From Fabrice her thoughts drifted back to her new fan, which she had used last night. Betsy had told her it was idiotic to do so before she even had a clue as to who the giver was, but she had chosen to ignore her sister’s advice; on the contrary, the notion of being seen with it in public gave her a thrill, and in her mind she had already conjured an episode from a romantic novel to account for the anonymous gift: Fabrice had seen her in the Verstraeten’s box, he had fallen head over heels in love with her, henceforth he sang for her and her alone, and was heartbroken when he failed to spot her in the audience; it was he who had sent her the fan so discreetly addressed to Mlle E Vere, and yesterday he had seen her using it, and sooner or later he was bound to send her some signal by means of a knowing look or a particular tone to his singing. .
She had to smile at her own extravagant fantasies, and in a flash remembered where she had first seen a fan decorated by Bucchi. There had been a painting show at the Academy last summer, and among the exhibits there had been several works by him: unmounted fan paintings on silk displayed behind glass. She remembered having been full of praise for the artist at the time, saying how much she would love to possess such a fan. Somebody had obviously taken note of her wish. With whom had she gone to see the exhibition? With Emilie de Woude, or with Georges perhaps. . surely Georges couldn’t have. . or could it possibly have been that young man she had danced with, the one who had proposed to her and whom she had turned down? Oh, it was preposterous! She gave up, she refused to think about it any more. She would find out eventually, anyway.
They walked down Parkstraat and then Oranjestraat, and were nearing the shop with the pictures at Noordeinde when she began to have qualms: wouldn’t the proprietor think it strange for a young lady to come and buy a portrait of an actor? She was afraid her courage would fail her, but before she knew it there they were, standing by the plate-glass window, peering at the display. Amid the clutter of large engravings, photographs and sundry artistic items such as figurines in biscuit or terracotta, her eye was immediately drawn to a row of portraits, actors and actresses from the opera, with their names written underneath: Estelle Desvaux, Moulinat, Théo Fabrice. .
‘Come along, Ben!’ she said, gently pushing him into the shop. Inside, there were several ladies choosing photographs, all of whom looked up as she entered. She was sure she felt her cheeks colouring slightly behind her short veil of white tulle.
‘May I see some of your New Year’s cards, like the ones you have in your window?’ she asked the shopkeeper when he turned to serve her. ‘Don’t touch those figurines, Ben.’
A wide range of cards were brought. She inspected them with close attention, holding each one up between gloved fingertips, and laid two or three aside. Glancing about her, she lit on a stack of portraits, and reached out her hand with a gesture of languid indifference. Among them were several of Fabrice.
Which one should she choose? This soulful one, in the black-velvet costume and lace collar as Hamlet, or that one, as Tell? No, the other one, of him as Ben-Saïd, the way she had seen him the very first time. But she would also have a picture of Moulinat, the tenor, as well as one of Estelle Desvaux, the contralto; then it would be less obvious that her only interest was in Fabrice. And in that case she might just as well have the one of him as Hamlet, too.
‘I’ll have these cards, please; and here, these four portraits as well.’
‘Shall I have them delivered?’
‘Oh no, there’s no need. I shall pay for them now. How much do I owe you?’
She paid him the money and the shopkeeper handed her a sturdy envelope containing her purchases. Taking Ben by the hand she made her way to the door, imagining herself observed by the browsing ladies as if they could all read her innermost thoughts.
. .
Outside, Eline’s face lit up once more. Pleased with her audacity, she set off homewards in an ebullient mood, praising little Ben with the fond tones of a doting mother. When she looked across the street and caught sight of Jeanne Ferelijn in her shapeless, flapping winter coat and her plain black hat, she tightened her hold on Ben’s hand and, dodging between two carriages, hurriedly led him to the other side, wreathed in smiles. She greeted Jeanne warmly, and they proceeded on their way together. Jeanne informed her that Dora was well on the way to recovery, but that she had been obliged to hire a nursemaid because Mietje was altogether too careless to look after the children properly, and consequently had an additional financial burden to contend with. Eline had to force herself to pay attention to this latest instalment of domestic woe, but Jeanne soon cheered up and started chatting about Frans, about her father, Mr van Tholen, and about Dr Reijer, with whom her relations had much improved lately. Noting Eline’s expression of sympathy as she listened, and also her mild, affectionate manner with Ben, she began to reminisce about their schooldays together, and they both laughed as they recalled Eline’s hood-full of purloined cherries and all the pranks they had played. Jeanne blamed herself for her misgivings about Eline the other evening at the Van Raats’, for now she seemed so sincere and warm-hearted.
‘But don’t let me keep you any longer, Eline,’ she said, stopping short. ‘I have some tiresome errands to do. I must order some new pans, and a milk jug to replace the one broken by Mietje — such a clumsy girl.’
‘Oh, I’m not in a hurry; I’ll come with you if you like, and if Ben isn’t too tired. Ben, dear, you aren’t tired, are you? He’s such a fine walker, you know!’
And so Jeanne ordered her new pans and Eline helped her to pick out a pretty milk jug at a china shop. Thoughts of Fabrice crowded her mind all the while, and she could barely resist opening the envelope in her hand for a peep at the portraits. She did so love music, and Fabrice sang with such extraordinary pathos, with so much more feeling than any of the other artistes. He was quite young, she believed, and bound to become very famous — he would soon be engaged to sing in Paris, she had no doubt. Jeanne never went to the opera, so presumably she had never heard of Fabrice.
Would she, Eline, ever cross him in the street some day? What would he look like in his ordinary clothes? She decided to make some excuse to go out early one morning so she could walk past the opera house; with any luck there would have been a rehearsal and she would see the artistes leaving the building. Absorbed in her own calculations, she only heard half of what Jeanne said as they walked side by side, but glanced at her from time to time, giving the luminous smile that was her greatest attraction.
Reaching Hoogewal, they bade each other goodbye and went their separate ways.
‘Au revoir then, Jany, I shall call at your house soon, I promise. Do give my regards to Ferelijn. Don’t forget, will you? Now then, Ben, shake hands with the lady.’
Jeanne felt a stir of warmth and tenderness at the sound of her girlhood name, a poignant reminder of the old days, of her girlhood, when everyone called her Jany.
She hurried onward to Hugo de Grootstraat full of cheer and eager to return to her small abode, where her husband and her darling children would be waiting.
Eline smiled to herself as she struck across the park on her way home. The bare branches overhead glistened with hoarfrost, the freezing air was clear and tingling, alive with promise, and she felt an urge to burst into a brilliant roulade so that she might fill the sky with her elation.
Could it be that she was a tiny bit smitten with that. . that artiste?
Oh nonsense, it was just that he sang so well!