‘On the contrary!’ laughed Eline. ‘I love it when you’re in one of your talkative moods!’
Eliza blinked happily.
‘Well, I am rather a chatterbox, aren’t I? But I meant what I said about you not enjoying life enough. You might bear that in mind, my dear; you’re still young enough to change your attitude.’
Eline was certain that there was nothing she could do to change her attitude. She was simply not up to it — she had allowed herself to be driven down a steep slope, further and further until she could see the abyss gaping beneath her, and even then she had not mustered the strength to climb back up.
‘Do you know what I think your weakness is, Eline? You’re too sensitive. Altogether too emotional. What you need in life’s struggle is a good dose of indifference. You see, we have little choice: we happen to be among the living, and we must live our lives as best we can. So we might as well make things as agreeable as possible for ourselves. As for you, you have the means to do just that. You have no responsibilities, no dependents to provide for, you can do exactly as you please. The trouble is that you think too much, and thinking too much is depressing. Me? I don’t think. I only have impulses, little ideas that occur to me; but I never think. And thank goodness for that. I may be philosophising now, but I am not thinking.’
This light-hearted chat amused Eline; she even caught herself thinking Eliza might be quite right to take such a heedless attitude. But Eline herself was different: there was no way she could cast off the melancholy that seemed to have infiltrated into the very marrow of her being, and she was sure that she would end her days without having enjoyed life — or at least not in the way Eliza meant. Nor did she desire such enjoyment, for she had experienced happiness of a higher order — the happiness of being with him, with Otto.
. .
Eliza thought her indolent, but she herself took pleasure in doing nothing. She gave herself up wholeheartedly to her languorous inertia. Most days she stayed at home, pleading her cough, though in reality all she wanted to do was to nestle herself among the Turkish cushions in the big armchair by the fire and while away the hours daydreaming. She made an effort to be like Eliza and not think, and to a certain extent she succeeded in this endeavour. Only, she began to have a sense of waiting for something, waiting and waiting.
Although she seldom went out, she saw plenty of people. Uncle Daniel was always bringing home friends, sometimes accompanied by their wives, and they often stayed for dinner. The social circle Eline found herself in was not entirely new to her, for she had met various of its members when she first stayed in Brussels. But she did not feel wholly at ease with them; they were unconventional in ways that both fascinated and shocked her. In The Hague she had always moved in circles limited to her own class, where everyone, despite variations in personal fortunes, held the same views when it came to morals and manners, and where everyone observed the same rules of etiquette and exchanged the same pleasantries when they visited each other’s homes. No such rules seemed to apply in Brussels. People vented the most outlandish opinions, on topics unheard of in Betsy’s salon or at the Eekhofs’. She found her new, free-spirited acquaintances somewhat unnerving, but at the same time interestingly exotic.
It was indeed a motley assortment of friends that Uncle Daniel had gathered around him. One evening he had invited some count or other to dinner, who, much to Eline’s surprise, entered wearing evening dress with a diamond-studded dress shirt that looked decidedly the worse for wear, as well as rather oversized cameo rings on his fingers; he was handsome in a faded sort of way, with a lock of black hair tumbling over his brow, and wrote poetry; he offered Eline a volume of his poems and a booklet containing reprints of flattering reviews of his works. He was said to be rich, and Eliza thought him witty. Eline, however, felt a twinge of dislike on shaking his hand. Another evening it would be an actor, which made Eline worry about the possibility of Fabrice turning up one day. Or it would be a well-known jeweller accompanied by an enormously stout, blonde lady wearing a lot of rouge and a red-velvet gown. But from time to time the Moulangers and the Des Luynes came over from Bordeaux, and Eline would be greatly relieved to recognise in them a modicum of respectability and distinction.
With the exception of these two families, though, visitors at avenue Louise behaved with a remarkable degree of informality. They either came to dinner unannounced or arrived at eleven o’clock at night, when Eline was feeling ready for bed, and stayed until the small hours drinking champagne and smoking. Eline would smoke along with them, and laugh very loudly. Uncle Daniel would lounge in a chair, smiling somewhat wearily, and Eline often had the impression that all these strange people were in some way useful to him. She had never quite understood how he obtained his money, since he did not seem to have had any employment. But she dismissed the thought, for she was determined not to think at all, like Eliza, and as time went on she found a certain measure of satisfaction in this society, so very different from what she had been used to in the salons of The Hague.
. .
Above all, Eline liked conversing with Uncle Daniel’s physician, a man of indeterminate age who was remarkably polite in both manner and speech, and who always seemed to be watching her closely. His interest in her had initially put her on her guard, as if he might discover something within her that she herself was unaware of, some secret that would put her to shame. Yet she was drawn to his amicable, steady gaze as to a magnet, and before long she took to asking him, when she had one of her headaches, to hold his cool outstretched hand close to her forehead for a moment. The first time he had done so had been on his own initiative, and Eline had immediately felt as though a refreshing, invigorating current were passing through her brain. Since then she had become addicted, in a manner of speaking, to the emanations of that hand, which, without even touching, seemed capable of making a cool breeze blow through her overheated skull.
Eline had told him of the difficulties she had sleeping at night, and he had said he would like to try and induce her to sleep by the sheer force of his will, but she had begged him not to: she had so little willpower of her own, and feared losing it altogether if he were capable of exerting such a strong influence on her from afar. Thereupon he had supplied her with a sleeping draught of morphine, which was extremely expensive and which he had mixed himself; he counted out the drops for her in a glass of water. That night she laid herself down to sleep in a haze of blissful contentment; she felt her body becoming weightless, rising up from her bed, her pillows and sheets, and for a moment she found herself floating on currents of softly swirling blue air.
Then she sank into a profound slumber, from which she did not wake until late in the morning. And she was full of praise for Uncle Daniel’s physician for having succeeded where Reijer had always failed — at least he knew how to send her to sleep.
. .
Life went on in much the same manner, with Eline accommodating herself to the humour of the moment. She still had a bad cough, but felt comparatively content nonetheless. Eliza, though a compulsive talker, seemed to like her well enough, and Uncle Daniel, ever gallant if a touch remote, was no less well-disposed towards her. Sometimes, however, she had the feeling that they were putting on an act, in the same way that everyone had put on an act in The Hague. But she had no desire to analyse this doubt, preferring to let her brain slumber in untrammelled lethargy.
One day an envelope arrived from Vincent Vere in New York; it was addressed to Uncle Daniel, to whom it came as rather a surprise, as they were not in the habit of writing to one another. But Eline, who had not heard from her cousin for some time, was all aflutter at the unexpected mention of his name, and couldn’t wait to hear what her uncle would say about the letter. She would not be surprised if Vincent were asking for money.