Louis Couperus - Eline Vere

‘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.