‘But Paul, what about you?’ said Eline. ‘Don’t you want to sing any more, or are you too tired?’
‘I’d rather you sang on your own, Eline.’
‘Nonsense, if you’re not too tired I would prefer another duet. Honestly, I love singing with you. How about the grand duo with Romeo? Come on then, I dare you!’
‘I mean it, Eline. I don’t know the part very well yet, and it’s very difficult.’
‘Well, you knew it perfectly well the other day. If you just keep it light and sweet, and don’t force your voice, you’ll be fine. Look — you can sing this entire passage in the middle register. Just don’t shout.’
With a look of disquiet he asked her advice about a phrase here and a note there, and she was glad to oblige.
‘Come now, be bold! No shouting, though, it never works. Besides, if we do get stuck, what of it?’
‘Oh, all right then, if you insist.’
Eline glowed with contentment, and she played the tender prelude to the grand duo in the fourth act:
Va! Je t’ai pardonné, Tybalt voulait ta mort!
she began, in splendid form, to which Paul responded with his recitative, and together they sang:
Nuit d’hyménée, o, douce nuit d’amour!
Once more the stage version rose up before her: Juliet’s chamber, with Romeo in his splendid costume reclining on the cushions at her feet. And Romeo ceased to be Paul; Romeo became Fabrice, the new baritone, on whose shoulder she leant her head as she sang:
Sous tes baisers de flamme
Le ciel rayonne en moi!
Paul’s voice began to waver, but Eline was hardly aware it was him singing. In her mind it was still the rich timbre of Fabrice’s voice she was hearing, and hers grew in volume and resonance until she, unbeknownst to herself, entirely eclipsed her partner.
There, the lark was announcing the dawn, and she fancied herself lying in Fabrice’s arms as she asked:
Qu’as tu donc. . Romeo?
Paul, having recovered during the bar of rest, responded in steadier tones:
Ecoute, o Juliette!
whereupon Juliette’s voice rang out in protest: no, it was no lark Romeo had heard, it was a nightingale, and the gathering light no dawn but a moonbeam, and Eline was still with Fabrice, falling into his arms as the orchestra swelled in the chords she struck on the piano. In the brief pauses between the vocal parts Eline came to earth; then the vision of the stage and Fabrice evaporated, and she saw herself in Betsy’s drawing room with Paul at her side, turning the pages of the score. But the next moment she was Juliette again, Juliette admitting that it was unsafe for Romeo to stay any longer, even urging him to leave, and he answered:
Ah! reste encore, reste dans mes bras enlacés!
Un jour il sera doux, à notre amour fidèle,
De se ressouvenir de ces douleurs passées!
This was a passage in which Paul’s lyrical sensibility came into its own, and Eline, waking from her reverie, smiled and thought how melancholy and dulcet his delivery was. She felt a pang of conscience, realising that it had been unfair of her to sing so loudly during the duet just now, and she vowed to be more careful in the future.
She launched into the finale, favouring a beseeching tone over impassioned despair, so that Paul’s high chest notes would sound to better effect. But the vision had passed: the stage, the audience, and Fabrice — all gone.
Adieu, ma Juliette!
sang Paul, and she gave a faint cry, to which he responded with his pledge:
Toujours à toi!
. .
‘Oh, how I love singing like this!’ cried Eline ecstatically, and she ran to give Madame van Raat a joyful hug. ‘Didn’t Paul sound lovely, and isn’t it a shame he won’t take proper lessons? You ought to make him, you know.’
Paul rejoined that Eline gave him enough lessons, and that she would be the death of him with her difficult duets. Eline, however, assured him that he had sung to perfection.
Betsy gave a quiet sigh of relief, for she thought the Veronese lovers’ farewell had sounded rather too overwhelming in her salon with its delicately painted ceiling and plush hangings; it had been more of a shouting match as far as she was concerned. Why couldn’t Eline sing something light-hearted and pretty, a song from some opéra bouffe, for instance?
Eline and Paul sat down, and the conversation drifted to other topics, day-to-day affairs and the busy stir in the streets now that the feast of St Nicholas was upon them. Then the clock struck half-past nine and Mina came to say the carriage was at the door.
‘Yes, it is time I took my leave,’ said Madame van Raat, rising slowly to her feet, and Eline trotted off, humming to herself as she went to fetch her wraps from the anteroom: a fur-lined cloak, a woollen shawl, a hood.
The old lady placed her spectacles and crochet-work in her reticule and allowed herself to be muffled up by her dear young friend, after which she kissed everyone goodbye. Henk and Paul escorted her to the front door and helped her into her coupé.
Leaning back against the plump satin cushions as the carriage rolled off, her ears still ringing with the duets sung by Eline and Paul, she smiled wistfully as she wiped the condensation off the window to look outside, where the snow lay dirty and bespattered in the light of the street lanterns, and she thought of the good old days when she used to visit the opera with her beloved husband.
Paul remained for another hour and then departed, having celebrated the success of his duets with a good glass of wine. When he had gone Eline went upstairs — to freshen up, as she told Betsy. It was chilly in her sitting room, but the cool air felt fresh on her cheeks and hands after the overheated salon. She sank onto her couch with the Persian cushions and raised her hand to caress the leaves of the aralia, striking one of her favourite poses. And she smiled, her eyes widening dreamily as her thoughts flew back to Fabrice, with his handsome beard and splendid voice. What a shame Betsy was not more partial to the opera! They went so very rarely, while she, Eline, adored it. She would let Madame Verstraeten know in some polite, discreet fashion that she would appreciate being invited to accompany her once in a while. Mr Verstraeten never went anyway, and his wife usually asked some acquaintance to share her box. She had asked Freddie before, and Paul as well, so why not her?
She sprang to her feet, seized by an idea. Fabrice had made his third debut last night: the first had been in Hamlet, the second in Le Tribut de Zamora, in which she had seen him, and yesterday in William Tell. .
She ran out of the room and leant over the banisters.
‘Mina, Mina!’ she called.
‘Yes, Miss!’ answered Mina, who was just crossing the hall with a tray of wine glasses.
‘Bring me the newspapers, please, if they’ve finished with them downstairs.’
‘Yes, Miss, certainly.’
Eline returned to her room and settled herself back on the couch. It made her laugh when she felt her heart beating with curiosity. Whatever was she thinking? In what way could it possibly be of any concern of hers?
There was Mina, climbing the stairs. She brought both papers: Het Vaderland and Het Dagblad.
‘If you please, Miss.’
‘Thank you, Mina,’ said Eline, taking the newspapers with a careless gesture.
But no sooner had the maid left, shutting the door behind her, than Eline sprang into action. She quickly spread out the crackling sheets of Het Vaderland, scanning them excitedly for the Arts and Literature section. Ah, there it was: