‘Van Raa. . aat!’
‘Personally, I don’t believe Le Tribut de Zamora is one of Gounod’s best operas; what about you, Eline?’ asked Emilie when they were seated in the carriage. ‘No comparison with his Faust, or his Romeo et Juliet.’
‘I believe you are right,’ murmured Eline, loath to show how moved she had been. ‘But it’s difficult to judge a piece of music the very first time you hear it. I thought some of the melodies were rather sweet. Besides, we only saw half of it.’
‘I rather like seeing only a few acts; having to sit out a whole opera bores me to tears, I don’t mind telling you,’ said Betsy, yawning.
Georges began to hum the refrain: ‘Debout, enfants de l’Ibérie!’
The De Woudes were dropped off at Noordeinde, after which Betsy and Eline rode homeward in the landau, snugly ensconced in the cushions of satin damask. They talked a little about Vincent and then both fell silent, while Eline’s thoughts floated to the joyful waltz in Mireille, to her spat with Betsy about the maids, to the tableau of the five senses, to Madame van Raat and Emily and Georges, to her pink dress. . and to Ben-Saïd.
V
About a week had gone by since the tableaux vivants; it was afternoon, and Lili Verstraeten seated herself in the drawing room, where they had been staged. The room had long since reverted to its normal arrangement, and a cheerful fire burnt in the grate. Outside it was cold; a strong wind was blowing, and rain seemed imminent. Marie had gone shopping with Frédérique van Erlevoort, but Lili had chosen to stay at home, and now settled back comfortably in her favourite armchair, which was old-fashioned and ample, with a tapestry cover. She had Victor Hugo’s Notre Dame de Paris with her, but was not really in the mood for reading, so the book, bound in red calf with gilt edges, lay unopened on her lap. How pleasant it was to do nothing but muse and dream, and how silly of Marie and Freddie to go out in this horrid weather! But it was no concern of hers, she was oblivious to the wind and the rain, for indoors it was as cosy as could be, with the subdued, wintry light barely filtering through the heavy curtains. Dien had come in to tie them back, but she had sent her away. Papa was in the conservatory, reading by the window; she could just see the top of his dear grey head, and she noted how rapidly he turned the pages — he was clearly engrossed in his book, unlike her, who had brought hers along for show. She was never bored, even when she was idle. On the contrary, she would sit back and enjoy the notions drifting into her mind: rose petals wafting on a gentle breeze, soap bubbles, fragile and iridescent, which she would watch contentedly as they rose up in the air; then the petals would blow away and the bubbles would burst, but no matter, she would much rather have rose petals for thoughts than smothering tendrils of ivy, and rather a soap bubble than a balloon on the end of a string. Mama was still upstairs attending to numerous household duties. Ah well, she couldn’t be of any help: Mama always insisted on doing everything herself, although Marie did her share as well. She hoped there would be no callers this afternoon; all she wanted to do was daydream, what could be more delightful than that? How fascinating it was to watch the flames curling and twisting around the glowing embers! The hearth was a vision of hell in miniature, the burning peat suggesting great boulders between which yawned chasms filled with fire and brimstone — it was like Dante’s inferno, with the damned gathered together on the precipices, shuddering at the sight of the flames! Smiling at her wild imaginings, she averted her eyes, which prickled from staring into the hellish blaze. It was only last week that they had all taken their poses in this very room, before the eyes of their enthusiastic friends and relations. How different everything had looked then! Now the painted scenery, the lyres, the cross and all the other bits and pieces had been removed to the attic for storage; all the costumes had been carefully folded and put away in boxes by Dien. It had been so jolly, what with all the planning and conferring with Paul and Etienne beforehand, the choosing of the subjects for the tableaux, the costumes, and then the rehearsals, with Paul having to demonstrate each pose in turn! How many times hadn’t they collapsed with hilarity, how much effort hadn’t they put in for the sake of a few minutes of entertainment!
Papa read and read, and she counted how long it took him to turn the pages — first it was twenty-five seconds, then thirty. What a fast reader he was! And how the rain drummed on the windowpane, how it gurgled in the drainpipe! Freddie and Marie had gone out of their own free will, but here she was, feeling snug and safe like a purring kitten instead of bedraggled in the wet. She dug the points of her shoes into in the black fleece of the sheepskin hearth-rug and nestled her blonde head against the back of the old tapestried armchair.
Freddie was going to a ball that evening. How could she bear to go out night after night! Of course she, Lili, enjoyed the occasional ball or amusing soirée, but she also liked to stay at home, reading a book, or doing embroidery, or. . doing nothing at all, without even getting bored. Her life seemed to flow onwards like a calm, rippling stream; she was so happy at home with her parents, whom she adored, and she wanted it always to stay the same, she didn’t even mind if she never got married and became an old maid. . Quasimodo, Esmeralda, Phoebus de Châteaupers. . oh, why hadn’t she brought her copy of Longfellow instead? The Court of Miracles held no appeal for her whatsoever, what she wished for now was some verse from Evangeline, or from The Golden Legend:
My life is little,
Only a cup of water,
But pure and limpid.
Dear oh dear, she was waxing quite poetic! She smiled to herself and looked out into the garden, where the bare, dripping boughs were being whipped into a frenzy by the wind.
The doorbell rang out; she heard footsteps and laughter in the hall, and a prolonged wiping of feet on the mat. Marie had returned with Freddie; she supposed they would go upstairs, but no, they were coming this way, and entered a moment later, having divested themselves of their dripping raincoats and muddy overshoes. They were still laughing, and brought with them a rush of cold air and moisture into the warm room.
‘Well I never!’ exclaimed Marie. ‘Behold Milady warming her feet by the fire! And quite right, too!’
‘Would Milady like a cushion for her back?’ teased Freddie.
‘You can laugh as much as you like!’ murmured Lili, nestling herself deeper in her chair. ‘Here I am, warm as toast and my feet all nice and dry, but you’re very welcome to go splashing about in the mud.’
Marie said she could do with some refreshment and went off to make tea, while Freddie stepped into the conservatory to greet Mr Verstraeten.
Then they all sat down together for afternoon tea, and Lili was quite happy to join in, for all that she had not been splashing about in the mud.
‘How dark it is in here, Lili, how could you see to read? You know it’s bad for your eyes to read in such poor light,’ said Marie.
‘I wasn’t really reading at all,’ responded Lili, relishing her dolce far niente.
‘Ah, Milady has been meditating again!’ said Freddie.
‘Mm, divine!’ said Lili, smiling with half-closed eyes. ‘Doing absolutely nothing. . just dreaming the time away.’
They all broke into laughter at this confession of unashamed laziness. Madame Verstraeten came in, looking for the basket of keys Marie had neglected to return, and she came upon the three girls giggling over their tea while the keys lay beside the pastry dish.