‘I saw him a few times at my brother-in-law’s house.’
‘How does he look?’
‘Much the same, outwardly; a little older maybe, but not that you would notice. He is certainly rather quiet, but then he was never very exuberant, was he?’
‘No, he wasn’t,’ murmured Eline, brimming over with memories.
‘He’s not in The Hague at the moment. I believe he’s gone to De Horze.’
Could he be avoiding me? thought Eline. Then, not wishing to give the impression that her interest in Otto’s welfare was in any way personal, she said softly:
‘Then I suppose he has got over it. All I want is for him to be happy; he deserves it — such a good man.’
The old lady said nothing and Eline struggled not to cry. Here she was, working herself up again to hide her true feelings, even in front of dear, dear Madame van Raat! Life was so full of sham and make-believe! She had always been someone who pretended, to herself as well as to everybody else, and she was still doing it — she could not do otherwise, so ingrained a habit had it become.
‘And now I would like to show you something, which I hope will please you,’ said Madame van Raat, sensing Eline’s emotion. ‘Come with me.’
She led her to the salon, where Eline had not yet been, and opened the door.
‘You remember I had that old, rather battered piano? The one Paul used to tinkle on for his singing practise? Well, look what I have now!’
They went in, and Eline saw a brand-new Bechstein. Her music books, bound in red leather with gilt lettering, lay on top.
‘It will suit your voice very well, the sound is so lovely and clear.’
Eline’s lips began to tremble.
‘But Madame!’ she stammered. ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have! You shouldn’t have! Because I–I don’t sing any more, you see.’
‘What? Why ever not?’ cried Madame.
Eline sighed deeply and sank down on a chair.
‘I am not allowed to!’ she almost wailed, for the new instrument was a cruel reminder of the lovely voice she had once had. ‘The doctors I consulted in Paris forbade it. The thing is, during the winter my cough is rather bad; it only goes away in the summer. The past two winters I was coughing all the time, and I always had a pain, here in my chest. But I’m perfectly all right in the summer!’
‘My dear child!’ said Madame anxiously. ‘I hope you took good care of yourself while you were abroad.’
‘Oh yes, the Des Luynes referred me to some lung specialists in Paris, and they tapped me and osculated me so thoroughly that I simply couldn’t stand it any more! Besides that I underwent regular treatment by two doctors, but after a while I’d had enough of them: they were not making me better, anyway, they just kept saying I ought to live in a warmer climate, but I could hardly go and live all by myself in Algiers or goodness knows where; in any case, Uncle Daniel had to return to Brussels. So you see,’ she concluded with a nervous titter, ‘I’m a complete wreck, both on the outside and on the inside!’
The old lady’s eyes filled with tears, and she pressed Eline to her bosom.
‘Shame about the lovely instrument, though!’ said Eline, extricating herself. She seated herself at the piano. What a wonderful sound it had, so rich and full!
Her fingers glided deftly over the keys, playing a succession of scales that seemed to lament the loss of her singing voice. Madame van Raat watched her sadly; she had cherished the illusion that Eline would sing with her Paul, and that Paul might succumb to the melodious, convivial atmosphere and take to staying in of an evening, but all she heard was loud, sobbing arpeggios, the weeping dewdrops of a chromatic tremolo, and the big, splashing tears of painful staccatos.
‘I shall have to practise my piano-playing. I never was a great pianist, but I shall do my best! Because you shall have music, dear lady, I promise you! What a lovely instrument this is!’
And the lovely notes gushed forth in an outpouring of sorrow.
. .
In Eline’s honour, Paul made sure he was at home for coffee at half-past midday. In the afternoon Marie and her parents called, followed by Emilie de Woude. Eline received them cordially, and showed herself pleased to see them again. She told them about her meeting with Georges and Lili and what a delightful impression the young couple had made on everyone, including the Des Luynes and the Moulangers and Aunt Eliza’s other relatives. And it had been sweet of Georges and Lili to call on her so soon after their arrival; she had greatly appreciated it.
It gave Marie a strange feeling to see Eline again, almost as if she feared that Eline would find her changed, too. But Eline did not appear to notice anything, and chatted on about her travels, the cities she had visited, the people she had met, on and on in a rush of nervous expatiation. It was the same nervousness that came over her nowadays whenever she was in the company of others, no matter how small and intimate the gathering, and it kept her fingers in constant motion, now crumpling her handkerchief into a tight ball, then fidgeting with the fringe of a tablecloth or plucking the tassels on her chair to make them swing to and fro. Her elegant languor of old, her graceful poise, had vanished.
It was close to four o’clock when the door of the salon opened and Betsy appeared, leading Ben by the hand. Eline sprang up and ran towards her in order to hide her own misgivings with a show of excitement. She embraced her sister with effusive tenderness, and fortunately Betsy was able to respond with like enthusiasm. Then Eline bent down to smother Ben with kisses. He was large for a five-year-old, and thick-set, and in his eyes there was the blank, drowsy look of a backward child. Yet he seemed to remember something pleasant, for his lips parted in a happy smile and he threw his chubby arms around Eline’s neck to kiss her in return.
Neither sister seemed to have any inclination to exchange confidences, because Betsy left at the same time as the Verstraetens and Emilie, and Eline did not press her to stay. Each of them was conscious of the distance that had grown between them, and that their sisterhood was something they would henceforth honour for the sake of appearances rather than out of love. They had been parted for a year and a half, and now that they were reunited she felt as if they had become strangers to one another, exchanging polite words of interest while their hearts were cool and indifferent.
Eline felt rather tired when the visitors had gone, and the two women settled themselves in the armchairs by the glass doors to the veranda. Between them stood a low velvet-covered tabouret bearing a basket of crochet-work and some books and illustrated magazines. She smiled wanly at the old lady, then leant back and closed her eyes, pleasantly lulled by the restful, cosy atmosphere.
Madame van Raat took up her crochet and began to work her needle with unwonted verve, for she felt a new vigour stirring in her old, stiff limbs, and suddenly it came to her that she might yet have a goal in life. That goal would be to inspire the poor lamb with some vitality and hope, so that she might yet find the kind of happiness that she herself had known in her youth. Her heart swelled with munificent sympathy, and a gleam came into her old eyes as she regarded Eline, wasted and pale, slumped in the armchair beside her.
‘Eline,’ she began softly. ‘I must speak with you, seriously.’
Eline opened her eyes with a questioning look.
‘This morning you mentioned that you underwent treatment in Paris. Would you mind if I sent Reijer a note asking him to call one of these days? Not that he is my doctor, but I know you used to see him occasionally.’
Eline gave a start.
‘Oh no, no doctors for me!’ she cried with passion, almost commandingly. ‘They are such a bore, and none of them can cure me anyway. I suppose it’s my cough you are thinking of?’