cut bodice of black satin.

‘Oh dear, I was already getting quite bored,’ she said with light distaste. ‘But do tell me, how did you fare in Ghent and Bruges?’

He remained standing beside her and told her a little of his excursion, while the throng eddied all around them and footmen went round offering wine, sorbets and cakes.

‘By the way,’ said St Clare, breaking off his account, ‘do you know what the entertainments are to be this evening?’ All eyes were turned on Eliza, who was bobbing and weaving before the Count in apparent supplication.

The Count responded with a show of modest reluctance.

‘Oh, but you can’t let me down! I beseech you!’ wheedled Eliza.

‘I expect she asked him to declaim some poetry, and he’s too shy!’ laughed Eline.

She was right. Eliza darted a look of triumph at the ladies in her vicinity when the Count finally relented. He struck a declamatory pose and cleared his throat. He would recite an epic poem that told of Pizarro’s conquest of Mexico, of Montezuma and the Aztecs.

Voices sank to low whispers, and in the ensuing hush the Count launched into wave upon wave of thunderous Alexandrine verse, with plenty of burring rs. From the far side of the room Vincent sent Eline a mischievous nod. The Count’s voice rose to a shout.

‘Sublime, don’t you agree?’ ventured the elderly lady with the red plumes, who had reappeared at Eline’s side.

Eline gave a confirming nod.

The audience, however, was not unanimous in its appreciation; here and there despairing looks and sighs were exchanged, and the whispering grew louder.

‘Patience and resignation!’ murmured Eline, smiling at St Clare.

He returned her smile. With him standing so close to her, she thought, the long poem didn’t seem half as boring.

When the Count’s final stanza died away at last, the audience was galvanised into motion. There was laughing and jostling once more, and several ladies made a bee-line for the Count to congratulate him on his performance.

‘Couldn’t we seek refuge before the next entertainment begins?’ asked St Clare with a light laugh.

‘We will be more at liberty in the conservatory,’ said Eline.

With some difficulty they threaded their way through the crowd to the small winter garden. It was empty save for a pair of elderly gentlemen seated at a table bearing an assortment of empty wine glasses, and a young man in active conversation with a young lady who kept tapping her knee with her fan. A sultry perfume like a breath of the tropics floated beneath the potted palms, vanilla bushes and orchids. Through the windows they saw a snowstorm of white down whirling in the night.

No sooner had they seated themselves than they heard chords being struck on the piano in the reception room. The actor, a frequent visitor, was in possession of a bass voice, and was to sing some duets with the jeweller’s blonde lady friend, who had garbed herself in blue plush for the occasion. St Clare and Eline could see them reflected in one of the mirrors adorning the winter garden; they were taking up their positions by the piano while their accompanist — one of the misunderstood composers — seated himself to play.

‘I had no idea that she sang!’ Eline burst out. ‘La bonne surprise! But do go on with what you were saying.’

A blush began to tingle on her cheeks, and she regained a shade of her former beauty and charm. She listened to him with keen interest, raising her glass of champagne to her lips from time to time to take a sip. From the reception room proceeded the high shrieks of the soprano vying with the low growl of the bass in a cacophony of song.

Gradually, the winter garden filled up with the bustle of guests, laughing and chatting with relief at escaping from the duets. Vincent, too, sauntered in, and catching sight of St Clare and Eline made his way towards them.

‘Do you mind if I join you?’ he asked in French.

‘By all means!’ said Eline.

They felt rather removed from the rest of the crowd, as though they were attending some kind of public fête; they knew hardly anyone, and watched the scene unfolding around them with quiet derision. The two elderly gentlemen’s collection of empty wine glasses had expanded considerably, and beneath an overhanging banana frond the young man could be seen slipping his arm about his companion’s waist. From another corner came the sound of broken glass, whereupon a rowdy guest, identified by Vincent as a self-proclaimed Russian prince, began to disport himself with two female circus riders. Vincent could not imagine how they had managed to be introduced to Uncle Daniel.

‘Oh, they must have slipped in through the back door! I’m sure Eliza doesn’t know they are here!’ laughed Eline.

. .

The entertainments took their course in the reception suite with more songs, serious poetry and comic monologues. The audience’s attention to the performers, however, flagged as the evening wore on, and the hubbub grew louder. The Russian prince began to chase the circus-riders round the winter garden, trying to kiss them, and the two elderly gentlemen, rather the worse for drink, broke into a violent argument.

The young paramours had slipped away.

‘I believe I should advise you to remain a little closer to your uncle and aunt; the company here seems to be getting rather mixed,’ St Clare said to Eline. Vincent had left them. Eline stood up in some alarm; St Clare followed suit. But in the salon they found Eliza at the centre of a very noisy gathering; champagne was being spilt, and several ladies were smoking cigarettes.

St Clare led Eline to the balcony. A stern look came into his proud eyes and his lips quivered an instant as he observed Eliza and her friends.

‘How do you come to be here?’ he asked abruptly, in a tone of ill-concealed censure. ‘How is it possible that I should have met you here?’

She looked at him in surprise.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she replied coldly.

‘I’m asking you what brought you here in the first place. I wouldn’t have thought this sort of company to be congenial to you. Is it?’

She began to see his meaning, and was shocked by his forwardness.

‘Not congenial to me? This sort of company?’ she echoed slowly. ‘May I remind you that I am in the house of my uncle and aunt?’

‘I know that, but the company your uncle and aunt keep is hardly up to your standards, it seems to me. You are here with the consent of your other relatives, I take it?’

She began to tremble all over, and fixed him with the haughtiest stare she could muster.

‘Mr St Clare! I cannot think why you feel entitled to subject me to a cross-examination. I thought I was free to do as I please, and old enough to choose my friends without prior consent from anyone at all, not from my “other relatives” and not from you either.’

Her tone was needle-sharp. She made to turn away. He caught her hand. She snatched it away.

‘Do stay a moment, I beg you. Forgive me if I have hurt your feelings: that was not my intention. But I can’t help taking an interest in you. I have heard so much about you from Vincent. I knew you before I had ever set eyes on you. I thought of you as, how shall I put it, as an unknown sister, just as I thought of Vincent as my brother. And here you are, mixing with people who—’

‘Thank you most kindly for your good intentions,’ she broke in icily. ‘But be so good as to find more appropriate means of expressing your fraternal interest in future. You knew me before you met me, you say. C’est possible. I have known you for a week. Hardly long enough for you to dare to speak to me as if I required guidance. I am much obliged for your solicitude, but I have no need for it.’

He gestured impatiently and restrained her once more. She was still quivering with rage, but stood her ground.

‘Oh, please, don’t be angry with me!’ he said warmly. ‘Perhaps I was too outspoken. But what about you — would you yourself qualify the present company as suitable?’

‘I see no reason why the acquaintances of my uncle and aunt should not be mine, too. Whatever the case, it is no concern of yours.’

‘Why won’t you allow me take an interest in you?’

‘Because it’s presumptuous of you.’

‘Is there no pardon for such presumption, if it arises from a sense of true friendship?’ he asked, extending his hand.

‘Oh, certainly!’ she said coldly, ignoring his hand. ‘But please spare me your presumption as well as your all too friendly feelings in future. Too much interest can be tiresome.’

She turned on her heel and swept out of the balcony. St Clare, now alone, watched her as she mingled with the throng, rubbing shoulders with the circus-riders and the Russian prince, with the blonde lady, the two inebriated old gentlemen, and the Countcum-poet.

. .

The party was over at last, and in the solitude of her room Eline reflected on her bruised feelings. It was five o’clock in the morning, and she felt almost too exhausted to shed her clothes.

It was not so much his presumption that riled her, but it had been such a long time since she had been able to forget her sorrows, even temporarily. That evening she had actually begun to enjoy herself a little, like in the old days, and he had gone and spoilt her innocent pleasure with his remarks about the company being unsuitable. As if she didn’t know that! And it was precisely because she did know, and because deep down she could not but agree with him, that she felt hurt. Why couldn’t he have granted her that brief evening of amusement? Why did he have to mention her ‘other relatives’? What would Betsy and Henk care if she took up with some unconventional acquaintance of her uncle’s? But she hadn’t taken up with anyone; the only people she had exchanged more than a few words with were Vincent and him. She had enjoyed herself in spite of the company, couldn’t he see that?

Still wearing her black-satin gown, she threw herself down on a couch to think. The more she pondered the affront she had suffered the more tenuous it became, but before it eluded her completely she checked herself. Yes, she did feel hurt, she thought with grim resolve. Very hurt indeed.

On the other hand, was it really so serious? He had raised objections, on her behalf, to the unconventional coterie she found herself in, taking them for a disreputable lot. He had expressed his disapproval with brutal frankness, and she could still hear him say: ‘How do you come to be here? Are you here with the consent of your other relatives?’

In other words, he was interested in her welfare: genuinely, frankly interested. And she was seized with longing to beg his forgiveness and ask him what action he would advise her to take. What bliss it would be simply to follow his lead, to give herself up in complete surrender. . how restful. . how sweet.

At noon, after a brief slumber, she entered the reception room, looking very pale, with dark circles under her eyes. Eliza was bustling about with the maid and manservant, tidying up the remains of the previous evening’s orgy. She declared herself very pleased with her soirée.

‘Happy New Year, Eline!’ she said. ‘You can’t imagine how many glasses got broken last night! Thank goodness they were only hired. If you want some breakfast, you’ll find it in the salle à manger. Off you go now, you’ll only get in the way here, if you don’t mind my saying so. But it was fun last night, wasn’t it?’

Eline repaired to the dining room. She nibbled a piece of toast and lingered a while, hoping that St Clare would call. But neither he nor Vincent put in an appearance that day. Not the next day either, or the one after that. If Eline had dared, she would have sent him a note.

Before the week was out she received a letter from Madame van Raat, with news about Paul, whom she saw from time to time even though he had gone to live in Bodegraven; he seemed unhappy about something, but his mother knew not what. She was sorry to say that she and her son seemed to have become somewhat estranged, and expressed doubt as to whether she had been a sufficiently loving mother to him as a child.

‘She, not loving enough?’ Eline thought to herself. ‘I have never known anyone so loving. . to me, at any rate.’

She read on, and learnt that Lili was expecting a baby, due in March. But at the end of the letter she received a shock. Jeanne Ferelijn had died in Bangil. Eline’s eyes filled with tears.

‘Oh my God! Oh my God!’ she repeated slowly, and a nervous sob shook her frame. Her poor friend was dead! Oh, how tenderly Jeanne had nursed her when she was ill with bronchitis in that cramped little upstairs apartment! How kind and comforting she had always been, and how devoted to her husband and children! And now she had died. . What had life given her? Nothing, oh, nothing! Madame van Raat had her own sorrows; so did Paul. And Lili would receive her share of sadness and disappointment too, now that she was to be a mother. What was life but one great misery. .

‘Jeanne is dead! Jeanne is dead!’ hissed a voice in her ears and in her brain. She had so much to thank Jeanne for, and she would never see her again, for Jeanne was dead! Oh God, she was dead!

She threw herself back in her chair and hid her face in her hands. Hearing footsteps in the anteroom she looked up, and before she had time to compose herself, a figure appeared in the doorway. It was St Clare. She stared at him blankly through her tears.

‘I hope you will forgive me for disturbing you,’ he said softly, seeing that she was crying. ‘The maid said you were at home and receiving. Would you rather I came back tomorrow?’

She drew herself up, wiped her eyes and gave a sad smile.

‘Do you wish to go already?’ she said. ‘You are not disturbing me; on the contrary, I am glad to see you. Do take a seat. Is Vincent well?’

‘Thank you, he is very well!’ he said, and in his tone Eline could hear the affection he bore Vincent. ‘We have been to Liège and Verviers to visit some factories.’

‘Is that the only reason I have not seen you since the soirée?’

He looked at her a moment.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That is the only reason.’

‘So you were not angry with me?’

‘Not in the least. I was the one who was wrong. I ought not to have spoken to you like that. You were right.’

‘I don’t believe I was,’ she said. ‘I was rude to you, and I am sorry. Will you forgive me? Or will you refuse me your hand, just as I refused you mine?’

She held out her hand. He held it fast.

‘I forgive you, gladly!’ he responded. ‘And I do appreciate your willingness to admit to being a little mistaken.’

‘So will you continue to take an interest in me? Will you believe me when I say that your friendship and concern are not in the least tiresome to me, unlike what I said before? May I depend on that?’

‘Certainly you may.’

‘Thank you. Thank you so much. I was not mistaken when I said you were kind-hearted. You are more than kind, you are noble.’

He gave a short laugh.

‘How formal you sound!’ he said. ‘Very dignified!’

‘No!’ she protested. ‘I am not dignified, and I wasn’t being formal either. Please don’t say that. I meant what I said. I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you have come to see me, and that you aren’t angry with me. Especially now. I was so downhearted.’

‘You were crying, weren’t you?’

Teardrops trembled on her lashes.

‘I just received some very sad news: a dear friend of mine has died. She was so frail, and yet so needed; what will become of her poor husband and children I cannot imagine. But what can you do? People who lead useful lives die. And people like me, who are a burden to everyone, including themselves, live on.’

‘Why do you say that? Are you sure there is no one who needs you and loves you? And is there no one you love?’

She gave a wry smile.

‘Because there must be people who care about you,’ he persisted.

‘What can I say? Both my parents have died, and my sister — well, I expect Vincent told you about her. Did you know I ran away from my brother-in-law’s house?’

‘Yes.’

‘Since then I have been drifting from one place to the next. Always among strangers. And now my uncle and aunt have taken me in, but in a way they are strangers, too. Back in The Hague I lived with my brother-in-law’s elderly mother for a time; she was extremely kind to me, and I was devoted to her. But I wasn’t at all kind to her, I’m ashamed to say.’

‘I feel for you very much!’ he said. ‘I wish there was something I could do to help. Have you considered finding something to occupy yourself with? Aren’t you rather bored? Couldn’t that be the cause of your unhappiness?’

‘I did look for things to do in The Hague. And I did a fair amount of travelling, but I still felt unhappy. It’s all my own fault, you see. I threw away my chance of happiness.’

She began to cry, holding her head in her hands.

‘Tell me, is there anything I can do?’ he pleaded.

‘Nothing, thank you. I am beyond help. . from anyone.’

‘But submerging oneself in unhappy thoughts to the exclusion of all else is never a good thing. I strongly advise against it. You need to be brave, so as to raise yourself from your suffering. Everybody suffers at one time or another. Come, promise me that from now on you will try to be brave.’

‘But I’m not brave, I’m weak!’ she sobbed. ‘I am broken, ruined.’

She sounded so powerless and distraught that he did not know what to say. His heart overflowed with pity, a pity mingled with despair at finding the means to help her. And yet his only wish was to try and console her, come what may.

‘No!’ he exclaimed firmly. ‘You are not broken. That is just a phrase people use. You are young, you have your whole life ahead of you. Break with your past, put it out of your mind.’

‘But how?’ she wept. ‘How could I possibly do that?’

He was aware that he, too, had used just such a phrase. He was also aware that the human psyche could become permanently warped by anguish suffered in the past.

‘My heart goes out to you!’ he said. ‘I feel such pity for you, more than I have ever felt for anyone before.’

‘That is the only thing you can do for me!’ she cried out with passion. ‘Give me your pity! It will do me good! Didn’t you say that you knew me before you met me, that I was like an unknown sister to you?’

He stood up, placed his hands on her frail shoulders and held her gaze.

‘Certainly!’ he said warmly, and she could have died, so profoundly grateful did she feel. ‘And now that I have met you properly, I shall do everything in my power to help you. You must tell me all about yourself. I will make you brave, you’ll see.’

He gave her a pat on the shoulder, in comradely fashion. Her heart was frantic with regret: why, oh why had she not met him sooner? How wonderful it had felt to humble herself before him and beg forgiveness!

. .

A week elapsed, during which the Veres saw neither Vincent nor St Clare, as they were away in Holland. There was talk of a masked ball, hosted by the Count. Uncle Daniel would not attend in fancy dress, but Eliza would be going as an oriental dancer, and Eline, whose imagination had deserted her, was thinking of doing the same.

When the invitation arrived Eline thought of St Clare. What would he say if she accepted? But she had no desire to spend the evening at home alone, so she banished the thought from her mind and concentrated on her costume.

The two friends returned on the day before the ball. Eline thought she saw a flicker of concern in St Clare’s eyes when he heard of the event, but he made no comment. The following evening at around half-past eight he and Vincent called at avenue Louise. Both of them had been invited to be of the party; Vincent had accepted, St Clare had not. He wished to see Eline, but was told that she had just started her toilette. When St Clare reiterated his request with some urgency, Eline sent word that she would see him shortly and asked him to wait.

The reception room was deserted, as Uncle Daniel and Eliza were also preparing themselves. Vincent, in evening dress, settled himself on a couch and took up l’Indépendence to skim the news. St Clare posted himself in the balcony with his hands thrust in his pockets, staring out of the window at the snow gleaming dingily beneath the street lamps. The servant entered with tea for the gentlemen.

‘I must say I admire your pluck, Lawrence!’ Vincent remarked in English as he slowly stirred his tea. ‘Are you sure she will take it all in good part?’

‘I have no choice. It is the only way.’ St Clare replied resolutely, and declined the offer of tea.

When the servant was gone they kept silent for a time, until Eline entered. A rosy blush of face powder hid the sallowness of her skin; her hair was already dressed for the ball with chains of glittering coins, which fell in three tiers across her forehead. Further than that she had not proceeded with her costume, and had wrapped a white flannel peignoir about her in some haste. Vincent stood up, and she apologised for the state she was in. Nonetheless, she looked alluring.

‘You wanted to speak to me urgently, I believe?’ she said softly to St Clare, extending her hand. ‘So please excuse my undress. Do take a seat.’

They sat down, while Vincent repaired to the winter garden with his newspaper. St Clare looked intently at Eline.

‘What do you wish to say to me?’ she asked.

‘First of all, I must apologize for disturbing you so rudely during your preparations for the ball.’

‘Oh that’s all right; I have plenty of time.’

‘I am very grateful that you came at once. I hope you understand that I would not have intruded had it not been for a good reason. I have a request to make you.’

‘An urgent request?’

‘Indeed, an urgent request. And I run the risk that you will be very angry with me when I tell you what it is; that you will feel hurt, and that you will tell me to mind my own business.’

It began to dawn on her, vaguely, what his request would be.

‘Come on then, out with it!’ she said simply.

‘You said I might take the same interest in you as a brother would take in a sister. Is that right, or am I mistaken?’

‘No, that is quite right.’

‘Well, if you were my sister, I would ask you to do me a great favour by not going to that ball tonight.’

She did not answer.

‘If you were my sister, I would tell you that Vincent and I made some enquiries as to the guest list for the ball, and that I am certain that a large proportion of the guests are even less reputable than some of the people your uncle and aunt count among their friends. If you were my sister I could hardly express myself more plainly. But I hope you will understand my concern, now that you have some idea of the type of people that have been invited.’

She lowered her eyes.

‘And therefore, at the risk of interfering in a matter that does not concern me, at the risk of your uncle and aunt taking offence at my meddling in your affairs, at the risk of you yourself, having forgiven me one indiscretion already, becoming very angry with me, I ask you again: please don’t go to the ball. You do not belong there.’

Still she remained silent, twisting the sash of her peignoir around her finger.

‘Are you very angry?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she replied very softly after a pause. ‘No, I am not angry. And I shall do as you ask. I shan’t go.’

‘Do you mean that?’ he exclaimed joyfully.

‘I mean it,’ she said. ‘I shan’t go. I am very grateful to you for making enquiries about the kind of people who will be there. To tell you the truth, I had a feeling that you might not approve, but I dreaded having to stay at home all by myself. I find it so depressing.’

‘You had a feeling I might not approve?’ he echoed, smiling.

‘Yes!’ she replied. ‘You are such a good friend to me; I would hate to do anything against your wishes. As for tonight — your wish is my command.’

‘Thank you!’ he murmured, pressing her hand. ‘I appreciate that very much.’

‘Oh, as well you might!’ she said brightly, although she was somewhat startled by her own submissiveness. ‘Do you realise that it took me almost an hour to arrange all those coins in my hair? And all for nothing!’

‘I am serious — I appreciate it very much, really!’ he said earnestly.

Uncle Daniel came in.

‘Bonsoir, St Clare. You are not coming with us, are you? But Eline! Shouldn’t you be getting dressed?’

Eline’s stammered reply was lost in the vociferations of Eliza, who was berating the manservant in the adjoining room, and a moment later Eliza swept in, resplendent in Algerian draperies and a headdress of coins, with dainty Moorish mules on her feet.

‘Bonsoir, St Clare! What a shame you won’t be joining us! Good gracious, Eline, look at you!’

Vincent emerged from the winter garden.

‘It’s almost half-past nine and you’ve only done your hair!’ pursued Eliza. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘I don’t believe your niece will be accompanying you, dear lady,’ said St Clare, as Eline was too flustered to speak. ‘We heard, Vincent and I, that the society would be rather mixed this evening — and consequently I have advised Miss Vere to stay at home rather than expose herself to undesirable encounters. I hope you don’t mind. Of course I knew she would be in safe hands with her uncle and you to chaperone her, but I couldn’t help feeling that keeping such company would be rather less suitable for a young girl than for a married lady — even such a charming one as yourself! Was I very wrong?’

Eliza wondered whether or not she should take offence, since his tone, though determined, was friendly enough. Daniel Vere shrugged his shoulders.

‘Wrong?’ echoed Eliza. ‘Well, I wouldn’t know. Of course Eline can do as she likes. If she would rather not go, eh bien, soit, then we shall have to pretend she has a headache. Easy as kiss-your-thumb. But you will be abysmally bored, Eline.’

‘No, really, I would rather stay at home,’ said Eline. ‘That is, if you don’t mind.’

‘Not at all, my dear. Liberté chérie, as they say.’

The servant came in with the fur coats, and announced that the carriage was waiting. He held up Eline’s cloak.

‘If your uncle and aunt have no objection, I should like to keep you company for a little while,’ said St Clare.

They had no objection, and Eline felt mildly confused.

‘Goodbye, have fun!’ she said with a timid smile when Uncle Daniel, Eliza and Vincent took their departure.

‘Ridiculous,’ grumbled Uncle Daniel when they were seated in the carriage. ‘Ridiculous! He won’t have her going to the ball, but thinks it perfectly all right for him to stay with her and keep her company. I suppose it must be American! I mean, which is more compromising — going to a ball with us or spending an evening alone with a young man? Ridiculous!’

Vincent, thinking it beneath his dignity to defend his friend, made no comment. With much ado Eliza prevailed upon her husband to keep silent, saying that it would not do to speak ill of a niece who was living under his roof, nor of a friend whom they saw so frequently.

‘Speak ill of him? Not at all!’ huffed Uncle Daniel. ‘He’s American! And he has American ways, I suppose.’

. .

Eline was still flustered.

‘I don’t think my uncle was very pleased that I took your advice,’ she said when they were alone. ‘Nor did he seem to approve of — of you staying behind.’

St Clare looked at her in calm surprise.

‘Then why didn’t he say so? I asked him if he had any objection. And you? Would you rather I left?’

‘Oh no, I’d be very grateful if you stayed a while.’

‘With pleasure. Because I have another favour to ask of you, albeit a less important one.’

‘What is it?’

‘Could I have one of those coins you have taken so much trouble to arrange in your hair?’

Eline smiled; carefully she unwound the string of coins from her head and pulled one off, which she presented to him.

‘Thank you!’ he said, and attached it to his watch chain.

Eline was bemused. She felt very pleased, happy even, and yet somewhat abashed. And she wondered which Betsy would have thought the greater evil: going to the ball chaperoned by her uncle and aunt, or spending the evening unchaperoned with St Clare — in her peignoir, of all things. The latter to be sure, she thought. But he seemed to consider it all so simple and natural that she didn’t even dare to excuse herself to go and change her dress.

‘And now let’s have a nice chat!’ he said, settling himself in a Turkish armchair while she remained seated on the couch, shyly fingering the string of coins. ‘Why don’t you tell me some more about yourself, about your childhood, or your travels, perhaps?’

She said she did not know what to tell him, so he asked her questions, which she answered with pleasure and growing confidence. She told him about Aunt Vere, about how much she had enjoyed reading Ouida’s novels, and above all about her father and the large canvases that he never completed. She told him about her singing, and about Betsy and Henk, adding that she used to think quite differently then, and that she used to look quite different, too.

‘What do you mean by “then”?’

‘I mean before my illness and before I went travelling with my uncle and aunt. Before. . before my engagement.’

‘And how did you look then?’

‘Much healthier, and. . fresher.’

‘You mean: more beautiful?’

That he could read her thoughts made her laugh, and also that he did not make the slightest effort to be gallant. She suggested that he might be interested in seeing some of her photographs from those days, and as she reached for one of the albums lying on a console, it occurred to her that she might as well give him leave to call her by her first name, but in the next instant forgot her intention.

He leafed through the album, which contained many fine portraits of her: with a ribbon in her hair, wearing a pearl necklace, and several in a low-necked gown.

‘Well? What do you think?’ she asked, in response to his silence.

‘Very pretty,’ he said indifferently. ‘But that smile. . so coquettish, so sweet. . a pretentious kind of sweetness. A bit off-putting. Did you always look like that, or were you doing it for the photograph?’

She was piqued.

‘Goodness me, I didn’t know you could be so harsh!’ she said accusingly.

‘Was I harsh? If so, I beg your pardon. They are portraits of you, after all. I was confused. It’s hard for me to recognise you in them. But to be quite honest, I would have been put off if I had seen you looking like that. Beautiful, but off-putting. You look thinner now, and rather frail, but there is something very appealing about your expression, whereas the portraits are just coquettish poses. I prefer you as you are now.’

He closed the album and laid it aside.

‘And you?’ he resumed. ‘Would you rather be the way you were then? Do you miss your old life?’

‘Oh no,’ she sighed. ‘I wasn’t happy then, either.’

‘But from now on you will do your best to be happy, won’t you?’

She laughed softly and shrugged her shoulders.

‘Happiness can’t be forced,’ she murmured dreamily, in English.

‘I didn’t know you spoke English!’ he exclaimed.

‘Me?’ she responded in French, waking from her dream.

‘Yes, you!’

‘Me? Speaking English?’

‘Not now; a moment ago.’

‘Was I speaking English? I didn’t realise—’

‘Why did you never speak English to me before?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Yes you do.’

‘No, truly, I don’t.’

‘Of course you know. Come now, tell me why.’

She gave a light, gay laugh.

‘Because of the way you speak French! Your accent is so charming.’

‘So you have been laughing at me behind my back all this time?’

‘No, truly I have not!’

‘Then which language shall we speak from now on? English or French?’

‘French, or you’ll only think I was laughing anyway.’

‘There’s no logic at all in what you’re saying.’

‘I dare say, but I want to go on speaking French.’

‘See? You aren’t as weak as you thought. You’re getting braver already.’

‘Am I?’

‘This is the first time I’ve heard you say “I want”. It’s a good start. Mark my words: first you exercise your will over some small matter, and soon it will become firmer. Once it’s firm and strong, you’ll become brave. Promise me you’ll try to cultivate that small will of yours, think of it as a hothouse seedling that needs a lot of care.’

She continued to smile sweetly.

‘I could become very wilful under your influence.’

‘Well, I hope not. But I’d be delighted if you became a little braver under my influence.’

‘I shall do my best.’

‘And I shall keep you to your word. Now I must be off. It is nearly eleven.’

She wanted to exclaim ‘What, already?’, but checked the impulse.

‘Now tell me honestly, don’t you think you are far better off going to bed early and getting a good night’s sleep instead of staying up until six in the morning and dancing with strange men and associating with an even stranger assortment of ladies?’

‘You are absolutely right. I am very grateful to you.’

‘And so am I to you, for the coin you have given me.’

She sensed that his gratitude extended further than the coin.

‘And now I must take my leave. Goodnight, Eline.’

She was moved to hear him call her by her first name; it struck a new note of familiarity and warmth.

‘Goodnight, Lawrence,’ she whispered.

She extended her slender hand. He held it a moment, gazing into her eyes, then let go.

‘Adieu!’ he said with a final cordial nod, and left.

She remained standing a while, sunk in thought, then ordered the servant to turn off the light in the reception room, and retired to her bedroom. She took the string of coins from her hair and laid it on her dressing table. The shimmering draperies of her oriental costume were spread out on a chair, with her Moorish mules on the floor beside it.

While she was getting dressed for bed she could hear his voice speaking in that light accent of his. She tidied away her jewellery with deliberation. Her eye fell on her watch, and from there on the black locket attached to the chain. She opened the locket and gazed at it for a long moment, moist-eyed.

Then she pressed a soft kiss on the likeness it contained, as though she were kissing someone who had just died. She had a momentary impulse to detach the locket from the chain and put it away in one of the little drawers of her jewellery box, where she kept various trinkets that she no longer wore. But she did not act on it.

She climbed into bed. She did not sleep. Nor did she take any drops. At half-past five she heard Uncle Daniel and Eliza return home, sighing with exhaustion. But her wakeful hours had been undisturbed by grim thoughts of any kind; indeed, she felt bathed in a calm, rosy glow of repose.

Towards morning she dozed off, and when she awoke she felt less lethargic than usual.

. .

Eline did not see Eliza again until lunch the following day. Uncle Daniel had already left on one of his numerous missions, the nature of which was never fully disclosed, so that his occupation remained a mystery to Eline. She asked Eliza whether she had amused herself at the ball.

‘Oh, yes, well enough,’ Eliza responded genially. ‘Rather a brouhaha. Perhaps it was just as well that you didn’t go. You would have been a nervous wreck. Le cher poète était désolé. Did St Clare stay long?’

‘Until eleven.’

‘Ah well, personally I didn’t mind about him advising you to stay in. But Daniel thought it a bit strange that you were so easily persuaded. He’s got over it now, though! You are as free as you like as far as we’re concerned, you know that.’

Eline said nothing.

‘But you have to admit,’ Eliza continued with a chuckle, ‘that it was a bit odd. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’

‘Well, what does it make you think?’ asked Eline warily.

‘My dear girl, that is private. I am not going to tell you. You know I don’t go in for much thinking, but right now I do have some ideas. Don’t be alarmed: I am all in favour of it, if what I suspect is true.’

Eline sensed that this was an allusion to something she was barely conscious of herself.

She kept silent, whereupon Eliza, still fatigued from the ball, settled herself on a couch with a book and soon dozed off. Eline went to the balcony and sat down to think. She had thought little during the last few days, which had passed in a haze of contented submission, but now Eliza’s words had impinged on her consciousness. A bit odd. . it made you think. . True, that St Clare should have been so bold as to ask her not to go to the ball was slightly odd, to say the least, and it was no less odd of her to have consented! What this made her think of she dared not formulate in her mind, although the temptation to do so was almost irresistible. But she knew that nothing could come of it, that it could never be. . Oh, why had she not met him sooner? How cruel fate was!

She began to have qualms about her behaviour towards him. Perhaps she ought to have rebuffed him, told him not to meddle in her affairs. Nor had there been any need for her to apologise to him the other day for her coldness, really. But, on the other hand, how wonderful it had felt simply to bend to his will! He was so strong and protective, so deeply reassuring to her. It had never entered her mind that he might fall in love with her, ailing, broken creature that she was. It would be a foolish thing for him to do. . but it was probably too late now to try and stop him.

. .

When he called again a few days later, he found her alone in the reception room. The weather was cold, and Eline hardly ever went out with her uncle and aunt due to her cough. She was seated in the Turkish chair by the fire, while outside a driving wind sent the snowflakes whirling against the windowpanes.

‘I was sure I would find you at home; that’s why I came!’ he said, taking a seat. ‘Have your uncle and aunt gone out?’

‘Yes they have; I don’t know where to — some auction I believe, to buy antiques.’

She meant to maintain some reserve in her answers, but his company was so welcome to her that she found it impossible to do so, and in spite of herself she said:

‘It’s lovely to see you again.’

He smiled briefly and made some comments on the purchase of antiques with particular reference to the porcelain items dotted about the room. Then he said:

‘I shall soon be leaving you for an extended period. We are travelling via Cologne to Berlin, and then onward from there.’

She felt her throat tighten.

‘When will you be leaving?’ she asked mechanically.

‘In a few days.’

‘And you will be going all the way to Petersburg, to Moscow?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does Russia attract you?’

He responded somewhat absently, in short, halting sentences. Listening to him, she had to fight back her tears, and his words came to her in a blur when she heard him say, as though interrupting himself:

‘But there is something I wanted to ask you. I wanted to ask you to think of me once in a while, during my absence.’

‘Of course I’ll think of you!’ she said tremulously. ‘You have been so good to me, so kind — and I shall always remember you with pleasure.’

‘Thank you,’ he said softly. ‘It is sad, I find, having to say goodbye so soon to a new acquaintance with whom one has a sympathetic rapport.’

‘Yes, but then life is filled with disappointments, is it not?’

‘I know what you are going to say,’ he went on, following his own train of thought. ‘You are going to say that I can stay in Brussels as long as I please, because I’m travelling for pleasure and can alter my plans at will. Actually, I might even prefer so stay in Brussels.’

She began to tremble all over, but recovered herself in time to murmur:

‘Why should you alter your plans? Why not see what you can of the world?’

‘Because I love you,’ he said calmly, fixing her with his penetrating gaze. ‘And because I dread having to part from you. I would like to remain with you for ever, to care for you and protect you. I shudder to think of leaving you behind, as if something might happen to you while I’m away.’

‘But that’s impossible!’

‘Why impossible?’ he retorted. ‘Why is it impossible for me to be with you for ever, or rather, for you to be with me for ever? Tell me, Eline, why?’

‘Because it cannot be so,’ she replied, weeping.

‘Yes it can! It can, if you love me. You could come with me and I could take care of you; you would be my wife.’

‘And I would make you unhappy!’ she wept.

‘No, no. On the contrary, I would do everything in my power to make you happy, and I am certain I would succeed. Listen to me. I cared about you even before we met, because of what Vincent had told me about you. The first time I saw you I felt sorry for you, because it was so clear to me that you had suffered some terrible grief. I tried to think of some way of making you happy again, but found nothing. Only, during our conversations together I thought you were beginning to look and sound slightly more cheerful. It might have been my imagination, but that was my impression. I also imagined, perhaps out of vanity, that I might have had a hand in lifting your spirits a little. I watched you talking with other people, but with them you appeared to be cool and reserved, whereas with me you seemed quite happy to talk; you even grew confidential. That is when I felt a great longing to dedicate myself entirely to you, because I thought, if I can do that, she might be able shake off her gloomy view of life and be happy again. My darling Elly, you’re still so young, and you think it’s too late for things to change. Don’t think like that any more; put your trust in me, then we can set out together to discover whether life really is as dismal as you believe. Tell me, Elly, will you? Will you let me show you that you have a whole new life waiting for you?’

She sobbed quietly and raised her tear-filled eyes to his, clasping her hands almost beseechingly.

‘Oh, why must you ask me that?’ she cried. ‘Why must you ask me? Why must I hurt you? Not you, too! But it’s impossible; it could never be, not ever.’

‘Why not?’

‘Why not?’ she echoed. ‘Because, even though I’m young, I’m quite broken. Why won’t you believe me? Because everything in me is shattered, because my soul is in ruins.’

‘Eline, there’s no need for such big words. Calm down.’

‘I am not using big words, I am quite calm. I speak with reason, oh, with hopeless reason!’ she cried, standing up to face him. He caught her hands in his. ‘I know what I am saying, and I can’t bear it! Listen to me, Lawrence. You know that I was engaged to be married, don’t you?’

‘Yes. You broke it off.’

‘Yes I did. I broke it off, and yet I loved him. Even when I was writing that final letter telling him it was over, I loved him. Do you realise how awful that is?’

His only answer was a look of bewilderment.

‘You don’t understand, do you?’ she burst out, her hands shaking in his grasp. ‘You have no idea what it feels like to be a woman whose heart is lacerated by the most horrible doubts! I don’t even know what I feel sometimes, or what I want, or even what I’m thinking! You see, there’s a part of me that is undeveloped, incomplete. I’m always racked with doubt, never sure about anything. I loved him — oh, please forgive me saying this to you now, but I loved him so very much, he was so good and he would have given his life for me! And then one day I began to wonder whether I really loved him. I even thought I loved someone else for a time, while I loved no one but him. I know that now, but I discovered it too late, and I may have ruined his life!’

‘Why do you think that, Eline?’

‘I just know it. When I was in The Hague people gave me to understand that he had got over the disappointment. But I never believed them! Now that it’s too late, it has all become clear to me, only now do I realise how much he loved me. And he hasn’t forgotten me; if I had heard that he had married someone else in the meantime, I still wouldn’t believe he had forgotten all about me. I know he still thinks of me, just as often as I still think of him.’

‘Do you still love him?’ he asked dully.

‘Not the way I loved him before. Not any more, Lawrence. I think what I feel for him now is pity more than anything else. But I think of him often. I have his portrait here.’

She opened the locket and held it out for him to see Otto’s likeness. He stared at it.

‘Do you keep it with you at all times?’ he asked softly.

‘Yes, I do,’ she said in a barely audible whisper. ‘Always. It is sacred to me. And that is why, Lawrence — oh, that is why it can never be! The thought of him would always come between us. I could have been happy with you, if it weren’t for that thought haunting me. But I could never be happy while I knew him to be sad, oh, no, I could never do that!’

When he failed to respond she sank to the floor, convulsed with sobs, and pressed her forehead to his knees.

‘Oh forgive me, Lawrence, forgive me! I never thought you could love me! I felt so ill, always coughing, too weak to do anything! I thought I’d grown ugly, and that no man would ever want me! Otherwise I wouldn’t have shown you that I cared for you! You spoke of us as brother and sister! Why do you speak differently now? And now I have caused you pain, but I had no choice. It would be wicked of me to become your wife while I have this weighing on my conscience.’

He pulled her gently to her feet and drew her towards him.

‘Eline!’ he said. ‘You once told me that you had thrown away your happiness. I did not ask what you meant by that. But I am asking you now. Did you mean the letter you wrote to Otto?’

‘Yes!’ she sobbed.

‘You threw away your happiness by writing that letter, is that it? Are you quite sure that you won’t be throwing it away again if you stand by the answer you gave me? Or could I never make you happy? Only Otto?’

‘Oh, Lawrence!’ she murmured passionately, stepping closer. ‘If only I had met you when I was younger, before all those things happened, I could never have loved anyone but you. But it was not to be. It was my fate.’

‘Oh, don’t talk about fate. Fate is just a word. Everyone shapes their own fate. You are too weak to take yourself in hand. Let me be your fate.’

‘It’s impossible!’ she wept, tossing her head from side to side against his chest. ‘I can’t help it, but it’s impossible!’

‘No, Eline, it is not impossible!’ he replied. ‘You say you could have loved no one but me if you had met me before. But if we had met before, you might not have had the same effect on me; in any case, all that is mere speculation, and beside the point. The point is that I love you; I love you the way you are now. You say that you are ill, but I know that you will recover. I can feel it.’

‘You can’t be sure!’ she wept.

‘That is true, but neither can you be sure that you ruined Otto’s happiness. You can see that, can’t you? You don’t know for certain.’

‘Oh, but I am! I can feel it!’

‘But you don’t know for certain,’ he persisted. ‘And you tell me, when I ask you to be my wife, that it’s impossible, out of the question. Aren’t you being rather cruel?’

‘Oh, please don’t say that!’ she sobbed.

‘You said yourself a moment ago that you are always doubting, never certain about anything. So what makes you so certain that you can’t marry me? How do you know you won’t regret your decision when I’m gone, when it’s too late?’

‘Oh,’ she moaned. ‘How can you make me suffer like this? You’re tormenting me—’

He lifted her face to his.

‘I shall stop tormenting you, Eline. There is just one more thing. Please don’t give me a flat refusal. You might yet have a change of heart. At least allow me to hope. Vincent and I are leaving the day after tomorrow. Five months from now you will see me again. I shall ask Vincent to write to you from time to time, so that you always know where to reach me. One word from you and I shall come straight back. You needn’t promise me anything, just don’t refuse me just yet. Allow me to hope, and try to be hopeful yourself. Will you do that for me? Is that asking too much?’

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Oh no, it’s not too much. I will give you my answer five months from now.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s all I ask. And now I will wait here for your uncle and aunt to return, so that I can take my leave of them. Vincent will look in tomorrow. And, since we’re alone now, may I take this opportunity to say goodbye to you?’

She did not answer, but held his gaze until he took her in his arms and kissed her.

‘Five months from now?’ he whispered, smiling.

Drawing back a moment, she looked at him intently, then flung her arms about his neck and pressed a long, tender kiss on his forehead.

‘Five months from now,’ she echoed.