Louis Couperus - Eline Vere

‘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.