‘Why are you crying, Grandma? Are you ill?’ demanded Tina. Madame van Erlevoort shook her head, smiling dismally through her tears. Sorrow made her nervous, and her quivering hands, seeking occupation, set about helping the three other children, who had since joined them at the table. Frédérique fought back her tears as she surveyed the youngsters settling down to eat, only slightly subdued by the gloom of their elders. Such was life: no matter how much suffering there was in the world, everyone just carried on with what they were doing, eating, sleeping, laughing, all wrapped up in their egotistic materialism, and no one cared!
Otto had meant to read the letter in the privacy of his room, but passing through the salon on his way there he dropped onto a sofa and ripped the envelope open. He began to read Eline’s outpouring of grief and remorse. There was no need for her to assure him that she had suffered unbearably in the writing of it, for he could read her anguish in every word even as it lacerated his soul. The letter told him, although not in so many words, that any future effort on his part to find happiness in her love — supposing he was able to rekindle it — would be in vain; it told him that the rupture was final, that they would be separated for ever, because she had lacked the strength to sustain her love. He was overcome with despair. If only she had been stronger, if only she had given herself more time, it would surely have been in his power to make her happy, for the simple reason that the constancy of his love would have offered her nerves a chance to settle down, and ultimately she would have blossomed. That was how he had seen their future unfold, but now it had all proved a grievous delusion.
He read the letter again from start to finish, as if his eyes might have deceived him, but it was true: he had lost her, she was gone for ever! Sitting in the cold gleam of the large salon with its imposing pier glasses and faded velvet hangings, he felt like a lost soul in a desolate wilderness. He looked about him, moist-eyed, and shivered. Then he slumped back against the sofa and covered his face with his hands, emitting a rasping sob. He felt as if everything inside him were breaking and snapping like a bundle of dry reeds, as if that single sob had torn through his body like a hurricane, leaving utter ruin in its wake, and in that moment he wished he were dead.
He sobbed soundlessly behind his hands, and a sombre bitterness welled up in him. What had he done to deserve this? He, who had once discovered such richness within himself; he, whose sole ambition had been to share these riches, to bestow the gift of peaceful contentment on the woman he loved? He had been spurned, his gift refused, and he found himself poorer now than the poorest man on earth, defeated and bereft of all but black despair.
The door opened softly. It was Mathilda, who, not finding him in his room, had come looking for him. She entered the salon with a look of deep compassion and seated herself on the sofa beside him. When she tried to pull his hands from his face he gave a violent start and stared at her, wild-eyed.
‘Why have you come to me?’ he asked disconsolately. For there was nothing left to say; he felt as if he had died.
‘Why do you think? Why did you come to me that time, oh, it must be five years ago already, when I was so upset and you held me tight? And that other time, soon afterwards, that night when my husband and I. . when my husband left me? Go on, tell me: why did you seek me out? Did I ask you the question you just asked me?’
Seeing his chest heave with stifled emotion, she put her arm about his neck and drew his head to her shoulder. In the depths of his own suffering he suddenly thought of his sister’s grief, of which she never spoke, and he felt warmed by her wish to comfort him.
‘Why bring that up?’ he said, knowing her reluctance to mention her former husband.
‘To show you that I understand how you feel. And to remind you that I survived, and that I must continue to do so for some time yet. But especially to remind you that you’re not alone in your sorrow. Perhaps that could comfort you a little.’
‘Oh!’ he sobbed, clinging to her; then he held out the letter, his hand shaking.
‘There! Read it!’ he said hoarsely.
She began to read, stroking his head all the while as though comforting one of her children, so that he could weep copious tears without shame for his unmanly conduct. And while she read, she mulled over Eline’s motives.
‘Does she have any idea of what she’s doing?’ she asked herself. ‘What would she do if she saw the state he is in? Is it wickedness on her part to treat him so cruelly? Is she even worthy of my beloved brother? Or is she simply an unhappy creature, like the rest of us?’
Madame van Erlevoort came in with Frédérique.
Mathilda lifted Otto’s chin.
‘Look, here’s Mama,’ she said simply, as if she did not wish to detain him now that his mother was there to offer consolation. But when he saw the look of pitiful anguish on her dear face, he felt it was he who should console her.
‘Mama, Mama, please don’t cry! It’s not the end of the world, you know!’ he exclaimed.
Frédérique stood leaning against the door frame, her forearms crossed before her face. No one paid any attention to her. It was all right for Mathilda and Mama to try and comfort him, he obviously did not need her, she was only a child as far as he was concerned, and would have nothing of any consequence to say to him. She thought back on the conversation they had had about Eline all those months ago, before the engagement, but now there was nothing more to say, nothing. Her words carried no weight, she had never suffered, she had no feeling, she was made of stone.
‘Stone! They think I’m made of stone!’ she repeated under her breath, and continued to weep into her crossed arms, inconsolable for her inability to console Otto.
Feeling a hand on her shoulder she turned round with a look of defiance at being so sorely misjudged. But when she saw Otto’s pained expression, his eyes filled with tears, his brow deeply furrowed, his lips quivering beneath the blond moustache, she flung her arms about him in a great rush of pity and smothered his face with kisses, for she had never seen him cry before.
XXIV
Betsy’s compassion for Eline initially manifested itself in sisterly concern for the state of her health, but before long her old irritation returned with redoubled force. How very tiresome of Eline to go back on her word! And why, for Heaven’s sake? Why had she done it? She, Betsy, could not for the life of her understand why Eline had changed her mind. Who could she possibly rather marry than Otto, even though he was perhaps not rolling in riches? Now her own plans for the future were ruined! If Eline didn’t get married, she’d go on living with them for ever, and as for Vincent, he was a hanger-on if there ever was one! She was sick and tired of the pair of them, the way they were always spoiling the atmosphere with their selfish behaviour.
Another source of annoyance for Betsy was all the talk about Otto and Eline calling off their engagement. She would not have minded so much about the gossip, which she knew would die down soon enough, if Eline had given her the impression, now that she had got her way, that things would soon return to normal, that she would finally shake off this absurd act of grieving over Otto and gradually become her old self again, the younger sister whose pretty face and charming manners had been rather an asset when she entertained guests of an evening. Oh, if only Eline would be obliging and come to her senses, then Betsy’s dearest wish would be for her to stay with them as long as she liked. But the fact of the matter was that Eline was permanently in a dark mood — either sullen and dazed-looking or enraged, complete with shrill vociferations. Eline never went out nowadays, and only the other evening, when Betsy had invited a few guests for dinner — just Madame Eekhof with Ange and Léonie, Marguerite van Laren and her fiancé, and young Hijdrecht — she had actually stayed up in her room under the pretext of a severe headache. Betsy’s patience was running out. Why did Eline have to look so wan and weary-eyed, why didn’t she bother to put her hair up properly nowadays? And those endless tête-à-têtes with Vincent! True, Vincent was their cousin and a semi-invalid at that, but there something unseemly about the way she kept sneaking off with him to the violet anteroom, or to her boudoir, or to the conservatory. She was determined to say something next time she came upon them sharing secrets; it simply wouldn’t do.