Meanwhile Eline, in all the bustle, had little time to think, only at bedtime did she find a moment’s peace. The evenings were often spent at home. It was September; Scheveningen was gradually losing its appeal, and with Otto coming to dinner so often it generally grew late without their noticing it. She sat with him in the garden, or in the violet anteroom, absorbed in her tranquil felicity, as though she had never known anything else. . it was all so very calm and contented that she almost wished for more diversity of emotion. . but no, she loved Otto, and that single emotion was enough for her. . just that sense of peace, that blue haze of serenity, lasting for ever and ever.
And yet, as she re-adapted herself to life in The Hague, she found her initial vivacity diminishing by degrees as she ran out of stories to relate about De Horze; the wholesome country vigour she had gained seemed to evaporate now that she no longer had occasion to romp on the floor with the children or recline in pine groves with Otto, now that she spent so much time sitting in a comfortable armchair, smiling serenely while she waited for her fiancé to reappear. The hours that she and Otto were parted were filled with the pleasant distraction of Vincent’s soft voice as he held forth about his travels, the cities he had visited, the people he had met, and his own philosophy of life. Having found happiness herself, she loftily dismissed his pessimistic outlook, reasoning with a charming want of logic that made Vincent smile and shrug. That was all very well, he said, but she would discover for herself one day that making a life for oneself was not as easy as it appeared. One thing led to another; circumstances changed, influencing each other in random ways ranging from the slightest, most benign coincidences to catastrophic misfortunes, and life, well, life was the chain of fate linking all these contingencies together. . and there was nothing she or anyone else could do about it.
‘So you believe that everything is preordained, and that when I think I am doing something out of my own free will I am really only doing it because — how shall I put it?’ she asked in some bewilderment late one afternoon during one of her tête-à-têtes with him in her room.
‘You only think it’s your own free will, but your will is nothing other than the outcome of hundreds of thousands of previous socalled chance occurrences. Yes indeed, that is what I believe.’
‘Vincent, what fatalism! In that case I might as well remain seated in this easy chair and simply wait for things to happen.’
‘You could do worse. But I assure you that if you did just sit there doing nothing, your passive attitude would not be the result of your own free will, but of all sorts of tiny, insignificant events which you’ve mostly forgotten about or didn’t even notice at all.’
She pondered this, giving a vague smile, then slowly nodded her head.
‘It’s strange, but I have a feeling you might be right. It could be true, I suppose.’
She enjoyed these conversations, which generally ended with her agreeing with him. Each time she felt her old sympathy for him flare up anew, and each time she was reminded of her father, the way he spoke, his gestures, the expression on his face. She thought Vincent more interesting than he was, and one day, in a romantic mood, she suddenly felt that her love for Otto might not be enough after all. The notion flashed across her mind like a bolt of lightning, and for a split second she thought she saw a ghost. But the ghost vanished, and she laughed again. How strange to have such peculiar, nervous fancies!
‘So you believe. .’ she resumed, still somewhat flustered.
He smiled at her.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘You believe, for instance, that if I marry Otto all I’m doing is following a preordained path?’
He patted her hand gently.
‘My dear girl, why bother your pretty little head with things like that? You love Van Erlevoort, you’re happy, what more could you wish for? Happiness is a butterfly: when it comes within reach it’s no good trying to catch it so you can study its anatomy, it’s far too delicate and ethereal a creature, and you’ll only end up killing it.’
She looked up in wonder. How clever he was at putting his thoughts into words, in such a plain-spoken way, without poetical affectation, as if he were saying something perfectly simple! And he was quite unselfconscious about it, too, which just showed how innately artistic he was. Then she saw, to her alarm, that he had turned deathly pale. He rose unsteadily from his seat, with wild staring eyes and a morbid, purplish look about the small, sagging mouth.
‘Good heavens, Vincent, what’s matter?’ she cried out, springing to her feet.
‘Nothing, I just need some air — could you open the window, oh please—’ he gasped.
‘Can I get you anything? Water?’ she offered tremulously.
‘No, no — air — I need air,’ he faltered.
She rushed over to the window, but her hands were shaking so badly that she was unable to open it, and she rang for the maid.
‘My God, oh my God!’ she cried.
Vincent had collapsed onto the Persian couch in a faint, and was now sliding off the cushions to the floor until only his head remained propped against the side. His forehead was bathed in perspiration and his breathing choked and rasping.
‘My God!’ screamed Eline in desperation.
She ran out to the landing and shouted down the stairs:
‘Betsy! Mina! Henk! Help! It’s Vincent — come quickly! I think he’s dying!’
She ran back and tugged furiously at the bell pull.
There was a commotion in the depths of the house, and a moment later Betsy came running up the stairs followed by the three maids, Gerard the manservant, and little Ben. Henk was out.
‘It’s Vincent!’ cried Eline. ‘Vincent! He’s dying!’
Betsy was frightened, but remained quite calm. She promptly dispatched Anna, the nursemaid, to take Ben away, and sent Gerard to fetch the local general practitioner, as Reijer was bound to be out. With assistance from Eline and Mina she lifted Vincent onto the couch and ordered Grete to fetch some vinegar.
‘Go on, hurry up!’ she snapped.
Vincent lay motionless with his eyes closed, the purplish stains about the lips still showing. Betsy undid the buttons of his jacket and waistcoat, and removed his tie and collar.
‘Pass me some eau de cologne, Eline. Do try and be helpful, you know I’m no good at this sort of thing!’
She began to dab Vincent’s temples and wrists with handkerchiefs, some soaked in vinegar and some in eau de cologne. She asked Eline what had happened and Eline explained that they had been sitting down having a chat when he had suddenly stood up and then keeled over, just like that, oh, it was a terrible shock!
‘Do you think he’s going to die?’ she asked, quaking.
‘Of course not. He’s fainted, that’s all. It’s happened before, you know. When you were at De Horze.’
‘It’s happened before?’ echoed Eline, aghast.
Betsy did not answer, and just then the door opened quietly and Otto entered.
‘Grete told me Vincent has taken ill. Can I be of any help?’ he asked.
‘No, no, I can manage, but do take Eline away, she’s so upset.’
‘Oh please, do let me help you!’ begged Eline.
‘No, I’d rather you didn’t, the doctor will be here soon, at least I hope so, and then everything will be all right. Off you go, now!’