Louis Couperus - Eline Vere

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.

At the onset of winter it seemed to Frédérique that her soul, which had previously felt as light and free as a bird, was labouring under a burden of lead. It seemed to her that she had committed some secret crime, that she had murdered Paul, as it were, and that Mathilda and Marie were the only people in the world who knew about it. She had grown taciturn and withdrawn, and her remorse tempered the dark shimmer of her eyes to a soft, soulful glow.

She had not seen Paul since he had moved to Bodegraven, and he very rarely visited The Hague nowadays. Had he left on her account? Or was his ambition to become a mayor just another fad, much like his earlier efforts at making a career out of singing, or painting, or his short spell at Hovel’s law office? Did he ever think of her? Or had he forgotten all about that sunny morning at De Horze when he kissed her and asked her to be his wife? And supposing he still thought of her, was it with regret or with indifference?