‘You would be doing me a great service. Could you let me know by tomorrow then? Or do you think me indiscreet?’
‘Not at all, not at all. Yes, all right, I’ll see tomorrow.’
‘Well, thank you very much in advance. You know the two Van Erlevoorts and De Woude are coming this evening? I invited them over for a glass of wine,’ Vincent said, in an altered tone.
‘Yes, I know; I saw them this afternoon at the Witte club,’ responded Paul.
Vincent lolled against the back of the old red couch, and the lamp light gave a greyish cast to his sallow complexion, sharpening the lines of fatigue about his lips. Paul was struck by how much Vincent resembled a portrait of his uncle Vere, Eline’s father, especially the way he held his hand to his head as he leant back, with a gesture such as he had frequently remarked in Eline.
. .
It was past nine o’clock when Georges de Woude van Bergh and Etienne van Erlevoort arrived in short succession, the latter apologising for his brother’s absence. Otto was not much taken with Vincent, although there had never been any disagreeableness between them; his own character was so practical and steadfast, and of such impassive reserve, that he found it impossible to feel sympathy for someone who, in his opinion, allowed himself to be governed entirely by a condition of morbid nervousness, without making the slightest mental effort to take himself in hand. Otto was one of the few people whom Victor did not succeed in winning over. Nearly everyone he met felt on their guard with him at first, and then became intrigued, his attraction being rather like that of some sweet poison for which it is possible to acquire a taste, such as opium. Through his far-flung travels he had gained a good deal of knowledge of human nature, or rather, of how to deal tactfully with people from all walks of life, and he was able to assume any role he chose with the effortless ease of a sidewinding snake or a skilled actor. But Otto, with unselfconscious confidence in his own health and strength, looked down on Vincent for the poisonous charm he emanated to gullible associates.
Before long the room was filled with a bluish haze, Vincent having passed round a box of cigars, although he did not himself smoke. He took some bottles of Saint-Emilion from a cupboard, uncorked them, and set four wine glasses on the table. Etienne, boisterous as ever, regaled them with a stream of jokes and anecdotes told in colourful student patois, with an amount of mimicry and gesture that gave him the appearance of a gentleman-comedian in a café chantant. Paul and Georges laughed, but Vincent shrugged and gave a patronising little smile as he poured the wine.
‘My dear Etienne, you’re such a baby,’ he drawled.
Etienne ignored the comment and rattled on, throwing all sense of propriety to the winds, while the others listened as they savoured the bouquet of their wine. Vincent, however, continued to make fun of Etienne.
‘Such a bad boy, young Van Erlevoort, to say such things! Naughty, naughty,’ he jeered, but there was something so engaging about his smile as he said this that Etienne was undeterred.
Vincent refilled their glasses, and Georges praised the wine. He was usually rather quiet when in the company of his peers, happy to listen, for he preferred to save his efforts at sparkling conversation for the ladies. Vincent asked him about his work at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, while Etienne and Paul exchanged meaningful looks.
‘I suppose you’ll be attached to some legation or other eventually?’ asked Vincent.
‘That’s quite likely,’ replied Georges.
‘Well, at least it’s a job in which you get to see the world. How anyone can spend their entire life in an office I cannot imagine. It would be the death of me. Take Van Erlevoort — no, not you, Etienne, I mean your brother.’
‘Well, you can leave Otto out of this,’ said Paul. ‘He’ll have a brilliant career, you’ll see.’
‘Otto’s cut out to be a cabinet minister or a governor general, we all know that — at least, that’s what the old woman always says. And I’m the runt of the litter!’ cried Etienne.
‘Yes, quite the spoilt pet, aren’t you?’ laughed Vincent. ‘How far have you got with your studies, by the way?’
‘Oh, I still have some exams to sit, but I’m not attending any lectures at the moment. I’m studying here in The Hague.’
‘Are you so taken with life in The Hague, then?’ asked Vincent, pronouncing the name in a tone of disparagement.
‘It’s not too bad.’
‘How the deuce can you say that? You fellows must be very easily satisfied, or rather, you have no idea of what the rest of the world has to offer. The Hague makes me dull and drowsy, there’s something soporific in the air, it seems to me.’
‘You’re just prejudiced, that’s all!’ laughed Paul.
‘I dare say I am, I dare say that’s why the kind of life most of you lead strikes me as quite soul-destroying. How do you people pass the time, may I ask? Going round in circles like the horses on a merry-go-round. And once you’re settled in some position you find yourself doing the same old jobs day in day out, and going to the same old soirées ad infinitum. Hardly exciting, is it?’
‘Well, what do you recommend we do, then?’ asked Georges.
‘Good heavens, you’re welcome to go on vegetating like this, it’s entirely up to you, but what I can’t understand is that none of you seem to have any desire to go out into the world, take a look around.’
‘What about you, then?’ exclaimed Paul, a trifle piqued by Vincent’s scorn. ‘You’ve seen the world, haven’t you? And where does that leave you? Jack of all trades and master of none. So you can’t say you’ve done terribly well out of it, can you?’
A spark of annoyance lit up Vincent’s pale-blue eyes while his thin lips curved into a tight smile.
‘All this philosophical talk is making you forsake your duties as a host!’ cried Etienne, tapping his empty glass.
‘Ah well, I suppose it’s a matter of temperament — mine being just a little more restive than yours, that’s all,’ drawled Vincent. He stood up to replenish the glasses, then sank down on the couch beside Georges once more, and his eyes roamed wearily across the room.
. .
It had grown very hot in the room, and the cigar smoke seemed to hang from the ceiling in tangible swathes. Vincent opened the door for some air. Etienne, who could not take much wine, was red-eyed and greatly excited; he had also broken his glass. Georges and Paul were highly amused by his buffoonery, but Vincent, smiling faintly, remained aloof.
He felt a sense of wonderment: how strange it was that the human character should be so fixed, that a man should always remain himself, retaining his own individual personality without ever having the possibility of changing places with someone else. Often, without the slightest cause, and even when in animated company, he would find himself wondering about this, and he chafed at the realisation of his own inescapable fate: ever to remain the same Vincent Vere, powerless to transform himself into an entirely different being, someone who would breathe and move in entirely different circumstances and societies. He would love to have experienced divergent emotions, to have lived in different ages, to have sought fulfilment in a range of metamorphoses. This desire struck him on the one hand as exceedingly puerile, being as it was a preposterous impossibility, yet on the other as quite noble, on account of the lofty aim it represented. He did not believe other people had this desire, and felt vastly superior to them for this reason. As he ruminated thus, his three visitors appeared very remote, separated from him by an impenetrable cloud of cigar smoke, and he had a sudden sensation of lightness in his brain; everything seemed to be more vividly coloured, the talk and laughter of the others sounded louder to his ears, like blows on a sheet of metal, the smell of tobacco and spilt wine became overpowering, and the veins in his temples and wrists throbbed as if they would burst.