‘Well, if you say so. But I’m not sure who I would have chosen for my boy if it had been up to me. . Betsy, or someone else maybe. .’
She laid her hand on the top of Eline’s head and looked at her meaningfully, her eyes bleary and a sad smile about her pinched mouth.
Eline was slightly unnerved. Madame van Raat’s words had called forth her own old thoughts, long passed and almost forgotten, those moments of sudden longing for Henk’s company, the vague wish to lean on his shoulder and let him take charge. But it was all a long time ago, and those sentiments now seemed to her so distant, so hazy as to be merely shadows of thoughts, ghostly shadows. . They seemed rather silly now, even grotesque, and the recollection of them almost made her smile.
‘Oh, Madame,’ she murmured, giving a light, pearly laugh, ‘who knows how unhappy he might otherwise have been? Even if Betsy is a little domineering, he’s hardly a downtrodden husband: her feet are far too tiny!’
‘Hush,’ whispered Madame van Raat. ‘Someone’s coming.’
It was Henk. He drew aside the door curtain and declared that he had no idea it was so late. Eline laughed at him and asked if he had been having sweet dreams.
‘You eat too much, that’s what makes you so lazy in the evening. Oh, Madame, you should see how much he eats!’
‘There, Mother, now you know. This is the kind of treatment your son gets in his own home, even from his dear sister-in-law — she can be so trying!’
‘Oh, stop it, Henk! It’s no use pretending, because your mama won’t believe any ill of me, not even from her beloved Henk! Isn’t that true, Madame? You can’t deny it, can you?’
Eline opened her almond eyes wide and gazed up at the old lady with an air of child-like innocence. Her entire being radiated such sympathy that Madame van Raat could not resist embracing her.
‘You’re a darling!’ she said happily, basking in the warmth of youth’s bright sun shining on her old age.
. .
When Betsy came downstairs she apologised profusely for taking so long, and suggested her mother-in-law might prefer to take tea in the salon rather than remain cooped up in the anteroom.
‘Paul said he would drop by later,’ said Madame van Raat as Eline pulled up a marble foot-warmer for her. ‘Then you can sing some duets. What do you say, Elly?’
‘It would be a pleasure, dear lady.’
Madame van Raat brought out her spectacles and her crochet-work while Betsy seated herself by the tea tray laden with polished silver and Japanese porcelain, and prattled away about this and that, including the ball at the Eekhofs, which she had found most enjoyable.
‘And you, Elly, did you enjoy yourself?’ asked the old lady.
‘Yes indeed, the dancing was lovely, and there was a splendid cotillion, too.’
‘And what about you, Henk?’
‘Oh, Henk!’
They all laughed, and Eline exclaimed that he was too stout for dancing, really, although he might still cut an elegant figure doing a minuet — and minuets were coming back into fashion, as dear Madame was bound to have heard.
The old lady joined in with the merriment, and Henk had just finished his steaming cup of tea when the front doorbell rang. Paul made his entrance, announcing that he had just been to see Hovel in his office on Prinsengracht. He had meant to call at the lawyer’s residence the previous evening, but having run into Vincent Vere in Hoogstraat he had postponed his visit in order to join some friends for a glass of wine in Vincent’s rooms. He had found Hovel most kind on closer acquaintance, an altogether decent fellow, very amiable, and they had come to an agreement: Paul was to start work at the office the following Monday.
Madame van Raat was unable to suppress a sigh of relief, now that the long-discussed visit had finally taken place. The last time she had seen her brother-in-law she thought she there had been a hint of annoyance in his voice at the mention of Paul, and for matters concerning her youngest son she relied heavily on the aid of Verstraeten, who had been Paul’s co-guardian until he came of age.
Hearing Paul’s account of his visit, Betsy bit her lip; why did her Henk waste all his time on that dratted horse of his, and those dratted hounds? But what could she do? She had told him often enough, and she could hardly raise the subject yet again in the presence of her mother-in-law.
‘Well, Paul?’ Eline cried. ‘How about a song then?’
Paul said he was willing, and got to his feet; Eline sat down at the piano. They met every Thursday to practise singing together, and already boasted a modest repertoire. Paul had never had singing lessons and could barely play the piano, but took to heart all Eline’s suggestions for improvement. She for her part maintained that he owed his singing ability to her alone. By now he had learnt to open his mouth wide and to keep his tongue down, but she still thought he ought to take some lessons from Roberts. No one could be expected to sing without proper study.
‘What shall we have? Une Nuit à Venise?’
‘Right you are: Une Nuit à Venise it shall be!’
She opened a songbook bound in red leather, with ‘Eline Vere’ in gilt lettering on the cover.
‘Remember to sing out here, will you? But don’t hold your high sol too long there,’ she instructed. ‘Better sing it in your middle register, and not from the chest; it’ll sound much more melodious. And begin very softly, then you can swell there, and there. And mind you keep in good time with me towards the end, there’s that flourish of notes, remember? Careful now, Paul.’
She played the prelude to Lucantoni’s duet, and when Paul had given a little cough to clear his voice, they broke into song together, starting softly with:
Ah, viens, la nuit est belle!
Viens, le ciel est d’azur!
His light tenor sounded a little shaky at first, but its innate charm went very well with the plangent ring of her soprano. She found great pleasure in singing together like this, provided Paul was in voice and followed her recommendations. It seemed to her that she sang with more emotion when accompanied by another voice, and particularly so in the repetition of lines such as:
Laisse moi dans tes yeux,
Voir le reflet des cieux!
which she now infused with the languishing passion of an Italian paramour.
She fancied that in this way the duet gained in dramatic intensity, and she pictured herself with Paul as the tenor, both of them reclining in a gondola, against a painted backdrop of a Venetian canal ablaze with the magnesium glow of artificial moonlight. She saw herself richly attired as a patrician lady, him in the garb of a poor young fisherman; they loved one another, and they lay dreaming and singing in his craft as they drifted towards the lagoon before an enchanted audience.
Devant Dieu même
Dire: Je t’aime
Dans un dernier soupir. .
They were nearing the final run of notes, and she began to worry that Paul would drag, so she slowed down a fraction, but no, Paul kept perfect time with her, and she exulted in the harmony of their voices as they faded away:
Dans un dernier soupir. .
. .
‘Exquisite, Eline, that was exquisite!’ enthused Madame van Raat, who had been listening with rapt attention.
‘You’re in good voice, Paul,’ said Betsy, for want of anything better to say.
‘Well, Eline, it’s time you sang us a solo now!’ said Paul, pleased with his success.
In the meantime Mina had brought the newspapers, Het Vaderland and Het Dagblad, and Henk was immersed in them, taking care to make as little noise as possible turning the crisp pages.