Louis Couperus - Eline Vere

‘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.