Eline Vere

XXXV

Uncle Daniel and Aunt Eliza showed no surprise whatever when, a few days after St Clare and Vincent had taken their departure, Eline announced her intention to return to The Hague. They knew her to be capricious by nature, wanting first this and then that, never satisfied. But this was no caprice. The idea had been growing in her mind ever since that evening when St Clare had asked her so bluntly ‘How do you come to be here?’, and she had felt as though a curtain had been swept aside, revealing to her with devastating clarity that she did not indeed belong in her uncle’s Brussels apartment, and even less so among the coterie he and his wife associated themselves with. And it was out of her feelings for St Clare — respect, friendship and possibly even love — that she had resolved to leave Brussels.

She wrote to Henk, asking him to rent two rooms for her in a ladies’ boarding house, or else in one of the new chic hotels. She received a prompt reply from him, as well as notes from Betsy and old Madame van Raat, all protesting that she should not take rooms but make her home with them instead. Betsy wrote saying that it was time to forgive and forget what had passed between them, and imploring Eline not to be so eccentric as to go and live on her own when there was plenty of room for her at Nassauplein. Old Madame van Raat extended a similarly urgent and affectionate invitation. But Eline declined their offers with effusive thanks, and was not to be dissuaded from her pursuit.

So Henk gave up with a forlorn shrug and went with Betsy to pick out a handsome two-room apartment in a spacious boarding house on Bezuidenhout. Thereupon Eline returned to The Hague.

She recalled how tired she had been from all her travels when she arrived in The Hague the previous summer to make her stay with old Madame van Raat. She compared the fatigue she had felt then with her present state of exhaustion, which seemed to have robbed her even of the capacity to shed tears. For St Clare’s sake she had mustered the last remnants of her strength to show herself the way she had once been: attractive and engaging, if not radiant. And now that St Clare had gone, she realised that although she had tried to be candid and guileless with him, she had found herself putting on an act yet again, to avoid letting him see her as utterly brokenspirited — at death’s door even. Now that it was no longer necessary to work herself up to a pitch she was falling apart, and besides, the emotional upheaval of that final confession had left her feeling so drained that she felt sure she would never get well again, mentally or physically.

Her cough was very bad, and she sought treatment from Dr Reijer once more. But she did not mention the morphine drops prescribed by her physician in Brussels, mindful as she was of Reijer’s earlier refusal to supply her with a sleeping draught. It was February, bitterly cold, and she kept to her rooms.

Rising from her bed in the morning she was overcome by the same sense of purposelessness as when she was staying with Madame van Raat, and rather than get dressed she would slip on her peignoir and recline on a couch, savouring the restful feeling that nothing was demanded of her, that there was no earthly reason for her to get dressed, and there was nothing to stop her remaining as she was, in her slippers, with her hair undone, for as long as she chose. She had been found thus, undressed, dishevelled and vacantly staring out of the window by various callers, including Madame van Raat, Betsy, Madame Verstraeten, and Marie and Lili. She did not read, she did nothing at all, and hours went by during which even her thoughts came to a standstill. At times she would abruptly throw herself on the floor and lie there pressing her face to the carpet with her eyes tightly closed, until a knock at the door — the maid bringing her lunch tray — made her scramble to her feet in sudden fright. She barely touched her food, and a grim little smile, half satiric and half crazed, etched itself on her features.

The evenings inflicted hours of agony on Eline. Her mind would be in a frenzy of agitation, as though electrified by the dread of a sleepless night. A vertiginous glare flooded her brain, her ears were filled with an incessant hum. A maelstrom of remembrances whirled by, and visions rose up before her. She started in fear at a shadow looming on the wall or the glint of a pin on the floor. But she took her drops, and was muffled at last by a leaden mantle of sleep.

. .

For long moments she stood staring in the glass at her faded beauty. Tears would rise to her eyes, whose brightness seemed to have been snuffed out for ever, and her mind drifted to her past. She was filled with yearning for those former days, having lost sight of what they had entailed, for she was finding it increasingly difficult to think clearly. It was as if there were certain limits to what she might think about, which she might not venture beyond. However, the sluggishness of her powers of reason lessened her melancholy, which, had she been of clear mind, would have mounted to a dangerous crisis. Instead, she now spent hour upon hour racked with doubt as to what she could possibly do with her useless body and her useless existence, dragging herself from one spasm of coughing to the next in the prison of her rooms. She shed bitter tears over her unfulfilled desires and lay writhing on the floor, her arms outstretched towards a phantom lover, for both in her dreams and in the daytime ramblings of her mind she had begun to confound Otto with St Clare, unconsciously attributing the utterances and ideas of the one to the other, so that she no longer knew which of the two she had ever truly loved, or still loved. When, during such fits of equivocation, she tried to battle through to a resolution, she came up against those thought-confining limits again, and became so enraged by her powerlessness that she thumped her head with her fists, as though trying to discipline her wayward brain by force.

‘What is the matter with me?’ she asked herself in despair. ‘Why can I remember nothing of hundreds of things that have happened, except that I know that they happened? Oh, the dullness in my head! I’d rather be in terrible pain than suffer this dullness! I must be going mad. .’

A shudder ran down her spine like a cold snake. Suppose she did go mad, what would they do with her? It did not bear thinking about, and yet, even as she struggled to banish the spectre of encroaching insanity, she had a sense of crossing a forbidden limit. Because if that was what she was doing then she must be. . losing her mind!

At such moments she would cover her eyes and her ears with her hands to block out all sight and sound, as though the first impression she might now receive would push her over the brink into madness. So terrified was she of this happening that she did not breathe a word to Reijer about the befuddlement in her brain.

During her prolonged spells of inactivity she became enslaved by strange fantasies and delusions, often rising to a bizarre strain of ecstasy, from which she would suddenly start awake in shock. Reclining on her couch, nervously toying with the tassels on the cushions or twisting a strand of her long, tousled hair, she mused on the theatrical illusions she had cherished in the old days of her duets with Paul, when she thought she loved Fabrice. Then she became an actress, she was on stage, she could see the audience, she smiled and bowed, it rained flowers. .

She rose to her feet in a daze, and began to hum some recitative, or a few phrases from an Italian aria as she drifted about the room, throwing up her hands in despair, reaching out beseechingly to a fleeing lover, falling down on her knees and begging for mercy even as she was being forcibly dragged away. . Diverse roles floated into her mind: Marguerite, Juliette, Lucie, Isabelle, Mireille, and in her transport of excitement she became all these heroines, acting out their most tragic moments in swift succession, only to wake abruptly from her delirium to find herself all alone in her room, making strange gesticulations.

Coming to herself again, she thought:

‘Oh God! Is it true? Am I going mad?’

She sank on to the couch again and kept very still, wide-eyed with fear, as though some horrible catastrophe were about to strike, as though the faces in the paintings and prints on the walls had suddenly come alive, jeering at her and grimacing like demons.

After such a day she would resolve, in quiet dread, to take possession of herself. The following morning, upon waking from her leaden, artificial slumber, she rose promptly from her bed and dressed with care, after which she went out to make some purchase, take coffee with Henk and Betsy, or call on either the Verstraetens or Madame van Raat. She said she was lonely, and people invited her to dinner now and then out of pity. On such occasions the evening passed quite cheerfully, and she returned to her rooms afterwards glad to have reached the end of another day, but almost fainting with exhaustion from her unwonted animation, her forced brightness, her unnatural, shrill laugh, not to mention her endless coughing. And she would pay heavily at night: the drops had no effect; she remained wide, wide awake, prey to the wildest phantasms conjured by her sick mind as she relived the day’s strenuous activities.

She was the subject of much talk, and Betsy frequently remarked with a worried frown that she feared Eline was ill; she was acting so strangely these days, and Reijer was not at all satisfied either. And everyone felt sorry for her: poor, poor Eline, who used to be so elegant and alluring, so gay! Now she was like a shadow of her former self on the rare occasions that she was seen venturing out in the street with nervous, unsteady gait, her muff pressed to her lips, and there was something almost timid in the way she tilted her head in greeting the Van Larens, the Hijdrechts, the Oudendijks. No indeed, she was not at all well; it was evident for all to see.

. .

It was raining: a cold, driving March rain, and Betsy was at home, sitting in the violet anteroom by the conservatory with her armchair pushed into the light so that she could read her book, Pêcheur d’Islande by Pierre Loti. But the story bored her: she could not imagine fishermen being quite so sentimental. Beyond the potted palms in the conservatory she could see into the garden, where the bare trees glistened starkly in the downpour. Ben sat on the floor by his mother, his head lolling against her skirts, his eyes fixed on the leafless branch of an elm tree tossing madly in the wind and rain. He heaved a sigh.

‘What’s the matter Ben, is anything wrong?’ asked Betsy.

‘No, Ma,’ he said in his slurred voice, looking up at her in wonder.

‘Then why did you sigh, darling?’

‘Don’t know, Ma.’

She looked at him intently a moment, then laid aside her book.

‘Come here, Ben.’

‘Where, Mama?’

‘Here, on my knee.’

Smiling, he clambered onto her lap. Her tone, formerly sharp when addressing her only child, had softened of late.

‘Do you love your mama?’ she asked fondly.

‘Yes.’

‘Give me a hug, then.’

He threw his short arms about her neck.

‘And now give me a kiss.’

Beaming doltishly, he kissed her.

‘Mama is never bad, is she?’ asked Betsy.

‘No.’

‘Do you like sitting on Mama’s lap?’

‘Yes.’

The overgrown seven-year-old snuggled up against her bosom.

‘Tell me, Ben, is there anything you’d like to have? Shall Mama give you something nice?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Not even a cart, for instance, with a pony, a proper pony? Then Herman could teach you to drive.’

‘No, thank you,’ he said blankly.

She grew impatient, and was on the point of scolding him for being so witless, but stopped herself just in time. She held him close and kissed him.

‘Well, if there’s anything else you want to have, you must tell me, do you hear?’ she resumed, almost in tears. ‘You’ll tell me, won’t you, Ben? What do you say, little man? Promise you’ll tell Mama?’

‘Yes,’ he replied in a tone of blissful contentment.

And she shut her eyes, shuddering at the thought that she had an idiot son. What had she ever done to deserve such a punishment?

She sat there holding her child on her lap for some time, when she heard someone approaching through the salon. It was Eline.

‘Well hello, Elly.’

‘Hello, Betsy. Hello, Ben.’

‘So you went out in spite of the rain?’

‘I took a cab; I couldn’t stay indoors a moment longer. This weather makes me so dreary, and I thought. . I thought I was going mad with boredom. Oh, God!’

With a strangled cry she dropped into a chair and tore off her short veil, as if she needed air.

‘Just imagine: the same four walls of your room day in day out, all by yourself, with nothing to distract you — surely that would drive anyone mad? Anyway, I can’t stand it any more; if it goes on much longer I’ll go insane. .’

‘Eline, prends garde: l’enfant t’écoute.’

‘Oh, him. . he doesn’t understand, and I don’t think he ever will!’ she ranted hoarsely. ‘Come over here, Ben, and listen to me. Shall I tell you what to do when you grow up? Never think about anything, poppet! Don’t think at all! Just eat, drink and have fun for as long as you can, and then. . then you must marry! But don’t start thinking, whatever you do!’

‘Eline, vraiment tu es folle! Mind what you’re saying!’ Betsy burst out, more concerned for her child than for her sister.

Eline laughed out loud; the shrill, crazed edge to her voice frightened Ben, who gazed up at her round-eyed, his mouth gaping. But she went on laughing.

‘Oh, he has no idea, does he, the little mite! No, you don’t know what Auntie’s raving about, do you? But it feels so good to rant and rave for once! I wish I could do something outrageous, something quite mad, but there’s nothing I can think of. I’m so dull nowadays that I can’t even think at all. If only Eliza were here, she’d know what to do. Do you know what Eliza and I did once, that first time I was staying in Brussels? I never dared to tell anyone before, but now I don’t care, I can say whatever I like. Just imagine, one evening we went out, just the two us, for a walk; we were feeling adventurous, you know. Mind you don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Then we met two gentlemen, two very nice gentlemen, whom we’d never met before. And we went for a drive with them. . in an open landau, and then we. . we went to a café.’

Her whole speech had been punctuated by nervous, shrill giggles, and by the end of it she was laughing hysterically, with frenzied tears running down her contorted features. Not a word of it was true, but to her it was all real.

‘Just fancy! We were in café! A café! And then—’

‘Eline, please! Stop being so silly,’ Betsy said quietly.

‘Oh, you think it’s terribly shocking, don’t you? Well, you can put your mind at rest; it wasn’t that bad.’

She gave another wild, forced laugh and then broke down into sobs.

‘Oh, that wretched Reijer! I have this constant pain here, in my head, and he doesn’t even care, all he goes on about is my cough. I know I cough, I don’t need him to tell me. Oh, God! And that boarding house is so awful.’

‘Then why don’t you come back to live with us?’

‘We’d only be at each other’s throats again after the first three days!’ Eline laughed hollowly. ‘Now that we don’t see very much of each other we seem to get on rather better than before, I find.’

‘Honestly, I’d do my best to make you feel at home!’ pleaded Betsy, feeling increasingly concerned about the state of Eline’s nerves. ‘We could take care of you properly! I’d accommodate myself to your wishes.’

‘But I wouldn’t accommodate myself to yours! No, thank you very much! Freedom above all. You talk such nonsense. We’d start bickering in no time — I mean, just look at us, we’re bickering already.’

‘Why do you say that? I am not bickering, not by any means. All I want is for you to come back to us as soon as possible — tonight, preferably.’

‘Betsy, if you don’t shut up about that I shall leave now and never come back. I have no desire to live in your house, do you hear? I will not live with you, and that’s final.’

She hummed a little.

‘Will you stay for supper, at least?’ asked Betsy.

‘Yes please! But I’m exhausted, so I won’t have much conversation. What are your plans for later this evening?’

‘We’re going to the Oudendijks’. Haven’t you been invited?’

‘No, I’ve stopped going out.’

‘Why?’

‘Drat the Oudendijks! Oh, my poor head! I’m half dead. . do you mind if I go and lie down for a while?’

‘Please do.’

‘Then I’ll go to Henk’s room; there’s a comfy couch there.’

‘The fire isn’t lit, though.’

‘Oh, I don’t mind.’

. .

She went upstairs to Henk’s sitting room. Henk was out. She removed her coat and hat. Then she took a cigar from a cigar box, bit the tip off and lit it, but the bitter taste disgusted her and she stubbed it out. She lay down on the couch. Her wandering eyes lit on a weapon rack, a trophy of swords, daggers and pistols. What if she wanted to kill herself, how would she do it? A dagger through her heart? A bullet in her mouth? Oh no, no, she would never have the courage, and anyway she wouldn’t know how to handle a dagger or a pistol. She might just wound herself, mutilate herself, and. . go on living. Besides, death was even worse than life. Death was something she never dared to think about, something infinitely, unspeakably vast and empty. Would there be life after death, would there be a God? She remembered having sweet visions of azure landscapes bathed in a luminous glow, with singing angels flitting about on silvery wings, and far away in the hazy distance a throne of clouds occupied by an ethereal being of majestic allure. The vision came back to her now, and she felt herself being borne aloft on the soft strains of heavenly song. But then she had a sense of falling down to earth at dizzying speed with the room wheeling all around her, until her eyes came to rest on the weapon rack again. No, no, not a pistol, not a dagger! Not poison, either, because she would turn blue and green and they’d find her with her face twisted and swollen and everybody would be appalled by her ugliness. What if she drowned? Then, too, she would be ugly, with her body all bloated by the time they fished her out of the lake. But drowning was supposed to be a gentle death; you saw the water closing over your head in a gorgeous swirl of lovely colours and then you gradually dropped off to sleep, sinking deeper and deeper into a billowing, downy softness, and in death you were like Ophelia, adorned with water lilies and reeds. But she couldn’t think of any lake with lilies and reeds in The Hague, there were only canals with foulsmelling, green water. . oh no, not that! The lake in the woods, then? Or the sea at Scheveningen? No, no, she would be too terrified, and anyway she was too weak; she wouldn’t even have the strength now to run away in the middle of the night during a storm as she had done so long ago, all alone, battling against the wind and the driving rain. And she came to the conclusion that she would never find the courage to hang herself, or to suffocate herself; the fact was that she was too cowardly to kill herself at all. She began to quake as in a fever, so horrified was she by her thoughts.

Why did she have to be like this? Why couldn’t she have been happy with Otto? Why hadn’t she met St Clare when she was eighteen? What had she done to deserve such wretchedness? Who had she ever harmed? Hadn’t she taken good care of Aunt Vere in her final illness, hadn’t she sacrificed her own good fortune for Vincent? Oh, if only she had been capable of happiness, then she would have shared it with everyone around her. St Clare — or was it Otto? — had once told her there were treasures slumbering in her soul. Well, she would have shared out those treasures, she would have bestowed the jewels of her joy wherever she went. But it had not come to pass, she had been crushed by the sheer weight of her existence, and now she was so tired from the struggle that her only wish was that it should end. Oh, if only she were dead. .

The rain had stopped; it grew dark. Exhausted from her sombre ruminations, she lay back, numb, her mind a blank, and at length dozed off. She was roused by a heavy footfall in the hallway, and before she was fully awake, Henk entered.

‘My dear Sis! What are you doing here in the dark? My, how cold it is in here!’

‘Cold?’ she echoed with the dazed look of a sleepwalker. ‘Yes, so it is, I can feel it now — I’m shivering. I must have been asleep.’

‘Why don’t you come downstairs with me? Dinner will soon be served. Betsy said you were staying, is that right?’

‘Yes. Oh, Henk, how awful that I fell asleep.’

‘Awful? Why?’

‘Now I won’t sleep a wink tonight!’ she sobbed, burying her head in his shoulder.

‘Why won’t you come back to live with us, Elly?’ he asked softly. ‘It would be so much better all round.’

‘No, no, I don’t want that.’

‘Why not?’

‘It wouldn’t do, Henk. I am certain of that. It’s very sweet of you to ask, but it simply wouldn’t do. I have these sudden moods when I feel like smacking Betsy, for instance, especially when she’s being nice to me. I very nearly hit her this afternoon.’

He sighed with a hopeless expression. She was ever a mystery to him.

‘Let’s go down,’ he said, and as they descended the stairs together she leant heavily on his arm, shivering from the cold that had now truly overtaken her.

. .

Winter came to an end and Eline’s condition remained unchanged. It was May, and although the weather had been wintry only the previous week, the summer season had burst forth with soaring temperatures. Eline lay on her couch, felled by the heat.

‘Don’t you think it would do you good to spend some time in the country this summer?’ suggested Reijer. ‘I don’t mean travelling from one place to another, that would be too tiring. I am thinking along the lines of a holiday in some cool, shady retreat, a place where you would find a caring environment.’

She thought of De Horze. Oh, if only she had married Otto! Then she would have had all the cool shade and loving care she needed!

‘I wouldn’t know where to go,’ she answered dully.

‘I might be able to help you there. I know some people in Gelderland, a most agreeable couple who run a small country estate with a fine wood of pine trees nearby.’

‘Not pine trees, for Heaven’s sake!’ cried Eline with passion.

‘The country air would agree with you.’

‘Nothing will agree with me. I do wish you’d stop nagging, Dr Reijer.’

‘Have you been sleeping well lately?’

‘Oh yes, very well.’

It was not true; she did not sleep at all at night, only dozed off from time to time during the day. The drops no longer sent her to sleep; instead, they left her in a permanent state of hazy exaltation, a crazed semi-consciousness veering between extreme lassitude and mortal fear, during which she had spells of becoming an actress moaning and writhing in agony on the floor.

Reijer regarded her intently.

‘Miss Vere, pray tell me the truth. Have you been taking any other medicines besides the ones I have prescribed?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I should like an honest answer, Miss Vere.’

‘Of course I haven’t! How could you think I would do such a thing! I wouldn’t dare! No, no, you may rest quite assured about that.’

Reijer left, and in his carriage he forgot about his notebook for a moment while reflecting on the plight of Miss Vere. Then he heaved a sigh of defeat.

No sooner had he gone than Eline stood up; her room was unbearably hot and stuffy, even though the door to the balcony was open. She wore only a thin grey peignoir carelessly draped over her emaciated frame. Standing before the mirror, she plunged her hands into her loose hair. It had grown very thin, and she laughed as she twisted a strand between her fingers. Then she flung herself on the floor.

I refuse to see him again! she thought to herself. That Reijer! He only makes me feel worse. I can’t stand him. I shall write and tell him he’s discharged.

But she knew she would not have the spirit to do this, and remained crouched down, tracing the floral patterns on the carpet with her finger. She began to hum to herself.

The sun shining in through the open balcony door cast a rectangle of gold on the floor, with myriad dust particles dancing above it. The glare disturbed Eline, and she drew back.

‘The sun!’ she whispered inaudibly, with strangely staring, glazed eyes. ‘How I hate the sun! I want the rain and the wind, cold rain and cold wind, I want to feel the rain trickling down the décolletage of my black tulle dress.’

Suddenly she scrambled to her feet and wrung her hands on her chest as though holding the sides of a cloak to prevent the wind from tearing it from her shoulders.

‘Jeanne, Jeanne,’ she moaned in her delirium. ‘Please let me in, I beg you. I have run away from home, because Betsy’s so horrid to me, you see, and during dinner at Hovel’s this evening she said all sorts of hateful things about Vincent. And you know how much I love Vincent. It was because of him that I broke off my engagement, my engagement to St Clare. Oh, he bored me to tears with his calmness. So calm he was, for ever calm. It drove me mad! But truly, Henk, I shall go to Lawrence and ask his pardon, only don’t hit me, Henk. Oh, Lawrence, I beg you, I love you so much, don’t be angry with me, Lawrence — Lawrence! See if I don’t love you! Look, I have your portrait right here! I keep it with me all the time.’

She fell to her knees by the sofa and lifted her face, as if she had seen someone, then gave a violent start and rose unsteadily to her feet.

‘Oh God, there it is again!’ she thought, recovering herself.

She felt as if there was a war going on inside her brain, with her powers of reason fighting a losing battle against the madness assailing her. She groped for a book that was lying on the table, and opened it, to force herself to be sensible and to read. It was the score of Le Tribut de Zamora, which she had bought long ago, during her passion for Fabrice.

She dared not look up, fearing that her madness would take some hideous form before her eyes. She dared not move, out of terror for herself, and in her wandering mind salvation would come if only she could pass out of her body, as it were, and into the sunlight, which was now flooding her entire room, rippling over the satin curtains and bathing the delicate Japanese porcelain and polished brass ornaments in a golden glow.

Softly she began to sing, without thinking what, in a voice hoarse and raw with endless coughing. But there was a knock at the door.

‘Who’s there?’ she asked anxiously

‘It’s me, Miss,’ a voice cried. ‘Bringing you your lunch.’

‘Thank you, Sophie, but I have no appetite. Dr Reijer said I wasn’t to eat too much.’

‘Shall I take it away then, Miss?’

‘Yes, take it away.’

‘You will ring if you want anything, won’t you?’

‘Yes, yes.’

She heard the rattle of plates and glasses on the tray as the maid descended the stairs, and tried to focus her mind on Xaïma’s score. She drew herself up, held her head high and made a regal gesture with her hand as she broke into song, only to crumple up in a fit of coughing.

There was another knock at the door.

‘Oh, what is it now?’ cried Eline, greatly perturbed.

‘May I come in a moment, Miss Vere?’ It was a different voice, affable and genteel.

Eline thought hard a moment, then closed the songbook and sank down on the couch. She lay back against the cushions and half-closed her eyes.

‘Yes you may,’ she answered graciously.

The door opened and the proprietress, a buxom lady dressed entirely in black, stepped into the room.

‘I just popped in to see how you are,’ she said with warm civility. ‘Are you not well?’

‘No, I am not!’ groaned Eline, closing her eyes. ‘I feel very weak.’

In reality she was feeling full of nervous, manic energy which she was minded to express by means of song, but it had become a habit to say that she felt weak when people asked after her health.

‘Won’t you have a bite to eat?’

‘Dr Reijer said—’ Eline began.

The proprietress shook her head.

‘My dear Miss Vere, shame on you for trying to mislead me. I just heard from Dr Reijer that you would benefit from a cup of hot broth.’

‘I am afraid hot broth would make me nauseous.’

‘But you must eat something, Miss Vere.’

‘I assure you, I feel too ill to eat now.’

‘Well, later then. May I prepare a wholesome meal for you? What would you fancy?’

‘Do whatever you like. My appetite may come back to me, I suppose. But in the meantime would you be so kind as to tell any callers, including my sister, that I cannot receive them? I feel very low this afternoon. I can’t tell you how low.’

‘Is there anything you need? Anything I can do for you?’

‘You are very kind, but really, I have no need of anything. Except perhaps some ice, come to think of it. I am rather thirsty.’

‘A chilled carafe?’

‘I would rather have a slab of ice.’

‘Are you running a fever?’

‘No, but I like the feel of a lump of ice melting in my mouth. And please remember what I said — I am not at home to callers this afternoon.’

‘Certainly. I shall send for some ice at once. But you won’t mind if I let down the blinds, will you? Spare a thought for my poor furniture, Miss Vere!’

The proprietress lowered the blinds and left. Eline sat up, smiling and clicking her tongue in anticipation of the cooling ice, took up the songbook again and pictured herself as Xaïma.

She was standing tall, like a queen on a precipice, pointing to the dreamt ravine at her feet. Fancying that she heard a response from Ben-Saïd, she remained a moment thus transfixed, then resumed her portrayal of Xaïma, humming now rather than singing. But her voice cracked so that she had to clear her throat, which made her cough several times, and soon she was coughing so violently that she laid aside the score and sat down with her hands pressed to her constricted throat.

‘What’s the matter with me?’ she thought. ‘I’m not making any sense! I want to make sense!’

But the turmoil in her mind persisted as wave upon wave of confused memories washed over her, drowning her reason. Her eyes darted feverishly about her.

‘I want to make sense!’ she kept telling herself, and this aim became a wheel spinning in her brain. ‘I want to make sense!’

Her head felt leaden, and her theatrical excitement subsided into the mental torpor that she so feared. At such moments of desolation her only desire was to see St Clare. If only he had been there with her! He would have known what to do, he would have comforted her and made her see sense again. Their parting words in Brussels flashed into her mind. Five months from now, they had said. That had been in January, now it was March. He had said it would take only one word from her and he would rush back to her side. The idea was so tempting that she resolved to write him a note — she knew where to send it thanks to her correspondence with Vincent — oh, just a few words, just enough to make him come back! A soothing perspective opened before her eyes, and for a moment she felt very calm, and even happy. But that very calmness enabled her to take possession of herself, and her illusion evaporated. She shook her head from side to side: St Clare loved her out of pity, out of a desire to heal a fellow creature’s suffering, and even if he were indeed able to give her some measure of happiness, she had no right to chain her wilted life to his. And her next thought was of Otto. So she knew that it could never be. Never.

Notwithstanding the lowered blinds, the heat in the room was rising. Sophie, the maid, knocked at the door.

‘I’ve brought you some ice, Miss!’

She came in bearing a tray of ice. As soon as she was gone Eline put a shard in her mouth, then took several others and rubbed them over her forehead until the large, icy drops trickled down between her fingers.

. .

Sophie brought her repast at half-past five, and laid the small round table with much care. But Eline merely picked at the various dishes, and was glad when Sophie came to clear them away. The weather was too hot; the smell of food turned her stomach.

She glanced at the calling cards Sophie had brought in with her tray: one from Madame Verstraeten and another from Lili.

‘Old Madame van Raat also came by this afternoon, Miss!’ said Sophie, and left.

Eline was alone; the evening crept forward. The sun sank leisurely behind the horizon, and it did not grow dark for a long time, so she raised the blinds again. Then she took from her cabinet a small phial and carefully counted out her drops in a glass of water. She drank slowly. Ah, if only they would bring some relief this time! They didn’t seem half as effective as they used to be.

Worn out from her long day of inertia, prey to the ramblings of her troubled mind, she decided to have an early night. She would not light the gas lamp; she would sit in the dusk a little longer and then try to get some sleep.

But her head began to seethe and simmer with unrelenting insistence. The cool evening air wafted into the room, yet she felt suffocated. She let the grey peignoir slide off her shoulders. Her arms were thin, her chest almost hollow, and with a sad smile she surveyed her wasted frame. She ran her fingers through her long, thin, hair. And because the light was fading, because she dreaded not sleeping despite the drops, because of the livid pallor of her skin beside the lace-edged nightdress, because she grew fearful of the deepening shadows, the madness rose up in her once more.

Ah, perfido! Spergiuro!

She began to hum, and she raised her arm in a wild gesture of accusation. This was the Beethoven aria that used to remind Vincent of the fragrance of verbena. . Then, her features twisting with grief and vengeance, she broke into song, raging at the faithless lover, commanding him out of her sight, invoking the wrath of the gods to punish him to the end of his days. With a sudden movement she pulled the sheet off her bed and draped the long white fabric about her, so that it resembled a robe of marble in the grey dusk.

Oh no! Fermate, vindici Dei!

She sang hoarsely, pausing repeatedly to cough. Her expression had altered, for she was now imploring the gods to have mercy on him — however cruel his betrayal, the constancy of her devotion was unchanged, and she would not seek revenge; for him she had lived and for him she wished to die. Slowly she intoned the adagio, very slowly, while the white folds of her drapery billowed and swayed to the supplicating gestures of her arms. She sang on and on, until a heart-rending cry forced itself from her throat, and in that final plaint she suddenly became an actress, a prima donna in the noble art of the opera. Her lover had fled, and she saw herself turning to chorus surrounding her with pity:

Se in tanto affa. . a. . a. . anno

She sang, almost weeping, with grief-stricken cadenzas, and in her agonised lamentation her voice rose to a shriek:

Non son degna di pieta

She gave a violent start, appalled by the shrill, screeching sound of her ruined voice, then flung off the white sheet and sank down on a chair, trembling. Had anyone heard her? She darted a quick glance through the open door of her balcony at the street below. No, there were only a few strollers in the gathering dusk, and no one was looking up. What about inside? Had they heard? Ah well, if so, it couldn’t be helped. But from now on, she vowed, she would be more sensible.

She was sobbing, and yet she laughed, too — at herself, for being so silly as to get all carried away like that! No wonder she wasn’t feeling in the least drowsy! She laid herself down on the rumpled bed and kept her eyes firmly closed. But sleep did not come.

‘Dear God,’ she moaned. ‘Dear God, let me sleep, I beg you, let me sleep!’

She wept bitterly, unceasingly. Then a thought flashed into her brain. What if she took a few more drops than the dose prescribed by that physician in Brussels? There would be no harm in that, would there? It was hardly likely, given that her normal dose didn’t seem to do anything for her these days. How many more drops would it be safe for her to take?

The same amount again? No, that would be too much, obviously. Goodness knows what might happen. Half the amount, then? Another three drops? No, no, she did not dare: the doctor had given her dire warnings about the dangers. Still, it was tempting. . and she got out of bed.

She took up her phial to count out the drops.

One. . two. . three, four-five. The last two spilled out just as she righted the phial. Five. . would that be too much? She hesitated a moment. Those five drops would be enough to send her to sleep, of that she was certain.

She hesitated yet again. Abruptly, she made up her mind: yes, she would sleep. And she drank her potion.

. .

She lay down on the floor, close to the open door to the balcony.

Perspiring with fear, she felt herself sliding into numbness; but what a strange sensation it was this time. . how different from the numbness she had grown accustomed to.

‘Oh my God!’ she thought. ‘My God! My God! Could it have been. . too much?’

No, no, that would be too awful! Death was so black, so empty, so unspeakable! And yet, what if she had taken too much? All at once her fear melted away, and a sense of infinite peace came over her. If that was what she had done, so be it.

And she began to laugh, with stifled, nervous titters, while the numbness pressed down on her, as though with giant, leaden fists. She tried to ward off the fists with her flailing hands, and her fingers became entangled in the chain she wore about her neck. Oh, his portrait, Otto’s portrait!

Had she really taken too much? Would she. .? She shivered. Would they come knocking at her door in the morning, and find no answer? Would they return later and knock again, and come upon her lying on the floor like this?

A terrible thought! Her fingers, moist with perspiration, groped for the locket. They must not find that portrait on her breast!

She raised herself to a sitting position and prised the small oval card from its casing. She could not see it, because it had grown dark in her room and her vision was already clouding over; only the yellow glow of the street lamp by the entrance dispelled the gloom. But she imagined it vividly, and she fondled the slip of cardboard, pressing it to her lips again and again.

‘Oh, Otto!’ she faltered, her speech slurring. ‘It was only you, my Otto, not Vincent, not St Clare, only you. . you. . Otto. . oh my God!’

She was torn between fear of death and acquiescence. Then, in the passion of her kisses, she took the card in her mouth. Yes, she would swallow it, since she no longer had the strength to tear it up or destroy it in any other way! A shuddering sigh convulsed her frame, and she began to chew the rejected proof of Otto’s portrait.

. .

Her tears were still flowing, but she no longer sobbed. The bitterness had ebbed away, and she wept like a child, with soft, childish whimpers and plaintive little moans. Now and then she gave a short, crazed laugh, and at length grew quiet, seated on the floor by the open door to the balcony with her forearms crossed before her face.

She made no movement, petrified by the state she was in, by what lay in store. She had a sense of a sea tossing within her, a dark sea flooding her thoughts, drowning her; she wanted to push the sea away, but its force was too great, and she lurched over and fell, deafened by the dull roar in her ears and in her brain.

‘God! God! Oh God!’ she moaned in a choked, fading voice of powerless despair.

Then her consciousness seeped away, drop by drop, and the sleep of death came over her.

. .

The street lamp was extinguished, and the spacious room was transformed into a dark crypt, a mausoleum of blackness in which a lifeless body lay, ghostly white.

The night air grew chill, and slowly the pearl-grey pallor of dawn arose.

. .

Henk van Raat sent a letter at once to Daniel Vere in Brussels, notifying him of Eline’s decease. Uncle Daniel and Eliza both wrote back, full of sympathy for poor Eline. Daniel also informed him that Vincent had returned from Russia a few days previously, accompanied by the American friend whom Eline had met in Brussels, and that they would be travelling to The Hague to attend the funeral.