Louis Couperus - Eline Vere

‘Fie, Eline, fie! You shouldn’t say such things.’

‘Oh, I know I’m horrid! But am I to blame? Don’t you think I would much rather be good and kind and happy? But I cannot change the way I am, it’s impossible! You told me that I ought to pray, you said it would make me feel better. Well, I went to church, and it didn’t help. . and I can’t pray properly the way you do, either! I did pray for something once, a long time ago, but my prayer went unanswered.’

She thought of that night at De Horze, when she had prayed to God that her happiness, the gentle felicity she had found with Otto, might remain with her for ever.

‘I’ll tell you what I prayed for!’ she pursued hoarsely, coughing as she rose to her feet and began to walk aimlessly about the room, wringing her thin hands as if they were ice-cold. ‘I was so happy then, happier than I thought I could ever be. It was a lovely time, so peaceful and so tranquil; everyone was good and kind to me. I couldn’t imagine what I had done to deserve such great happiness, and then. . then all of a sudden I began to be afraid that things might change. That was when I prayed to God to make that wondrous happiness last for ever. And from that moment on — when I was afraid and prayed to God — from that moment on things did begin to change, very slowly, but surely. I can see it so clearly now! I shouldn’t have given in to doubt, I shouldn’t have been afraid, I shouldn’t have prayed! Don’t you see? That is why I cannot and will not pray any more.’

She flung herself on the sofa in a nervous flood of tears, but jumped up again immediately with a wild, hunted look. Her eyes darted this way and that and her fingers were in constant motion, touching a vase here or a flower basket there, toying with the fringe of the window-curtain, tracing arabesques on the steamed-up panes. Abruptly recovering herself, she found that she could not recall what she had just said.

‘I don’t suppose you understand, do you?’ she said doubtfully to Madame van Raat, whose mournful gaze had followed her every movement.

‘Yes, my dear, I believe I do,’ she stammered, overcome with grief over Eline’s lost chance of happiness.

Eline stared. For a moment she deeply regretted her half-remembered confession, but the sympathy beaming from Madame’s eyes reassured her.

‘So you understand what I mean? You understand why I can never be happy again?’ she asked, sinking down on the footstool once more.

Madame van Raat did not answer; with tears in her eyes she put her arm around Eline’s neck and kissed her. They remained thus a moment, in silence.

‘And will you forgive me, just a little, for leaving you?’

‘Oh, why won’t you stay with me?’

‘I’m a burden to you; my company is anything but agreeable. There is nothing I can do for you, just as there is nothing you can do for me!’

It was the truth. Madame could do nothing for her. No one could.

They found no more to say to one another. Each was painfully aware of her inability to lighten the load of the other’s existence by means of mutual consolation. But Madame, pressing Eline to her bosom, was not convinced that there would be any consolation to be found in the company of Uncle Daniel and Eliza either.

Dusk fell, and as the fire was almost out it grew chilly in the room, with dark, vague shadows looming in the angles of the walls and among the furniture. Madame van Raat was shivering, but she did not rise to attend to the fire or ring for the maid, because Eline’s head was resting on her lap. She had fallen asleep, and with her eyes closed it seemed to the old lady that, had it not been for the laboured breathing, she would have thought the girl had died, so waxen and livid was the shade of her emaciated features.

Eline slept on, and the temperature in room dropped further. Madame van Raat peered at the grate: not a trace of fire to be seen. With slow deliberation she took off the woollen shawl she invariably wore around her shoulders, and carefully spread it out over Eline.

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!’